The Tale of The Narconon Lady; Or Who Killed The Electric Car?

The hard bed in the corner, with posters overhead and the light by the wall; a place to sleep.  Somehow, you can sleep on it.  Somehow you can dream, and the first few images wading in through the emptiness and fog are nostalgic and fun:

I

The familiar section of woods was there alright, with stones set in a circle about a fire pit.  Although it was night, the moon gave plenty of light and made it easy to see everything.  It rained for a little bit.  But then it didn't, and one by one the gang came in, no wait, they were already there.  And no one was wet.  Nothing was wet.  It hadn't rained after all.

There was Kiki, in her usual set of boy clothes, looking as mean and twisted as ever, almost as if some man dared called her 'pretty' or something.

Gary sat by himself fumbling with his stupid glasses, his huge nose sticking out like a giant toucan's beak.  It was enormously huge and bothersome.  He seemed more putrid and weak than ever, and kept mumbling something I couldn't make out, some inaudible declaration of inferiority. 

And sitting next to him was Danny Devito:

And next to him a flamingo drank from a pond that appeared but did not seem to affect the overall scene.

And of course there was douchey Tucker, acting like his usual self: that is to say like a feminine cleaning device.  In fact in the dream he appeared to me as one, a draining bubbling douche and when he spoke his orange stomach gurgled and his black mouth wheezed when drawing in air and out would come a voice like sloshing water:

Also there was Frank, Sam, and the rest of the gang (not pictured.)

"So who's the new kid?"  Asked Gary, still playing with his glasses.  It was a wonder how they could move around so frequently on such a wide and spacious perch.

"They call him J. Wood."  Tucker, the douche sloshed out.

"I dunno about him. . . "  Kiki started. . . "I just don't. . ."

"I don't know about you."  I heard myself saying.  "With that get up and all.  Do you really expect to get boys dressing like a boy?  It seems to me you're playing for the other team."

"Hey now, this is a kids show."  Gary said.

"Shut it Canadian.  You know what I'm talkin' abooot?  Or I'll bust that nose of yours permanently.  Its such a big target it'll be awfully tough to miss, aye.  This may be a kid show, but firstly its my dream buckeroo."  

Gary sulked.  Defeated.  Specters of the REM can be easily defeated if you're forceful enough with them.  He sat at his stone and must of thought all sorts of sad things, for from his eyes a single tear was produced.  I'm the damn leader of the society, he must of thought.  Kiki was fuming. She didn't like being pegged either.

"Now is this a popularity contest or is this about telling a good story?"  I asked.

"Hey that was my line!"  Stig said. 

"I know.  I saw the episode.  So what?"

There was a silence.  And then Danny DeVito stood up straight, rather violently and suddenly, in such a nature that it appeared quite frightening. His eyes bulged, and the lump in his throat descended and returned to its peak as he swallowed hard. Then he spoke up, apparently caught in some sort of moral dilemma:

And then, he sat down.

We all sat pondering a moment, as the silence of the night came in through the protection of our circle, of our fire.  The crickets played their violins, the woods occasionally cracked with the sounds of some unseen moving beast.  A good question, a good question indeed.  Certainly too good to be answered now.  Though no doubt the answer is a simple one: ENTROPY my dear man.  ENTROPY.

"Alright."  Gary said.  "Tell your story, but don't think you're getting in."

I sat at the stump and gazed out at all of them sitting around me, lit up by the aching fire:  the jock, the twirp, the lesbian, the shy girl, the bookworm, the outcast, the silent but possibly violent, the sheep, the creep, Mr. DeVito with Mr. Flamingo. . .  Where do I fit in, in all of this? Which role can I play?

"There once was a giant pink dildo monster. . . radioactive of course. . ."

Smug asshole is always fun.

They looked at me hardly amused.  The Midnight Society was serious business.  An ancient tradition practiced in its most elementary of forms, despite the modern world heckling all about them.  And by God despite Gary's timidness his passion for the story had brought all these rather unlikely opposites together for the sake of a good story. . .  Can't let no riff raft in.  Even in my dreams.  OK.

I grabbed that magical bag, that one filled with space dust and some magical substance that produced a rather dramatic and staged explosion when thrown into the fire, complete with purple twirling smoke.  A wonderful concoction of mystery and magic.  But what was it?  

"Sometimes, people will do anything to look beautiful.  A foolish sot.  For though you may try so ravenously to fend off time, it is a losing battle. . . And sometimes, before you know it, death comes to take your hand, despite your efforts to delay it. . ."

Submitted for the Approval of the Midnight Society:

I tossed it in the fire and then immediately knew what it was: the powdery hallucinogen DMT.  I could tell by that familiar smell, like wax burning in a pot of incense.  Oh and the hallucinations.  No wonder everybody saw the story.  The Midnight Society, a bunch of fuckin space cakes.  Who would'a thunk it. . .

THE TALE OF THE NARCONON LADY

He had taken special care to make sure he had not been seen.  Even with his heavier and slower friend behind him like a ball and chain (sing it Janis) he was out into the yard and soon the far corner, under the shade and protection of a drooping elm.  He pulled the packet from his breast pocket, his eyes peering all about him.  Quiet, the trees and courts and jungle gyms were all silent observers of an act they had never seen anyone so young commit before.

Bobby Katchatorian and his cannon ball of a friend were only twelve years old, and aside from the package in Bobby's breast pocket, they had been simple boys, content with the adventures of childhood.  Like curious cats they had trampled every inch of the schoolyard.  They had played every game under the sun.  They had seen it all, and all in the shining glory of their innocence.  But after that fateful Saturday, Terry Daniel noticed his friend had stalked the yard with a much different purpose.  His eyes peered at the monuments of their childhood with much colder eyes that hinted at some heinous act he was planning.  The jungle gym was no longer stormed like a soldier, nor swung from like a baboon, but instead inspected, as if he were checking for leaks.  The slide was no longer for sliding, but for hiding, as he sat under it and eyed the administration buildings like some flower child protester.

Bobby... with his curly chestnut hair and his almond eyes was definitely up to something. . .

And now here they were with that ominous box in Bobby's breast pocket, and here he was pulling it out.  He had picked this spot for this evil deed, Terry knew the second that Bobby spotted the tree he knew he wasn't going to like what he wanted to do.  It was far from the comfort of the school, and if the sun hung just right its shadow could swallow up four square courts and sand pits with a hunger that was not only frightening but ominous.  When Bobby spotted the tree "Ah" was all he said. He clicked his tongued and nodded his head and just ran off in the other direction.  It was the sound of trouble.

Bobby pulled the colored box from his breast pocket and showed it to his fat friend.  Camel cigarettes.  That unmistakable camel raised against the carton.  Terry wished to touch it with his nubby fingers, but Bobby wouldn't let him touch it.

"Bobby. . . The Kirs. . . "

"The what?"  He huffed.  "The Kirstie is gonna get us?  You really believe that kiddie stuff?"

