Jennifer Day Tv--So Bad It Even Sucks on Mute

For those of you with cable television, I must tell you there is a world you know absolutely nothing about.  Rightfully so I say, as you no doubt pay money to your service provider for the right to choose your retardation (yes I assure you: with few exceptions the majority of television programs are indeed retarded).  But I must confess that this unknown world I speak of has an undeniable charm, a certain life force that pumps out mediocrity shamelessly, for its ignorance actually believes its product to be intelligent.

I am speaking of antenna television.  Yes, it sill exists, floating all around the world in waves of stupid, floating blissfully above the heads of Americans and straight into the television sets of the poor and elderly every single day.  And iR watches these waves with the very same antenna system iR used to use back in the day.

Local broadcast stuff is hilarious.  The 'personalities' that make up this realm of entertainment are all 'personalities' that couldn't make it in the big show;' the clowns and buffoons with the talents and skills of a barnyard animal.  Camera presence is certainly not a given with this crowd.  These fools are like the broken hearted failures of Vegas; the dreamers reaching for the stars, despite any measurable talent whatsoever--the masses shuffled out of the realm of real television and forced to live out a meager existence in front of a perpetual audience of anywhere from zero to twenty people.  They are the casualties that are entirely necessary, their loss making winning all the more desirable for everyone else.  Why, with antenna tv, all of a sudden a Rob Schneider sitcom doesn't sound half bad.

Their 'stars' are people like Huell Houser, the most retarded man in the interview game.  This abortion can do a thirty minute show about drying paint--and can come up with about a hundred simple minded questions about the very process of paint drying.  His curiosity is like that of a cat, his mind like that of a slow child, his prostate like a swelling water balloon.  It is a wonder he even knows how to breathe (thanks Bobby D)

That's a tree Huell.  Cool huh?

People like the 'She's Crafty' chick, an awkward species that can teach you to make such questionable items as a coffee table made from an old snowboard, and a laptop cozy (because anyone who knows anything about computers knows they definitely perform more efficiently when overheated) made from an old polo shirt--and look! the pocket in front can be used to hold the mouse.  Aint that cute?  Butthole.

People like Wyland, a second rate Bob Ross whose particular fetish in regards to the natural world includes bottle nose dolphins and underwater sea caves populated by tremendous sea fans.  Like Bob Ross he provides a service to mankind, teaching the mass of men to paint generic nature scenes that entice no feeling whatsoever (and therefore are not worthy of the term 'art,') other than hilarity and shame for the artist.

But the queen of these swine , the residing whore if you will, is none other than Jennifer Day, an actual whore.  Jennifer uses her 2 am time slot as a platform to promote and sell her softcore pornography.  She has no qualms about whoring herself out for money, but don't you dare think that she's a one trick poney.  Oh no, she's not some airheaded nude model, she's also a horrible singer, actress and all around human being.  Her show sucks so bad it is not even good on mute--the inherent retardation and unwarranted arrogance of Jennifer Day translates without having to hear her thoughts (which are shallow, vain, and completely boring--I assure you.)

The show works like this.  There is no plot, no one is interviewed--absolutely nothing happens.  Jennifer is front and center, and the entire show she sings songs from her upcoming album that's just sure to drop soon (but in fact, never will) with the help of two other girls that pretend to be her friend but obviously secretly hate her.

They do all this dressed in bikinis, and the show is usually filmed in a hotel room, or sometimes in an actual hotel convention room, her horrid voice echoing over the PA system normally reserved for boring business lectures.  Jennifer sings her songs while she and her friends dance around shaking their asses--Jennifer utilizing all four moves she knows, all of them being a combination of horrid gymnastics and off-putting erotic dancing.

Sometimes she's also filming for her website, so there's another cameraman on screen, a woman also in a bikini.  Yes appears Jennifer doesn't have the common sense to keep her out of the shot.  She's skinny and gives off a vibe like that of the weird bag filmer in American Beauty.  She's there for Jennifer and the others to pick on and snicker at because she doesn't have fake boobs or a humongous ass, and her very presence in turn makes Jennifer appear more appealing by association.  But it's a weak one, and still ever present are those eyes of Jennifer's, all aglow with a douchery that ruins all notion of her being anything but swine.

If you're a guy who's into chicks you probably don't believe me; how could a show about a bunch of chicks in bikinis be bad?