Bobby pulled out a cigarette, eying it curiously.  He lit it, took a drag, and exhaled, coughing.  He was upset with himself for losing his cool, and took another puff, although smaller, content to keep it together this time. He then handed it to his friend, who returned his devil-may-care look with one of anguish and fear.

"Just do it."  Bobby said.

Terry listened to his friend and choked on the cigarette.  He felt sick, his head felt light and dizzy.  He felt as if he was about to vomit. He handed it to his friend just as another hand reached out and took it.  A much larger hand, one belonging to a bigger arm with heavy shoulders, and between those shoulders a big mean angry face.  Terry glanced up into it, and he saw features that were as violent as they were dark, a veritable black hole of hatred looking to suck him in with a menacing glare.

"What are you boys doing?"  He boomed.  It was the physical education teacher who carried a reputation popular in middle school lore around the country: that Mr. Phys Ed was really nothing but a creep pedophile sneaking a look in the girls or boys locker room--or both--take your pick.

"You want The KIRSTIE to get you?"

They pulled away from him, with looks on their faces often seen in little children and sometimes in grown men when the shit gets really thick. Escaping, they ran off and did not stop until their lungs burned and their legs threatened to abandon them forever.  They stood catching their breaths, hearts beating loud in their pink ears.

"Bobby."  Terry said in between mouthfuls of air.  "Bobby. . . I. . . told. . . I told you.  She takes bad kids. . . took three from my block alone this year!"

"The Kirstie isn't real, it's all a lie Terry."

"Is so.  The Narconon building is where she lives."

"Is not."

"Is too.  Its some sort of factory.  You come out changed.  You come out different."

"Do not."

"DO TOO BOBBY KATCHATORIAN, and you made me smoke!  And now they're coming for me and you. . . bad kids."

"Well aint that rich.  I do you a favor like this and all you can do is talk about some boogey man that doesn't exist!"  Bobby shook his head and gathered his things.  He began a slow walk west down the street.  "And to think all I've done for you. . ."  He sounded remorseful, almost as if Terry had really wronged him, had wounded him so badly it was almost too much to bear.  "I guess we'll just have to stop being friends. . ."

Terry had been listening intently.  He had heard similar renditions of this same sort of thing whenever Bobby wanted something from him.  He knew in this particular case he wanted him to stop talking, and although it hurt his feels he knew having no friends at all was far worse than a temporarily wounded ego.

"No, no Bobby.  You're right, The Kirstie isn't real."  He said it but didn't mean it.

"Good."  Bobby perked up instantly.  He smiled.  "See you tomorrow then."

"So wait, 'The Kirstie?  How is that scary?  It doesn't even sound scary!"  Kiki blurted out.

"I am astounded that such a story teller as yourself would be so rude as to interrupt a fellow participant of the craft, but I suppose this portion of the story will serve as the annex to The Narconon Lady, as apparently it seems some do not have time to listen to the entire story and WAIT, so here, and now, Kiki my lass, is how The Kirstie is incredibly scary. . ."

Again Danny DeVito stood up, his eyes bulging, made to appear to bulge even more under his glasses, his throat working up yet another moral dilemma.  Silence descended once again upon the Midnight Society, but then Danny decided against it and sat back down, looking only slightly apologetic for his performance.

"Narconon is a digit of those gnarled fingers that make up the hand of Scientology.  For some, this hand is grasped tightly about their throats, for others, its straight up their own ass.  Now incidentally, all these fingers are crooked middle fingers--each a salute of vulgar disregard to the constituents of apparent reality and common sense.  Despite being said crooked finger of Scientology, despite using the ideals of L. Ron Hubbard, and despite funding from the very 'religion' itself, Narconon claims not to be affiliated with Scientology, but are still a 'secular group,' of the religion, meaning they teach its ideals and herd hopeless minds looking for answers to the factories where a good brain scrubbing can clean up even the dirtiest mind, or scramble it like eggs. . .

If you ask them they are a drug rehabilitation center with a high success rate that just so happens to preach the ideals of Scientology.  But really, they are a money making venture which lures in helpless people down in the lowest depths of the bottle and at the end of the dirtiest of syringes, looking for hope, by promising them it to them if they follow they're methods.  If you run your body ragged with 5 hour sauna sessions for months at a time and deprive your body of vitamins and nutrients, until the brain is starved with glucose deficiency and the body itself is mutilated its no wonder one sees visions and grasps on every idea easy like spoon fed babies.

A spoonful of 'religion' to help the medicine go down.

And what's worse, their spokeswoman is none other than Kirstie Alley. . . So yes Kiki, its quite scary. . . May I continue?"

Danny Devito stood, this time with a look on his face that this time he'd be able to bust it out.  This time everyone would hear his real dilemma, but with a wave of my hand he sat as quickly as he rose, almost grateful that I gave him an out.

"Not now Mr. Martini."

He smiled.  Which now upon reflection is even funnier.  His drunk stint on The View is common knowledge now, and of course Mr. Martini was the character he played in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, a less than sane man who seemed to act much like this dream apparition.  Martini the man, and martini the drink.  Yes yes.

"Now where was I?

II

"Good."  Bobby perked up instantly.  He smiled.  "See you tomorrow then."

But Terry did not see Bobby the next day, he was not at school.  Walking home that day was much lonelier, and without his tether to direct him, he rolled around the town aimlessly without any real desire to go anywhere or get anywhere.  He just walked along, farther than he had ever gone before.  When he saw buildings and streets he did not recognize, he kept going unconcerned though he knew he should be.  He turned a corner and headed down a street lined with trees, sunlight just barely trickling through the leaves.  He walked along, homes intermingled between the occasional business, but none as chilling nor as ominous as the Narconon building; struck through the spine he was, as if hit by a bolt of lightening at the mere sight of it.  It frosted him to the bone.  He peered up at it, and even the sun seemed to struggle with it: it was white but appeared a dull grey, and all the windows were dulled over and dark.  A dark tomb.  NARCONON.  The Narconon building.  The factory itself, the home of The Kirstie.  He stood for what felt like hours, for his feet felt numb.

A bum emerged from a nearby dumpster, the prophet of doom.

"You must keep away!  Away!"  He shook Terry with stringy bone fingers, his eyes set in dark circles, teeth like rotten candy corn.  He smelled like heartlessness.

He shook Terry furiously.

"Away!  Away!  Or the Kirstie will get you!"

Terry had never ran so fast in all his life, and it wasn't until he was in his home, up the stairs and under the covers in his room that he thought anything other than fleeing.

III

"See you tomorrow.then"  Bobby said.

He had gone home, amused with the fine trick he had played on Terry, still amused despite Terry's predictable gullibility.  Bobby had decided he was beginning to tire of Terry, especially after all that business with the cigarette and 'The Kirstie.'

"Hah, what a joke," he said aloud, and as he did the wind stirred the dead leaves underfoot and whispered a haunt he tried to ignore, but did so in vain.  It shook him, but he refused to accept it.  The next forty yards home were cold and in now way joyous, as he often found himself looking back to where he had been, and once while doing so he tripped over a crack in the sidewalk.  The cold whisper of Narconon had stuffed his ears with cotton and dried his throat with severe drought.  And even as he fucked around to avoid homework he felt its chill for even with all his proclamations of knowing no fear, he really was scared, and it seemed now more than ever that The Kirstie was no mere tale, but in fact very real.