Well, first let me reiterate that public television broadcasting, is generally horrible.  When you limit its audience to those who still use an archaic means of receiving television broadcasts--due to their poverty or stupidity, or both, you have television that is rancid to the senses and would not be viewed by anyone if these stations didn't have the need to fill empty air time and sell commercials.  These people are utter failures.  So now we have a failure.  So what?  She's still a chick in a bikini correct?  Well, with that said, it is necessary to further illustrate Jennifer Day, for better understanding.

Jennifer Day is perhaps the plainest, least striking woman in the world. Her assumption to the contrary makes her downright ugly.  She has spent so much of her time flirting with men all her life that she has the annoying habit of laughing stupidly after everything she says in an attempt to appear light-hearted and 'fun.'  She's like a stripper: always saying things you know not to be true, always bursting with false flattery--only she can't dance and has all the sexuality of a velociraptor. . .  This can be seen every episode.  She always addresses her many fans, operating on the belief that the people who turn to her show are conscious viewers, and not drunks (2 am, Saturday.  Think about it.) stumbling across her show in happenstance or thirteen year old boys with parent protected internet.

When dancing she always is in front, and isn't afraid to elbow a 'friend' if she's getting a little too overzealous.    And she has every right not to be.  Her last album came out ten years ago, already forgotten by everyone but herself.  Her first single made the charts, her second just barely, her last, not at all.

And so now she eeks out a living hawking tits and ass in a world full of tits and ass with a routine that may have been cute when she was a twenty-two year old, but at thirty-two is just sad and kind of pathetic.  Such is the life of mediocrity I suppose.

Jennifer's website can be found at jenniferday.tv, though there is very little to do there unless you pay a membership feet.  If you are in the Los Angeles area, you can watch Jennifer Day on KDOC 65-1, on Saturdays at 2am.

The Hopeless Retardation of MTV's Geordie Shore

That sickness once believed to be a 'Jersey Thing' has crossed the mighty Atlantic and has germinated in, of all places, New Castle, England. It has infected a group of people along the River Tyne, people known as Geordies, who's accent was once declared "the most attractive in England," but to an American ear is unintelligible and entirely foreign sounding when drowned in alcohol.  Knowledgeable of this disease MTV took the another opportunity to cash in on its social infiltration and further make a quick buck off the hopelessly hip.  Ladies and gents, or perhaps I should say birds and lads, I present to you:  Geordie Shore.

They're much like their Jersey Shore counterparts, in that they're all about partying (pah-tee-ing) and promiscuous sex.  The lads seem highly concerned with their personal appearance, spending many hours in the gym talking about birds, and many more in front of the mirror staring at all the work they had put in.  Tanning is also important, along with hair, and at times they seem to echo such mantras as 'Gym, Tan, Laundry.'  The birds also are big on the tans, many also like to wear fake eyelashes, and extensive makeup is definitely a must.  Geordie language is also as unique as Guido language, hinted with heavy accents, and undecipherable to anyone with a brain.

The cast?  Well lets me em:

There's of course Sophie, who's like Snooki (minus the strange food addictions and love of giant slippers) and Angelina (minus the Staten Island) all rolled into one giant ball of retardation, with enough stupid for two.  Her taste in men is very similar to Snooki's; she prefers 'a proper butch man' with 'big muscles, a nice golden tan,' just as long as they aren't 'as dark as her, because that would be competition.'  Despite her confidence, the room mates find her to be a 'minga,' the Geordie equivalent to a 'grenade.'  She just turned twenty one and is all set to go to the Geordie Shore to be a total 'slut' and 'cock magnet.'  So far she has been unsuccessful in that endeavor, but she has managed to get totally drunk off a 'few jager bombs,' get angry and call everyone a tramp, and spend the rest of her time on the show dirtying up the pristine bathrooms with dark brown puke and/or head first in a toilet as one of the room mates holds back her hair. She does however just want to be everyone's friend, and swears she's not usually a 'drunk.'  Plus she can talk the back legs off a donkey, whatever that means.

Then there's Gary, The Situation's UK dopple ganger, who's got The Situation act down pat.  He's got nothing to worry about and just wants to party (pah-tee) down Geordie Shore style.  He claims to know 'the situation' inside out, from getting the birds number to shagging her.  He's got his own six pack, which he too uses to lure unsuspecting drunk women into borderline rape, his favorite way to party (pah-tee).  But no, he doesn't call it 'creepin,' he calls it 'pullin.'  In fact he's so good at it he declares he 'should have a degree in pulling women.'  He too is a gym rat, and is primarily concerned with laying as much pipe as possible, with any bird he can.  He too also talks a good game, but unlike The Situation he can actually back it up. Still, I can't understand what he's saying half the time. . . but I think he said something about having a reputation for stealing other lads' birds.

James is not only the self proclaimed 'best looking lad in Newcastle, if not England,' but he is also definitely one of its most conceited.  He could also be said to be much like Pauly D, in that he's rather concerned with his hair.  He's so concerned with his hair that it was a big factor in choosing a room, in that he preferred one with many mirrors so that he may do his hair, and in fact admits that the hardest thing he's done in his life is 'me hair.'  He too works out (wherever and whenever) and like his 'lads' is primarily concerned with getting laid.

Holly is obviously a JWoww Geordie, and some how her fake tits make JWoww's boob job look tasteful.  Holly is so in love with her fake boobs that she's actually named them: Heidi and Audrina, 'and when ever that song comes on:  Heidi and Audrina eat your heart out,' she points at her tits and calls them 'her babies.'  She's eighteen and is about as bright as a broken light bulb.  Her claim to fame is the ability to hold various bottles of differing sizes between her breasts.  She then often drinks from them, or lets others.  She has a boyfriend who for some reason doesn't mind if she shows her massive fake titties to anyone and everyone.

Jay mirrors Ronnie, he's big and seems to never wear a shirt.  In fact upon discovering that he was the first lad in the house he immediately removed his shirt, you know, cause first impressions are important.  He's definitely not looking for a relationship and is just down to party (pah-tee) with some birds.  He really likes to take care of himself, and focuses on what he calls the 'more feminine side of life.'  He gets his eyebrows waxed, looking so well manicured they appear drawn on, and oh, he also waxes his ass.  Gotta look sharp for the birds, you understand.  He hangs out with his mom because she does his laundry for him, which is pretty sweet, that is unless he's got a bird over and she does it for him, after which he 'repays them in another way.'  His favorite activities include working out and posing topless in front of his BMW.  

Greg could be said to be Vinnie when Jersey Shore first started in that he doesn't seem to fit in, despite saying that he's well know around the scene.  He's even a 'ghost' because he doesn't sport that signature Gordie tan.  Despite his differences it turns out that he's really just as big of a douche bag as the others.  He enjoys calling himself "Snakers" because when he's at the club he's like a snake with the birds.  He's even got a hand motion to accompany every phone number he gets as a sort of celebration--his hands together, palm to palm, slithering through the air like a snake.  Sometimes when he's working with a friend and sees a girl he likes he gets 'his big man to pull a fat mate and he'll go for her.'  Whatever that may mean.

Vicky is our Geordie version of Sammi, in that she's still a member of a generally shitty group of people, but claims superiority because she's got a little more money.  Unlike Sammi however, she can't see to keep her eyes on just one lad, and seems to like every dude in the house, particularly Jay and Greg.  She likes flashing herself about and shows it with dresses sparkling almost as if bedazzled.  Being a real socialite, she is well known about the Geordie D-Bag Scene and apparently gets around with the lads, if yah know what I mean.

Charlotte is onto herself.  She doesn't really act like anyone from the Jersey Shore but is terribly concerned about looking like a sweaty minga.  She also admits to being 'shallow with boys' and has never kissed anyone without a six pack.  She has however, made out with dozens upon dozens of brainless Neanderthals.  Way to go Charlotte! Overall, she's a self-proclaimed '21st Century Girl,' which is nice in that we're surprised she actually knows what century we are in.

The people of Newcastle, England are quite upset about Geordie Shore, just as Italian Americans were offended by Jersey Shore when it unleashed its retardation upon the world.  Both have claimed the shows representing them is grossly inaccurate and that a selected group of few are making the majority look stupid.

And they're right.

But in regards to you Geordies I can only find Geordie Shore to be a spoof of Jersey Shore, which probably, hopefully, was a spoof to begin with.  This is to say that it cannot be taken seriously, and should not--it is retarded and is to be treated as such (point and laugh, if you are unaware of the proper procedure).  Besides, I don't know what you Geordies are so upset about, the rest of the world can't understand you anyway.

To quote the great Big Momma, "What the problem is?"

But if this show does take off, I suggest you all batten down the hatches, for they'll be around longer than anyone will assume possible.  And it is for these reason's that iR declares The Geordie Shore, hopelessly retarded.