At dinner he ate very little, and when his parents asked him about his day he said nothing of Narconon nor the cigarette.  He only muttered something about being tired and if he could be excused.

He didn't even like cigarettes, it was just all so stupid.

When he went to bed he could not sleep.  His room, in the darkness, seemed much more menacing than usual, as fear and adrenaline helped fuel his imagination into a cruel machine capable of producing beasts far more hideous and evil than any horror movie he had ever seen.  He fought these visions for hours until sleep came to heavy his eyes and temporarily end his imagination's assault on his sense.  It was then, when he finally drifted off to sleep that footsteps echoed through the hall outside, and it was coming straight. . .  towards. . . his room.  The door glowed from underneath, shadowed by two feet unseen but well heard.  It wasn't until the door crept open that he woke up; sitting up in bed he instantly felt terrified, though his eyes were still caught up in sleep and gave a nice blur to everything.

Rubbing his eyes he gazed at a monster only five feet, eight inches in height--but what a treacherous fight feet eight inches--it had a mouth stretched in a wicked smile, teeth and lips still laced with streaks of grease and bits of food from some previous just-finished meal, its eyes glowing with pure hatred, its hair like thorned weeds coming down about a face to poke and prod.

In short, he gazed at The Kirstie.

"I hear you've been smoking cigarettes. . ." she said, laughing an evil laugh.

And as she descended upon him, all that could be heard were his screams and the slight sound of sniffing. . .

IV

The following day Bobby was still not at school.  Terry was beginning to be quite worried, but it wasn't long before it was replaced by fear.  The second he heard the word it rose up his spine and shook his nerves all to a tingle.

"Today class, we're doing something a little different.  Today Narconon will be here to talk to us about drug abuse and prevention, and we are especially lucky in that their spokeswoman Kristie Alley will be giving the presentation herself!"

Kirstie walked in coldly.  Fear.  Terrible fear.  Where's Bobby?  . . . Where's?  As she spoke every word seemed to be directed towards him, and they were heavy, awfully heavy, to the point where he feared he'd ever have the strength to get out of his chair ever again.  He even caught her eyes a few times, and they seemed to look back at him mischievously as if to say I KNOW.  And when she spoke of cigarettes, those eyes seemed to dart at him, and him alone.

"Now cigarettes children,"  I KNOW "can be tempting, especially when friends are trying them and are pressuring them into doing them too," I KNOW "we all want to be cool, but it is not cool, its bad for your health." I KNOW "And has been proven to lead to cancer and health problems in the future," I KNOW "and yellows your teeth and stinks up your breath, and clothes, and fingers," I KNOW, etc. etc.

On and on until Terry felt bruised all over from every glancing blow of her eyes.  He felt sick.

He thought of it all day, at recess, in class, after school, on the way home, and even when he got there.  Like Bobby he didn't eat much, and when he tried to sleep he could not.  And just like Bobby, the steps came down the hallway towards his room.

The glow under the door.

It creeped open and into his room stepped The Kirstie, looking much more menacing than she did at school that day.  Something was different. 

She stood in the doorway.

"So I hear you've been smoking cigarettes."  She boomed.  She reached and grabbed Terry by the leg.  He woke up screaming.  "Oh don't be scared, you're going to like Narconon.  Just look at me, they took me in when I used to snort coke to keep the weight off, and they gave me a much better solution.  Now I snort children's ssssoooooouuuuulllllsss!"  She laughed as Terry kicked passed her.

He ran down the stairs and could hear her booming close behind him.  He thought of the front door.  No.  It was locked.  He headed into the kitchen where she corned him.

"Oh come now, Terry.  It won't hurt too much."

He threw a bowl of fruit at her, which she batted away, rather amused by his desperation, but then he threw cake at her which she devoured.  A ray of hope.  He smiled.  Something to slow her.  Then he opened the cabinet with the candy stash and threw candy at her, which she ate happily, one by one.  And then he emptied the fridge.  Turkey, devoured, bones and all.  Margarine, consumed, down to the last buttery dabble. Ham, last nights leftovers, it was all thrown to be eaten by the Kirstie, who grew bigger and bigger.

And bigger and bigger...

Candied walnuts.  Bigger, bigger.

Whipped Cream.  Bigger, bigger.

Apple pie.  Bigger, bigger.

Cereal of every variety.  Bigger, bigger.

Bigger and bigger and bigger and bigger. . .

Until a bite of coffee cake was consumed and Kirstie stopped eating, her eyes nearly rolling to the back of her head.  Shen then produced a burp that shook the house violently but not as violently as it shook poor Kirstie, for she exploded, all over the kitchen.

It took two weeks to get her out of every crevice in the kitchen, and Terry knew he'd never smoke another cigarette again.  

"The end."  I said.

"What?  That was lame!"  Kiki expounded.

"I agree," said Frank.

"I'm sorry you feel that way, but you're forgetting a very important fact.  That though Kirstie may be gone, Narconon is alive and well. . ."

"Yep yep."  Danny DeVito said, and was still saying as I slipped off to dream a different dream.

Narconon is dangerous.  Its methods for detox have in some cases been proven not only to be ineffective, but in some cases quite dangerous. Their methods are based on the works of L. Ron Hubbard, a man who proposed many ideas about the human body, many of which are entirely wrong.  Furthermore, he's not a real doctor, his doctorate he forged himself, for the sole purpose of giving him the ability to say he's a 'doctor.'  When not forging documents he was also quite the seller of 'snake oils' which were said to work better than modern conventional medicine but simply did not.

Its targeting of drug addicts wastes their money (15,000 flat rate for Narconon's services,) in that their methods do not work, taking away money that could have been well spent on detox methods that have been proven to have some bit of a success rate.  Even more dangerous is the thought that Narconon is nothing more than a cleverly designed recruitment center for Scientology--a religion based on science fiction--much like Jedi Temples, which are aware of their silliness and try not to convince people that Yoda will be able to help them with their heroin addiction... that is only if you join 'the force.'

Drugs, bad they are.

It is for this reason that iR declares Narconon, and its spokeswoman to be dangerously retarded.

Hey he was just a salesman, telling them whatever they wanted to hear so they'd buy the weed!  Now he's not a salesman, no not anymore. . . . Its different ok! And yes, this graph is used for every drug in the book. Same one for booze, same one for heroin, same one for LSD.  Oh my! Even mescaline!  Everything!

love, 

iR

Fourloko: Dangerously Retarded

Fourloko is frat fuel: a highly energized alcoholic drink that allows gay frat orgies to extend throughout the night and well into the wee hours of the morning; Fourloko's high provides all of the uninhibitedness of booze with all the rising waves of uncomfortable energy and sleeplessness that come from any good upper.   Cause you can never get enough man love, right?

Right.