Airs every Tuesday, on MTV UK or whatever. . . 

MTV's Geordie Shore

The Geordie Dictionary?

love,

iR

Jon Lovitz Is A Delusional Dodger Fan

Jon Lovitz and his only fan.

Scrappy was an alley cat, who in his career had won over fifty fights with other felines.  He had lost an eye in battle, along with two inches from the end of his tail.  He was a noble cat, though now old, who called one particular alley in Hollywood his home.

Jon Lovitz was a troll with thinning hair, an expanding waste line and a voice forever tuned to annoying.  In his career he had lost over fifty fights, never winning and declaring all but one--which he determined a draw-- total and hopeless losses on his part.  And he had the scars to prove it. His problem was that he just couldn't keep his mouth shut.  "Always with the talking Jon," his Mother would say.  "Always with the talking, can't you cork it every once an awhile?  I've got a headache from all these bills as it is. . ."  So she vainly tried to shut him up by constantly feeding him, but Jon would just talk with his mouth full.  It was a practice that made him fatter and fatter.

He too, called the same alley home.

These two, Scrappy the cat and Jon Lovitz the troll, shared this alley for very similar reasons.  The two had come to live out the rest of their lives with careers ended, and nothing left to do but die in grace amongst all the other trash.  Though Scrappy came a willing victim of time, passing over his throne with the dignity of one worthy of the name "King of  The Tom Cats," Jon came  a man forced out of his niche, like an annoying zit on the otherwise unblemished face of a Prom Queen.  He came a defeated man, with no parade and no pride to soak up all the shame.

It started on one balmy day in June, when the Summer air lifted the hide and all of Chavez Ravine rang out with the crack of the bat and the cheers of the crowd.  Drawn by America's Past Time, but more so hot dogs, Jon Lovitz decided to once again grace the people with his presence and appear at The Dodger game in his usual seats (he was a season ticket holder.) The Dodgers were starting the first game of a three game series against the dreaded Saint Louis Cardinals, after splitting a four game series with the Atlanta Braves.  In the top of the first, the first three Cardinals went down one, two, three, and by the time the Dodgers came up for their turn, Jon had already consumed five dodger dogs, washing them down with more than two liters of Coca-Cola.  His blue Dodger's jacked stained and flanked about the collar with remnants of pig parts, his mouth glistening under the bright lights of the big show; Jon Lovitz was whole again. He stood up to lead the charge and cheer on the Dodger Blue.  He wondered why celebrities always complained about going to Dodger Stadium, about constantly being hassled by fans.  He had never once been hassled at Dodger Stadium.  He had no idea what they were talking about.

He assumed it was because of respect.  Respect I tell yah.  He remembered his actions out on the field during the celebrity softball game.  He had represented the team well.  He remembered when he had belted it a heart wrenching rendition of The National Anthem before a game.  He had represented America well.  They just respect me.  Yeah yeah that's all.  And he didn't give it any more thought, continuing his meal.  He even hummed, but the more he thought about it the more his face gave way to one of concern.  As the Dodgers assumed their role on offense, this seed of doubt was already beginning to germinate.  Rafael Furcal lead off the inning and promptly lined the pill to left field for a single.  After stealing second base Matt Kemp got himself a double, allowing Rafael Furcal trot around third and become the games first official run.

DODGERS 1
CARDINALS 0

During Andre Either's at bat, involving a wild pitch advancing Kemp to second, and a single to left, further advancing the lead runner to third, Jon polished off a whole plate of garlic fries himself, with little regard for the prostitute he knew he planned on purchasing after the game.  Next up was Manny Ramirez, the overpaid, overthehill behemoth walking out to the plate with a weapon that was no longer perceived as deadly; yet still the crowd came alive with the notion of more runs.  Jon did too, but mostly because he was still reminising about the 15 hundred calories he had consumed in a matter of minutes.  His squealing grew loud, and even managed to penetrate the cheers of the crowd, and the concentration of Rameriz; as instead of hitting it out of the park, Manny grounded the ball to short, for a 5-4-3 double play.  Matt Kemp however scored.