And with that said, its only understandable that Fourloko is in fact the brain child of three such beer guzzling frat fucks, from Ohio State University to be exact.  Ooooh, strike 1.  College kids are retarded.  They enjoy drinking.  The young think they can live forever.  They cannot.  Nine kids from Central Washington University found this out, after consuming the drink and getting so heavily intoxicated police thought they had over dosed on drugs and sent them immediately to the hospital.  One was so fucked the student almost died, boasting a blood alcohol content level of 0.30.

A good stomach pumping is as good a lesson as any College text; sources say.

I'm glad you asked.

Well besides the product being designed to help one power through binge drinking even faster in no doubt a college setting filled with similar like-minded tards, you know the whole young and dumb and immortal thing:

The four in Fourloko stands for its four main ingredients:  alcohol, caffeine, taurine, and guarana.  This means its a gasoline cocktail for your heart, with an alcohol chaser to muffle the mind as it tries to scream at one hundred miles an hour.  The palpitations are just an added bonus. Besides, they just prove you're awake enough to consume even more booze!  Never mind the body either.  Forget the fact that its looking out for you. Those mild inconveniences your body utilizes to keep you alive: throwing up and passing out, are a thing of the past with Fourloko, as the caffeine and taurine and guarana (same shit in red bull,) keep you awake--red bull gives you wings; angel wings--even as your body is desperately trying to shut you down.  God know's alcohol only sharpens the wit and improves judgement. . . And everybody knows such judgement and wit sped up does not blur like pictures caught in a wheel, but instead becomes sharper, clearer, certainly more profound.

Oooh strike 2.  No doubt the energy drink element is added as a sort of illegal substance in the sport of alcohol drinking.  Its like taking steroids, or that one chemical they came up with in Revenge of the Nerds 2 that lets you drink and drink and drink without getting wasted (although that one was cool.)  No doubt it stems from the retarded frat mentality that he who drinks the most is the manliest: a law that has undoubtedly been true for many years, until Fourloko came around.

Why?

Well:

Continuing with the whole retarded bitch motif, Fourloko comes in a variety of bitch flavors, including blue raspberry and cranberry lemonade. One must assume this is as much to aid in a wimp's ability to drink the alcohol contained within the can as it is to mask all the other lovely ingredients that go into the cardiac cocktail.

Look its the faygo of the bitch drink world:

Ooooh strike 3    You're the fuck out.  But don't get yourself down, you took a mighty big swing on that one... Look: you even made a little dust tornado.  Kinda sad that the ball is just sitting on the tee though.

Artificial flavorings?  Lemonade?  Raspberries?  Oh such masking agents are for the weak, for the untraditional drinker, as booze is suppose to burn, its suppose to sprout hair on the chest and produce lead in your pencil.  All Fourloko produces, if anything, is a softness similar to French cheese.  And yeah, it stinks just as much.

I'm not hating on Fourloko because its got booze in it.  I'm hating on it because of all the other stuff they throw in with the booze.

Fancy scientists with fancy papers attributing to their fanciness still don't even know all the affects of taurine, or what it exactly does.  They do know it has a part in the skin disease psoriasis, and is assumed to be adsorbed quicker when consumed in beverages, as opposed to when eaten.  Further research shows no negative affects from taurine alone...  However, when combined with Guaranine it has been known to onset seizures in people.  Guaranine has also been proven to affect the stomach and its perception of when it is full. . . this coupled with excessive drinking sounds like a horrible idea.

And caffeine?  Oh we all know what that is. 

So from the sounds of it, one could have a seizure, be full of booze without even knowing it, and hyperactive, from all of the caffeine of course and certifiably dead, all from one 'loko' night with Fourloko.

How is this better than regular drinking?

Tis a calamity.

Fucking Nothing Generation.

What ever happened to putting in the work?  To drinking a shit ton of beers and passing out, as a man should?  Have we become so lazy we wish to have a drink that will not only obliterate our minds and livers (the old fashion way) but also explode our hearts and fry out our nerves in the process (the new school)?  And oh how lame the notion is that drinking anything with fruity flavors and malt liquor would be cool in any notion. . .  Who are these lame fraternities and why are they failing at life so bad?

In short:

man up and drink a beer

have a whiskey

or maybe two

Drinking is suppose to be a slow man's disease.  A slow crawl into the bottle that only grows deeper as you reach the bottom.  Its to take a man once his eyes have grown far tired of looking; his tongue a resting snake in his bitter anguished mouth.  Its making fresh cold faces where there should only be lines of anguish.

And it is for this reason that iR declares Fourloko: dangerously retarded.

On November 17th, 2010, the FDA warned fourteen companies, stating "adding caffeine to their malt beverages was an unsafe food additive."  And personally wrote letters to 15 others.  

The state of Washington has banned Fourloko.

Introduced in 2008.

Available in only 48 states.

love,

iR

J&D's Bacon, Without the Bacon.

The USDA defines bacon as the 'cured  belly of a swine carcass.'  It is made by taking a pig and killing it, slitting its throat and allowing the blood to drain from its person, after which the belly meat is trimmed off (prized for its fattiness,) and is most often cured, either through a smoking process or a brine.  When cooked, the result is delicious bacon. America, being vain yet fat, fat yet full of itself, does bacon like no other, for although other countries indulge in pig parts, their cuts aren't as fatty and are taken from the sides of the pig, rather than his belly.  In fact the strips that go into making American bacon are called "fatty" or "US style" outside of the States.

Fuck yeah.  America.  We've got guns and fatty bacon.  And entitlement. And oh, God is on our side too.  And he looks like us.  And oh, we've got this, we've got Baconnaise:

Some bottles of Baconnaise seem to be 'chunkier' that others. . . gross

Made by J&D's Food Company, this bit of chemical madness has bacon flavor, though it isn't actually made with any bacon.  Just bacon flavor, probably made by soaking pig heads in water and formaldehyde for days on end, stirring in artificial smoke flavoring and appling heat so that the fat may rise and be skimmed off.  Whala.  Bacon flavor.  But Baconnaise is not J&D's only brainchild, nor its first.  J&D was formed by two d-bags named Justin and Dave, who started their company after--get this--Dave's three year old son won America's Funniest Home Videos by, surprise, surprise, launching a baseball from a tee directly into daddy's nuts with the aid of a baseball bat.  The money was necessary to fund their first idea, bacon salt:

Mmm, in three different flavors, and guess what?  Bacon Salt is vegetarian too!  Just like Baconnaise, its not made with any actual bacon, but instead registered chemicals 405 and 1298!  Because your lazy ass is too preoccupied with reruns of Buffy The Vampire Slayer to cook bacon and sprinkle it atop your baked potato (which you didn't really bake in the first place, but nuked in the microwave:) Bacon Salt, for the lazy retard. Bacon Salt, for the half-hearted vegan.  Yum yum.  Pass the cyanide, I always like a little cyanide with my fake bacon.

You know all this talk of fake bacon reminds me of 'Beggin' Strips. . . ' You know that dog treat that looks just like bacon!  Since when were people like dogs?  What kind of dog would I be?

Don't like salty?  Well how about sweet?

Teaming up with the Jones Soda Company, J&D foods helped them make their worst soda ever, and with hundreds of flavors bearing the JONES label, this is quite the accomplishment.  In fact, its even worse than the pizza soda.  Somehow.  Yes, the taste of swine in a bottle, for the low low price of a soda.  Like it's brothers and sisters, it too is made with no actual bacon, which leads one to wonder, just what the hell is in this stuff?  No one really knows, but according to co-owner Justin Esch "Nailing the flavor was tough.  We didn't want pot roast, we didn't want pork tenderloin, we wanted bacon. . . The drink started out tasting more like pork.  But eventually we were able to get the crispiness of bacon in there without it being overpowered by porkiness."

If that doesn't fully illustrate how disgusting this shit is, I don't know what will.  I don't know a single person who has ever wanted to 'drink pork,' but that may just be because I don't often befriend retards.  Besides, 'we were able to get the crispiness of bacon in there,' what the hell does that mean anyway?  It's got a bite to it?  Somethin' that makes the soda go down rough?  Or perhaps its got a hint of grease as it slides down your gullet?

The buck doesn't stop there either.

The pursuit of money has created yet another bastardization of a traditional snack that had absolutely nothing wrong with it to begin with. Introducing, the wonders of pop corn, drenched in buttery bacon flavor.

Once again, a bacon product that isn't really bacon.  One would think this product would look brown, as if covered with powdered swine, but alas, it does not.  Which is yet another reason one should ponder what the hell is in it.  The ingredients list merely makes mention of artificial and natural bacon and butter flavors.  'Flavor' is Nutritionists code for chemicals. For surely if a product with BACON written all over is VEGAN friendly, there's definitely something fishy going on.  Yet there are shit tons of blogs praising this product, with an overzealous use of the word bacon and exclamation points, so it must be good right?  I mean bloggers aren't opinionated assholes to begin with, right?

On the occasion that you roll your fat bacon' lovin' ass off the couch, your bacon needs are at hand:

For when your equally fat girlfriend not only wants to fuck a pig, but make out with one too.

And what if you wish to write a letter, and tell all of your friends what a fucking loser you are?  Well, introducing J&D's MMMMvelopes!

Yes!  Not only do they look like strips of bacon, but the glue on the back tastes like bacon too!  Because gosh, everything should taste like bacon! Even paste!

J&D, not everything should taste like bacon.  Bacon should taste like bacon.  Soda should taste like soda.  Popcorn should taste like popcorn. Lip balm can be flavored, but certainly not bacon flavored.  Envelope paste, should taste like paste.

The Bacon Wave is a silly and trivial one.  Yes, bacon is great, but it isn't the greatest thing on earth.  It certainly isn't 'the candy of meats,' and although most things are better with bacon, not everything is.  No fucking way.  Especially when it isn't even real bacon to begin with.  I know personally if I want some bacon, I make some bacon, I don't drink a bacon soda, or balm up my lips with bacon grease, I fry up some bacon and I eat it.

What's with the logo?  None of your shit actually has pig in it. . . Which is why iR must declares J&D's Food company dangerously retarded.

The Legend of Shaqsquatch

Lumbering through the brush, a giant among insects, the beast looks for a meal. It knows no fear, for its strength is unmatched, and it knows no other creature to be stronger. All enemies have fallen, and all prey has served to further its blood lust. As strong as it is, within it a sadness swells, a certain humiliation which it tries to ignore, but it cannot. Like a lump it sits in its stomach, and all the blood and flesh cannot quench it, cannot make it subside. The beast has tried, and to no avail. . .

Not far from it, a scout troop hikes through the forest looking for level ground to set up camp. Noticing they're losing light, and, having spent the entire day camping and swimming in the river, they're exhausted and want to rest. They find a suitable place and it isn't long before they set up camp for the night, with the help of their scout leader. A fire is built, and the 6 scouts, along with their leader have a dinner of hot dogs and roasted marshmallows. After the meal jovial talking commences about the day, about the many things they had seen, but soon they bore of it and want to hear a scary story. It was a practice which their scout leader was quite famous for and often on trips like these it was expected, so with full bellies they gather closer around the camp fire as their scout leader finishes his coffee, easing himself. He looks around, biding the time, and finally begins his tale after many requests.

"The Legend of Shaqsquatch." He begins. "Many men have heard of Sasquatch, but I tell you boys, there's a far more ferocious beast out there, and he's much bigger too. His name is Shaqsquatch. . ."

Somewhere miles off the creature stops its search, its ears perk up. Its head turns towards a word it had not heard in many years - a word which shot across the forest like a bullet and hit it right between the eyes. That word. That haunting word "Shaq . . . squatch." Immediately it turns, its belly growing red hot once again: embarrassment, and it feels it must face it. . .

"I know about him because my Dad was the last one to see him. . . Right before he died!" He says, the shocking revelation bringing gasps to the mouths of a few scouts. They cup their mouths: a scout should never be afraid. "Yes, right before he died. . . That rotten beast, created in the depths of this very forest, on a cold and stormy night, when NBA Star Shaquille O'Neal gave his seed to the demon beast: Sasquatch." The leader continues, and tells the children all about the late 90's when a shooting guard and a center hooked up and became a dynamic duo for a team out of Los Angeles called the Lakers. The scouts, having been too young to be cognitive of a silly trivial thing like professional basketball know very little of Kobe Bryant, nor Shaquille O'Neal for that matter and sit dazed, waiting for the scary part. He details their three-peat, those three years when Kobe and Shaq got along well enough to bring the team to the finish line on top, and tells of their falling out, when they parted ways and the 'dynasty' was broken up.


The beast moves on, driven by the names. . . Shaq. . . Sasquatch. . .

"Soon Shaq would leave the team, and go to the Miami Heat, where after two years, they won the NBA Championship. They were pretty happy about it, most of all Shaq, who had received criticism from the sports world who had said that Shaq could never win it without Kobe. Shaq gloated, and even publicly dissed Kobe Bryant after winning the championship, in some NY bar. . . " The scout leader swallows hard, remembering the next part, which seems to still disgust him. "Asked Kobe how his ass taste... "

The beast draws closer, working its way through a forest it knows well, nimble, quick.

"But 3 years later Kobe won a championship of his own, and Shaq felt real embarassed. So much so that he went into hiding for a while, which is where he met Sasquatch and impregnated her: for there's no piece of pussy a basketball player wouldn't touch, I tell yah!"

The story was indeed true. After leaving the Lakers, Shaq went to the Heat and won a championship, and he did make a fool of himself in a night club, it went like this:

Love how the crowd in this N.Y. club supports Shaq after each line, and then he drops this lyric: That's like Patrick Ewing having more rings than me - and the crowd goes silent. . . Bad move Shaq, you do know Ewing played for the Knicks right? Right, well don't you think reminding New Yorkers about their lack of championship titles would be a bad move in the middle of New York no less? You're lucky you're so big. . .