DODGERS 2
CARDINALS 0

To further illustrate the sheer strength and penetrating power of Luvitz's froggy voice I've constructed a horrible diagram of the whole debacle:

John Lovitz, sitting in his pompous rich bastard VIP seats, shall be represented by a black X, black like his soul.  Despite the luxurious view he's in the back of the section, his voice thusly passing over thirty or so heads, the visitors dugout, the dirt track, the grass and eventually to the batter Manny Ramirez, the blue X, and still strong enough to penetrate a ABS Hard plastic vinyl lined batting helmet, and eighty pounds of Manny's matted signature dreads dense enough to put Bob Marley to shame. Now thats annoyance power times a billion.

Jon didn't see much of the top of the second, for he had to evacuate all of the sugar water he had consumed in the prior inning.  After an awkward moment at the piss troughs it was off to the vendors to get more food.  As he squirted ketchup and mustard on his next half dozen dogs, he fended off a few flies with all of the annoyance of a fat child forced to share a sugary treat with an undeserving neighbor.  During this time the sides had again switched, with the Cardinals managing to score a single run off a Ryan Ludwig home run.

DODGERS 2
CARDINALS 1

By the time the Dodgers came up to bat, Jon had started to lose interest in the game, instead taking notice to the few slight pangs that were poking his insides.  He again wondered why he often went so unnoticed at Dodger games, despite being a celebrity.  He wondered why he always had a two or three seat cushion whenever he went to games, even when they were supposedly sold out and there wasn't an empty seat left in the house.  He tried to look around and make eye contact with those around him, perhaps lock eyes with someone and smile, and in doing so they would remember all that he had done for them, all the times he had made them smile; a thought that would no doubt make them remember him. . . But his eyes met no others, he would only get glances from people, and upon meeting his eyes they would quickly look away, or pretend to suddenly be interested in some spot up in the night sky.  He then tried speaking to someone at the end of the row (his nearest visitor,) but they acted like they couldn't hear him, his words lost in the sounds of the game, their hands going up and cupping their ear for a better listen but straining no further than that.

All three Dodgers in the inning struck out.  No runs scored.

All of the third Jon thought and thought.  He ate and thought, mostly because eating helped him think.  He found himself to be a profound thinker.  By his fourth hot dog he stared down at its half eaten carcass with different eyes, for somewhere behind them, an idea was brewing.  He had decided by the end of the inning that he would pretend to choke, and upon doing so he would attract the attention of all those around him. . .  A near death later he and the EMT who 'saved' him would both be on the news that night, and once again the name of Jon Luvitz would grace the beautiful lips of Californians.

A silly and desperate idea, yes, but Jon Lovitz is a silly and desperate man, you see.

DODGERS 2
CARDINALS 1

By the fourth inning the last of the stragglers have usually all trickled in, and all of those looking to beat traffic have already allowed the thought of leaving early to enter their minds.  The time was now, and Jon knew it.  He stood from his seat and proceeded to down hot dogs, eating them as disgustingly as he could, his mouth swallowing as much masticated food as it let slip out.  In seconds hot dogs slipped down his gullet, and in between breaths he'd produce squeals like a pig.  Those around him still ignored him, so his efforts doubled, animal parts spilling from the sides of his mouth like a great waterfall of swine.

"AHKEM!"  His throat produced the sound but everyone cheered, for Manny Ramirez had just scored.

DODGERS 3
CARDINALS 1

"AHKEM!"  He feigned choking once more, but again everyone cheered, for this time Ronnie Belliard had just scored.

DODGERS 4
CARDINALS 1

His eyes bulged, for in his feigning he had actually begun to choke.  The piece lodged itself in his throat, his throat contracting in attempts to draw in air as the panic came over Jon's face.  He kicked the man in front of him in his struggle, and even knocked over a beer as he made his way down the aisle, his face becoming more and more the color of Dodger Blue.  As all hope escaped his body, along with his last breath, a foul ball came soaring back into the crowd, arching high over the heads of several fans, hitting Jon square in the abdomen.  The blow took the air right out of him, and with it it expelled the half chewed hot dog out onto the field.  The ball bounced around and fans all around him fought over it, some going as far as to trample him as he gasped for air.  He caught his breath and rose slowly to his feet, dejected and morose.  He had been forgotten in the celebration of a well fought for foul ball, even the man he had kicked had forgotten about the slight pain in the back of his head.

Taking his seat, he sat more lonely than he had ever been before.  He felt as if he were sitting in that stadium completely alone.  Even as The Dodgers continued to rack up runs and those around him cheered he remained still as a statue, his head drooping, his eyes fixed on the uneaten remains of his fourth inning snack.