Shaq truly did not know how his ass taste, but he did know the sweet taste of victory, for this video came out after he won the NBA Championship with Dwayne Wayne and the Miami Heat. . . His bragging however, would be soured many years later, for Kobe too won the NBA championship, just last year. His fourth ring and my money is on him getting another one this year.

The shame got to Shaq.

The realization that he was no longer the player he once was, got to Shaq. The "Man of Steel" had turned into the Man of Aluminum over the years, a fragile slow moving imbecile, chugging up and down the court like a train that was always starting up but never had enough time to really get going, had to stop, change directions and get to starting up again. It got to Shaq. It really did. He was on his way out, Kobe was still kickin'.

So he took off. Left the NBA, disappeared for awhile. He went up to Big Sur, where he spent time amongst other giants, namely the red woods which densely populated the area. The child in him lead himself to believe he were a desperado, or some western bounty hunter off chasing some snake in the grass gambler who ran off with all the town's money. He went everywhere really, and at times wrote rap songs about the red woods, or the forest, but none of the songs were as good as his early stuff, which admittedly wasn't very good at all in the first place. He wandered like this for nearly a week, until one cold stormy night in the woods Shaq sought shelter. Thunder cracked the sky, lighting ripped across the black night, a jagged wound. He found the dripping mouth of a cave, which he entered fearlessly, for in recent weeks he had felt big again. It is there in that cave that he met and shared a bed with Sasquatch. Despite popular belief, she is female, not male.

"Despite popular belief," The scout leader says, the features in his face lit by an orange glow. "Sasquatch is female, and as I said Shaq spent the night with her and spawned himself a child. . ." He leans closely towards the children. "Shaqsquatch!"

The beast could smell the flesh of men, it knew it well. It knew it was close. . . That name, "Shaqsquatch. . ." Far off a fire glowed amidst the darkness. There, there was its food, waiting for him:

"Shaqsquatch, a beast nearly eight feet tall." He stands on a stump to illustrate the massiveness of the beast. The fire lights up the scene, and his shadow dances in the light, nearly 9 feet tall. His arms are extended, fingers curled like claws. "As big as a house. . . With teeth as sharp as razor blades, stained pink from the blood of his many and numerous victims. He has huge feet like his father, big enough to squash your head like a measly. . . little. . . grape." He looks deep into the eyes of one scout, his thumb and forefinger coming together to show how easy it would be for Shaqsquatch. . .

"And I hear. . ." He looks around as if he is about to let them all in on a big secret. "He likes the flesh of children best. . ." He laughs maniacally, but the children aren't. They stare on, too afraid to listen, but even more afraid not to. Their over active imaginations perceive every rustle of brush, every snap of a twig to be no other than Shaqsquatch, coming to kill them all. They warn their leader of their probably danger, but he does not share their fear.

"Oh its just your imagination. . . There's no Shaqsquatch. Or is there? Should I call for him?"

The children beg no.

The beast smells the fire. It can almost feel it. It can hear voices. Only seconds now.

"Oh yes, to call him would be foolish." Ever hear of Troop 215?" The kids replied with the negative. "Well that's because they were all eaten, every last one of em. You don't have to believe me if you don't want to, but be careful tonight. When you're sleeping. Warm in your bags. Defenseless. That's what little Jimmy Marshall thought that fateful night: that he was safe, that he was ok. But he wasn't, for Shaqsquatch stalked him, tugged at his sleeping bag. Tug, tug, and then. . . ." The scout leader jumps down from the stump, pawing at a scout while letting out a vicious growl. Its so surprising they all scream. "He ATTACKED!" Realizing it all a ruse they fall into laughter, kicking feet and poking fun at any they deem to be 'really scared.'

"Ate him up Shaqsquatch, did. Ate him slow too, they say sometimes on a clear night, you can still hear the screams of poor little Jimmy Marshall, his specter doomed to an eternity of brutal, bloody Shaqsquatch attacks. They all pause to listen. The only sound is the wind tossing the tree tops, all is silent. . .

All is silent; the beast knows the time is be right.

The scout leader screams, and all the kids do too, but when they realize he's only fooling they laugh and so does he. But then it happens: the top of his skull is ripped clean off, as if it were a toupee. He screams again, this time for real, and all the scouts watch in horror as he drops to his knees, his shocked face trailing streams of blood, dropping to reveal Shaqsquatch. They had just watched their scout leader have his head opened like a can of Chef Boyardee, yet some how they can't think to run, they can't think. They sit and stare as Shaqsquatch scoops out his brains like nothing more than tapeoka pudding. Two kids break from their reverie, and think to run, but Shaqsquatch grabs both with his off hand and tosses them into a nearby tree. Crumbled, the boys lie at the bottom of the tree. The other scouts he scoops up like field mice, his mouth spread wide with the idea of swallowing them all in one go. He twists their heads off, one by one, popping them into his mouth like hard candies.


And after he eats all the children, one by one, he turns to the heavens and roars out a tale of his conquest for all those around to hear, a beastly growl that comes from the very depths of his putrid belly and leaves trails of something rotten in the air:

"Hey Kobe, tell me how my ass tastes."

And then he tromps off out through the forest, a man beast, a myth, a legend.

FURTHER RETARDATION:

Shaq has released four rap albums, the first of which Shaq Diesel went platinum.

His nicknames include: "The Diesel," "Shaq Fu," "The Big Aristotle," "The Big Daddy," "Superman," "The Big Agave," "The Big Cactus," "The Big Shaqtus," "The Big Galactus," "Wilt Chamberneezy," "The Big Baryshnikov," "The Real Deal," "Dr. Shaq," and "Shaqovic."

Has superman's emblem tattooed on his arm.

Is really just a big kid, with many big kid toys.

Like Seagal, Shaq is a reserve officer, for Miami.

Reality show monkey: Shaq vs. NBA Ballers, appeared on an episode of "Motorcycle Mania 2" with Jesse James, appeared on an episode of Fear Factor, Jackass, as well as Punk'd.

Kazaam.... need I say more?

Steel. . . for which he was nominated for a Razzie Award: Worst Actor

iR

Shaqsquatch concept created by: Wild Jesse.

Bas Rutten: Dangerous Retard

Bas Rutten is 205 pounds of dangerous retardation. He's a human Swiss army knife with an array of tools all designed to hurt other men. He can dull meat and tear tendons. He can make a man tap in seconds - he can also ignore it and squeeze the life out of him, right to his very last breath. He's a 2nd degree black belt in Tae Kwon Do, and a 5th degree black belt in Kyokushki Karate, but most importantly he's King of the Cuckoo's Nest, the proverbial craziest nut in the whole coop - and not just because he can kill any naysayers - he's really deserving of the title. Too many fights, too many brain jolting shots to the noggin finished where poor parenting and a troublesome childhood left off; he's totally bat shit crazy. . . Listen:

BONG BONG BONG!

The average person with fight experience limited to school yard bullies and the occasional punk have zero chance against a guy like this. He's been in enough fights to not be afraid of getting hit, and lacks that certain desire to not want to hit someone, the fist is the all-mighty answer. Someone say an off the cuff remark? DANGA-DA-DANGA-DA-DANG! Someone look at you wrong? BING BANG BANG BONG! Perhaps you're in a club, a guy spills his drink on you. . . I hate that. BANG BANG BANG YOU ARE DEAD. To him the idea of "talking this one out," doesn't even register - its 'gay fag language' for 'sissys and ladies.' He lacks that certain receptor in the brain, like a hammerhead shark he simply roams around, looking for anything he can maim or kill and everything in his eyes looks weak and ready to be eaten.

His charisma and bloodthirst reminds me of another dangerous retard, a similar hammerhead, one Mr. Brock Lesnar. Like Lesnar, Bas Rutten also has tattoos, but his are less for intimidation. Bas Rutten actually believes his tattoos have special powers that can make him fight better, and extend his life, no joke. His right palm features a chi symbol meaning life. After receiving the tattoo, he never lost a fight, which he claims was the workings of the tattoo. His left palm says xiao, meaning long life, and Rutten continued to live after the tattoo, so he naturally assumed it was his new ink that was keeping him alive. He has tats on his knees and elbows to keep him calm, a buddhist on his left arm said to protect people like him; people born the Year of the Snake. . . And when he was born 44 years ago, God peeled back his skull and tattooed a wolverine onto his brain so he'd know how to act when he grew up.

Like a snarling beast.

Like Lesnar, Rutten was an MMA fighter, with a career record of 28 - 4 - 1 with 12 knockouts. He even finished his career going 22-0 with out losing a fight. Now that his career is over however, he lends his voice, and retardation to K1 fights and Japanese MMA fights, with some of the worst commentating ever. It can best be compared to a drunken twelve year old with a knowledge of fighting, mildly tending to the details of the action before veering off the course and saying strange and outlandish things - things he seemingly says for his very own enjoyment. For instance during a showdown between two competitors, he once said: "Talk about a stare down. . . I hear voices in my head, and they. . . don't. . . like youuuuu!"

Its obvious what needs to happen.

Hammer head vs. Hammer head.

Rutten will gladly come out of retirement, bloodlust never really leaves an animal like him.

Whattaya say UFC?

The fight would probably go something like this:
Brock and Rutten meet in the center of the ring, for a stare down of snot and sweat and stifled homosexual tendencies. Michael Buffer announces the upcoming blood bath. Celebrities and big wigs around the ring chat and joke and make movie deals - they pay big money to see Rottweilers tear each others throats out. The ring swells with anticipation, the wild beasts held back by invisible leashes to be let loose only after the resonance of the bell ringing. Tense. Still. Brock smirks, Rutten smirks, everyone watching smirks, even the ref smirks but hides it of course, to be professional. They are all thinking the same thing, and it excites them a little, no matter how much they may try and deny it- somebody is bound to die, and its bound to be bloody.

Ever seen a bull charge a bulldozer head on? Watch. . .

They take to their corners and the bell rings. The beasts are let loose. Brock's mind is vivid with images of college wrestling, jock straps and man junk but it blurs red with steroids and rage. He pictures cows being slaughtered and cut up into steaks for him to eat, to build muscle and in turn help him mangle men in the ring. Rutten's head is alive with memories of when he was 16, when he'd go out onto the bluffs and kill lizards and beetles with a sharpened projectile he'd shoot between his teeth. . . The crowd of vultures is buzzing, but the fighters hear nothing but the sounds of cows being slaughtered, of beetles and lizards dying -zap-zap-zap-, until the first punch is thrown. . .

Mild action, fists and kicks and blood and sweat.

At the end of the round Brock goes to his corner to take instruction from his crew while he eats the heads off of live chickens. Rutten in his corner admires himself in a mirror provided by his corner team. He sings Little Bunny Foo Foo. Joe Roegan has already jizzed his pants. You Dana White, are already counting the money. . . That fresh green blood money. . . Smell it. . . Peel off the bills like rose pedals.

She loves me. . . She loves me. . . She loves me. . .The bell rings, they take to the center of the ring again, Brock's chest matted with bloody red feathers, Rutten smiling about the damage he's already imagining in his head. The moment is brief but they are like sprinters at the starting line, coiled tense like springs, waiting for the gun to go off. . . Waiting for the gun to go off. . . Waiting for. . .The bell rings! The sprinters are off! Punches and kicks galore! Its a real pony show! Rutten with the palm strikes. And here comes number 2 on the outside! The Chicken Eating Mother Fucker! Lesnar with a thunderous take down! The Swank Swede far behind! They're rounding the bend! Its The Chicken Eating Mother Fucker! He's turning his face into hamburger meat! This one aint even close folks! Around that bend and down the home stretch! They're off like Israeli rockets! Jostling for postion! More hamburger meat folks! He just won't go down! The Swank Swede! He staggers! -ding- Saved by the bell!

As for the rest. . . well you'll have to see when it comes out on Pay Per View.

iR

Steven Seagal: Dangerously Retarded

A&E Documents the Workings of a Dangerous Retard; Seagal vs. Norris in a Battle Between Martial Artists Gone T.V. Cop

"Do I look like I'm deep in thought about an investigation involving the horrible murder of a poor innocent woman (angering me so I feel to clutch my weapon,) a case that I just know I'm about to solve. . . yeah? Ok cause that's totally what I was going for. . . Do we need more smoke? I feel there's not enough smoke. . ."

The tranquil beauty of Jefferson Parish, Louisiana is interrupted with the screams of an innocent woman, her life threatened and in danger. It is heard by the fine-tuned ears of Steven Seagal; they're geared in such a way and are so well built that they can hear an injustice taking place up to 100 miles away. Immediately he's on the move, gearing up and tearing down the road in his Sheriff wagon, peering out the windshield and feeling satisfied that this new one has no cracks in it (just yesterday he put a traffic violator through it, and needed a new one.) When he arrives at the scene his own personal team of elite officers are already there, their cars fishtailed across the road to form a natural barricade. His breaks squeal as he burns his way to a stop, and he sits there waiting, as if at any moment the rock soundtrack will kick in, so that he may get out and pull off his glasses and say something bad-ass and prophetic. But no music comes, so Seagal gets out, one hand holding a megaphone, the other hand up near his face clutching a delicacy that is shrinking in size with each bite. He's eating a donut, the crumbs falling out of his mouth as he greets his men, yelling on the megaphone, and though it distorts his voice and makes it hard for him to be understood, he still continues to use it anyway.

"Sooo mmmummumum." The amplification from the megaphone picks up every little nuance, every grind of the teeth and manipulation of fatty cheek needed to scarf down his tasty snack. "I'mmm mumumthinking we should set up mumumum ummm a permimeter mumumum here. . . man these are great, would you guys like to have one? Really, its ok, I've got a whole mumumbox of em' on the mumumpassangers seat. Don't let it be said I don't ever need a partner." He laughs, motioning to his men, three of which just stand there looking like Larry, Curly, and Moe, all in a row: Seagal had his own set of Three Stooges.