As the game went through its motions and the crowd eventually bored and took to batting around beach balls and participating in the wave Jon sat a sad lonely man.  He even let all of his hot dogs get cold, his soda diluted from all the melted ice.  This had never happened before.  And just as Jon was about to get up to leave and succumb to all of the horrible feelings that were now washing over him, a hand touched him on the shoulder:

"Excuse me. . ."

"Wh-What?"  Jon had his face in his hands.  He was more shocked than anything.

"Mr. Lovitz?"

"You. . . you recognize me?"  He smiled, looking up, but his eyes met no fan, they met those of a security guard.   Instantly Jon was annoyed.  "What. . . what do you want?"

"I'm afraid I'm gonna have to ask you to leave. . ."

Jon protested, and security explained that Mr. Lovitz owed the stadium a great deal of money, and that he was ordered to remove him from the premises.  He grabbed Jon by the arm, but Jon pulled away, an action which the security guard later describe as a 'furtive motion.'  After all the pepper spray and Jon finally stopped sprawling in the aisle, it took five security guards to escort Mr. Lovitz out of the stadium, where he was plopped out in the parking lot, and left to his shame. . .

The game ended, a blowout:

DODGERS 12
CARDINALS 4

As all the fans left the stadium, one man remained propped up against a light pole - its succeeding light spotlighting his failure.  He sat dejectedly, like a fan who's team had just lost. . . for he was now indeed a man without a town; a fan with no team but his own to cheer for.

And now Jon has sunk so low he lives in an alley in Hollywood, having fights with an alley cat with one eye and an unusually short tail over rotten food and spoiled cans of cat food -- and often Jon loses.

The relationship between Jon Lovitz and The Los Angeles Dodgers soured quickly, as he once opened a game singing the National Anthem (imagine that horrid scene for a moment if you will,) played numerous celebrity softball games on the field for charity, and was after all, a Los Angeles Native.  Yet after a dispute over a rather hefty ticket package involving three season seats in one of the many VIP 'dugout' sections at Dodger Stadium, for three seasons (2008 to 2010,) the team is suing the fat little man 100,000 dollars for tickets unpaid.  But thats how life is I guess, when you're annoying: when you have money, you are tolerable, but as it dries up so do your friends.

It is true that he's a 'celebrity,' and as such receives some leniency, for some retarded reason, but Jon is a small enough fish its better not to have his ugly mug around.  Certainly not when it can easily be replaced by a much prettier one, with a well manicured face and a pair of tits below that aren't just stored body fat.

He's not even a big star: not one big enough to attract more people to a Dodger game.  Besides, its common decency to pay for what you use, especially if you're a 'V.I.P.'  In fact Jon Lovitz is so unnoticeable that he served three years on the show News Radio, and was so anonymous he played three different characters without anyone notice, or perhaps more importantly, anyone giving a shit.

Best known as that noisy obtuse extra from Saturday Night Live, Jon has had a career dotted with mild flirts with success, and voice work for cartoon characters fatter and more disgusting as he.  These days, he's opened his own comedy house called The Jon Lovitz Comedy Club, and rivals Pauly Shore's The Comedy House as the worst shit house in the landscape of attempted humor.

There's no saving this one.

As such, iR declares Jon Lovitz: hopelessly retarded.

Steve Lyons: A Siren of Hopeless Retardation

Tacoma, Washington, a town so attractive its main venue for entertainment is the Museum of Glass: an architectural feat made up of and dedicated to the medium of glass; a town useless except for the abundant amounts of oil found underground; a town famous for being the birthplace of Terapon Adhahn, a convicted sex offender who abducted, raped, and murdered a girl named Amber -the Amber-who later became the namesake for any child abduction - the Amber Alert. Its also the birthplace of this guy:

What a kind commentator. . . No they didn't fall down, he clearly rolled them down - you should be fired for not properly painting the picture for the people listening on the radio.

Steve Lyons, a ball player so retarded his nickname was Psycho not because he went after opposing players with spiked cleats, or whispered hexes on opposing pitchers while at bat, he instead received the moniker because he liked to amuse himself with games of tic-tac-toe and hangman, crudely drawing them in the dirt with his cleats in between pitches. Way to stay in the game Steve. Cause God knows if I was a big league skipper I'd tip my hat and spit out into the dirt and turn to the fielding coach and say:

"Yep, that Steve Lyons, he's a real go-getter. . . What is that he's written in the dirt? POOP you say? Makes him laugh eh? . . . Yep, that Steve Lyons, always got his head in the game, yep - a real go-getter."

The fact that his nickname was 'psycho' leads me to believe that the other players called him that simply because it was a whole lot nicer than 'retard,' because that's really what he was back when he was playing, and is, even today. He's a sort of jock who maybe was pretty damn good in a place like Tacoma, Washington, but when it came to the big show, he just couldn't hack it. And besides he had (and still does have) a brain the size of a peanut. He never excelled really in the majors, managing to average a measly .252 in his 8 years in the league, where most of his time was spent playing as a utility player, a bit of Human Spackle to fill the holes where he was needed.

Nothing more, nothing less.

Unfortunately when he finally hung up his cleats, he wasn't gone from baseball forever, for he, like many other ball players, had spent so much time playing baseball that his skills elsewhere were less than to be desired, and, like many other ball players, he possessed the itch - that need to constantly play ball whether rain or shine, till the cows come home. Yet the old body couldn't take such a lashing anymore, so he did the next best thing: he got into the commentating game. Fox sports graciously accepted Lyons on to their commentating team, for surely in those 8 years he picked up a thing or two about the game right? And seeing how his nickname was 'Psycho' and all, he could be a really good color commentator, right? A sort of funny, quirky personality, right?

Wrong.

As it turns out, aside from being a total retard, Steven 'Psycho' Lyons is also a racist. . . Which is a real hub-bub when you're trying to put out some of that Emmy Award Winning shit. Lyons has criticized Shawn Green during a game, essentially calling him a 'dumb Jew' for sitting out a ball game on Yom Kippur, dumb because he "didn't marry a Jewish girl, and from what I understand, he never had a Bar Mitzvah, which is unfortunate because he doesn't get the money." He's praised Hideki Irabu, a ballplayer who punched a photographer's camera and broke it, stating "Its ok because the photographer is Asian. . . And you know they make cameras, so he should have many more." In 2006, he implied that certain Italian players had connections with the Mafia, simply because they're Italian, and that messing with them would be foolish because they are all well connected. Also in 2006, he picked on a fan in the audience who had an apparatus attached to his face to help him see, saying "He's got a digital camera stuck to his face." It turned out that the man was in fact blind, and his family was watching. Again, in 2006 he implied that Lou Piniella stole his wallet because he was of Spanish decent.

Even with the signature, these cards are fucking worthless.

Now Fox has a strict - Make 4 Racist Comments and You're Fired Clause - so naturally Lyons had to be let go, but this wasn't the end for him, no, not yet. Instead of crawling up into the asshole of obscurity, he was picked up by KCAL to do road games for the Dodgers organization, much to the chagrin of Dodger's fans, who have been spoiled with the epic greatness that is a man like Vin Scully. Vin Scully, unlike Lyons comes from the oldschool, when radios were a big part of the world, and therefore his practiced tongue only adds to the experience of listening to a ball game, as opposed to subtracting from it. Despite the contract, Lyons is on strict probationary terms, and is even forced to go to Diversity Training. . . Which seems to be working, but his retardation still shines through as if polished over the years by a fine wax. Its most apparent on nights when he works with Charley Steiner, an actual Emmy winner and college grad with a fondness for big words and hyperbole. The two are such a juxtaposition they'd be a perfect pairing for a William Blake poem, and listening to them both is much like sitting down with the college professor and his monkey trying to talk baseball.

As for his future, it depends on his ability to latch on and not say anything racist - and its looking like he's a sufficient enough parasite for the job. The fact that he's most remembered for being the only baseball player to pull down his pants during a baseball game should sting Steve Lyons a little, that is if he was all that well remembered, but he's so retarded he instead revels in it. He actually enjoys it. He's taken his 'psycho' image, and even his sudden undressing during the game in full stride, and has used it as gimmick to get him hosting jobs on blooper shows and trashy DVD's with titles like '100 of Baseball's Most Outrageous Moments.' It is for his long career and seeming permanence with the game, his willing acceptance of his retardation and further use of said retardation to make money, that iR declares Steven Lyons hopelessly retarded.

There's just no saving this one.

FURTHER RETARDATION:

Steve Lyons is one of few players to have played all 9 positions during his baseball career - not because he was good at everything, but rather because he was equally mediocre at every position - and hell Steve Lyons at shortstop is better than no one at short stop - yah dig?

Steve Lyons 'wrote' his own biography, entitled Steve Lyons: PSYCHOanalist oh how clever.