Nuk-Nuk-Nuk

"We're uh, standing right next to you sir, you don't need to use the megaphone." Curly says.

"Mumumum." Ignoring him he turns to the house. "Alright mumum we know you're in theremumum." Swallow. "Come out mumum with your hands up!"

Inside a confused kidnapper thinks he hears the sounds of some horrible beast outside, and it seems to be talking to him. He gets up and peers out the window, pulling aside the curtain.

"There!" Seagal says. "There he is!" He tosses his donut aside. "Cover me boys, I'm goin' in." He slides over the roof of his car for no reason. Similarly he rolls evasively in the dirt, for no reason, there is no real immediate threat here. In the dark you can almost trick yourself into believing he's that young Steven Seagal again, with the slick grease hair and a fresh face, but then the rotten moonlight hits him and he's just fat and old and looks tired. He slides up against the house and pulls out his gun, drawing it up towards his head. He breathes heavily from all of the sudden aerobics, but is calmed by an inner peace. He's played this situation out a thousand times, and he has always come out on top.

This time would be no different.

"I don't want to hurt you, I just want you to let the girl go." He pulls back the hammer on his gun. He takes a deep breath, turns, and kicks in the door, firing his gun five times, killing both the hostage and the victim, instantly.

"CUT!" The director yells, as he gets up from his chair. He pulls down his earmuff-headphones and shakes his head. "Where the hell is the smoke? There's not enough smoke, I asked for more smoke than this!" He looks around for anyone close enough to skewer, but no one makes eye contact, no one but Seagal. "And Seagal, what was up with the fuckin' donut? Its bad enough your fat as it is, sure you've lost a bit of weight since the public has last seen you, but a donut? Really, a donut? Do you really need to be eating on the set during filming like this?" He waits for an answer, but not very long, for he fears that that answer may be a strike to the face. "Look ok, ok, take five everybody."

Its the latest filming of A&E's Lawman, a new show that follows Seagal around Jefferson Parish on his real job as Sheriff of the county. I always thought it was real.

"Just another day on the job." He says, wiping his face with a towel.

"I thought it was suppose to be real?" I ask. He laughs.

"Oh even I know reality T.V. isn't real, at least not completely real. We film certain parts here, then add in normal patrol footage and stuff. . . Helps liven it up, get good ratings, you know things like that. The people believe its real because we say it is, again and again."

We mean it.

"So those whores on Flavor of Love aren't really whores?" My heart is breaking.

"Oh no, they're really whores, just some of their fights and confessionals aren't necessarily real. Producers have a lot of power. . . Its why I got to put up with that snot nosed puss over there. Listen. . ." He begins but is interrupted.

"Hey Steven. . ." Its an angry voice. "I got a bone to pick with you buddy." It belongs to Chuck Norris.

"Hey Chuck." Says Steven, calm, friendly.

"Hey Steven." Says Chuck again, uptight, angry. "I've got a little problem with this show of yours. . . I've known you to be jealous of my work all my life, but this just about crosses the line. This just about really gets my goat, and I think I'm gonna have to kick your ass, Steve."

"Now now, I don't want a fight, just what are you talking about?"

"This show, don't you think its a coincidence that, you like me, were involved in martial arts and have an extensive action career in the movie business, and that you, like me, are now getting your own show where you play a cop?" Chuck asks.

"There's no playing, this is real."

"Cut the shit. You've always tried to take my fame, and now here you are stealing Walker Texas Ranger, right in front of me. And look at you. You're washed up. Look at me. I've got a wife who's forty years younger than me, I've got my own home body gym. . . While you're out here playing cops and robbers, I'm at home hitting that, all damn night. Yeah that's right, and I don't even need Viagra." Chuck pokes him with his finger. "Do you have your own personal website that welcomes each and every visitor with your prerecorded voice? Huh, no? Didin't think so."

"That doesn't mean I'm washed up. . . And your pretend little show wasn't the inspiration for mine, they came to me Chuck. . . I don't want to hurt you." His mind is already filling up with all the ways he could hurt him.

"That's a load of shit. At least admit that I was the inspiration for your show, Walker Texas Ranger was pretty bad ass. . . There wouldn't be Lawman without me."

"No I won't do it. Because it isn't true."

"So what's this about, money? The message? You were always about that whole Buddhist bullshit message Steven, but there's just one problem with that, you kill people in your movies, a lot of em, you injure them horrifically, you use weapons effectively and efficiently with the intention to hurt and maim and even kill. At least I used America. I could kick peoples asses and be bad ass because I'm American, and America has a big long history of kicking ass. And I kick ass because I'm American too. See?"

"I just want to protect the people." Steven says.

"Protect the people? What the hell is that. . . You know karate isn't about protecting people, or yourself, its about selling movies, DVD's, instruction videos and work out machines. . ."

They argue until a pushing match ensues, and I can think only to back up and get a good view of the fight everyone is secretly begging to see. Chuck Norris displays how much better shape he's in. It escalates into a total show down.

"You can't handle this, Seagal." Chuck does the splits, hops up as if he has no nuts to harm at all and smiles, throwing in a flashy crescent kick for added flare.

"You can't handle this. . ." Seagal fires his gun. Chuck staggers back, shocked by the force of the bullet, by the thought of defeat - Chuck isn't use to losing. He falls to the floor, a crowd gathers, some still not quite sure what it is they just saw. The director barrels through the crowd, a chicken with his head cut off.

"God damn it Seagal. . . What the hell did you have to kill him for?"

"What?" Seagal's arms go up. "I said I didn't want to hurt him."

As it turns out, Chuck wasn't killed, the bullet didn't even pierce the skin. It had left a bruise the size of an orange on his abdomen however.

Of course he didn't die, Total Body Gym helps you reflect bullets.

A Demonstration in Martial Arts; The Savage Beating of a 12 Year Old

After the altercation with Chuck, Seagal felt a need to let out a little more built up aggression, and thought I should know at least a little bit about what he's all about, so he gave me a little martial arts demonstration.

What followed was perhaps the most savage beating of a 12 year old I have ever seen in my entire life.

The photos:

"So, say you're on patrol, and some 12 year old jumps out, and he looks evil, he looks menacing, he looks like he's just about to kill you. First make it apparent to your would-be-attacker that you don't want to hurt them. Then reach and grab them behind the neck, like so, and see this bone right here in the neck? Well keep pressure on this bone, there's a nerve in there that will make the boys arms shoot out and stay there, as if made of stone, giving you the perfect oportunity to hit him right here with your elbow like this. . ."
The result:

"Now wait for the boy, if he gets up, kick him in the face, like so. . ."

PHOTO MISSING

"Now, who's ready for lunch?"

It was a fine showing. I am though, no fan of blood, and the kid was a real bleeder.

The Decision:

It is for his new show alone, Lawman, that iR fearfully declares Steven Seagal, dangerously retarded. He's already a lethal weapon on his own, and now you wanna give him even more lethal weapons and a badge that says he can pretty much do whatever he wants?

iR