Steve Lyons obviously tampers with his own Wikipedia page, as the site says: "Considered by many to be one of the greatest players to come out of Oregon." The idea that Lyons could be the greatest at anything, other than generally sucking leads me to believe that perhaps Oregon just may be the most mediocre state in all the damned Union.

Survives off small television parts in sports themed comedies like Arli$$.

iR

The Night Kutcher Spent in Jail

Now for all of this to make sense, one much watch:

Police Report No. 5952
Deputy Alex Barron
75th Precinct, Los Angeles

Suspect was apprehended at approximately 3:30 a.m. at the Twelve Oaks Retirement Center, Los Angeles. Elders at the home had reported hearing strange noises, as if someone was in the building with them. Between 1 A.M. and the time of his arrest, Kutcher reportedly photographed and harassed residents, one woman stating "He claimed to be the man with the magic touch, and just jumped on top of me" Suspect quoted as saying "I was only looking for a new wife." He also claimed to have been filming a commercial for the Nikon company, but no camera crew was found.

Mr. Kutcher was charged with breaking and entering, disturbing the peace, and attempted rape.

The arresting officer searched the suspect, nothing found on his persons. No evidence found at the scene, other than a photograph of a 75 year old hairy beaver. Just who's beaver is presently unknown. Lineups of old lady beaver have been assembled, arranged by density of bush.

Suspect detained 4:05 P.M.

Released on bail 6:30 P.M.

But what that small police report fails to mention, are those 2 or so hours Ashton Kutcher was kept locked up in a cage with wild animals. To them he looked very much like fresh tender meat, and to him it seemed as if there wasn't a single soul there that was not hungry. Ravenous eyes followed him as he nervously paced his cage, beads like lead bullets running down his face. A man on a cot in a corner seemed to sleep, but would occasionally lift his head, his eyes locking on Ashton each time he did so. His hand would go up to his face and he'd take a snort, smile and drop his head apparently going back to sleep. In another corner two jail birds chirped at one another, singing out a plan they were going to fulfill once they got out. One spoke of a hidden pipe, buried at a hidden location, the other of a hidden stash that only he knew the location of. They planned on meeting up after they go out so they could both get high.

The system wasn't working.

When it came to reform it failed horribly, but when it came to fear, its machinery performed so well it purred like a new kitten. But its never the people who are on the inside who are afraid, its the people on the outside, and they've been taught to be afraid to ever end up locked up, because there are plenty of horrible people in the world - madmen, cheaters, liars, criminals, but in there, you're locked up with them, and you can't get away. Worst of all, you're considered one of them, and with that comes all the fear and loathing that results from being labeled "no good" by society. Ashton was feeling this now, in waves all up and down his body. He prayed for someone to come bail him out, but his wife Demi had no idea of his whereabouts - she was too busy taking pictures of her ass in granny panties and posting them on Twitter to notice. Similarly, no friends came either, because quite frankly Ashton had the type of friends who never seemed to be around when he really needed them - that is to say friends who weren't really his friends at all, but rather celebrities who tolerated him because he too was a celebrity, and birds of a feather flock together, no matter how loud, obnoxious and spastic they may be.

When given his one phone call, he asked instead if he could have just one Tweet.

"Please sir, just one Tweet." Ashton pleaded. "Just 140 characters or less, its all I need - its the only way I know how to express myself. Its the only way I can reach my people." By 'my people' he meant retards. After much pleading his request was granted, and at 4:32 A.M. the hopeless retard posted a Tweet that went like this:


Only minutes after the tweet went out, an entire network of retards helped spread his message, with text messages and emails, those who still had voices made phone calls, those who were skillful enough to write legibly and smart enough to spell made signs with colored markers and glitter that said things like "FREE ASHTON," and "LET HIM GO." They were all animals through and through, collected together outside of the jail, and like vultures so came the media men and paparazzi looking for a fresh kill upon which to feed.

Inside the jail, similar animals, differing only in that they were caged, were coming alive too.

The head wolf had awaken from his slumber, and now with a hungry appetite he was looking to feed. His ears perked up, listening for a quiet whimper similar to the moans of a dying dog, for the stifled cries of fresh meat too afraid to cry wholly out loud. His half-closed eyes, still heavy with sleep scanned the cell, no good, no good, ok, no we had him yesterday, no, ahh perfect. He had found Ashton, who's eyes met his own and glimmered with a certain fear. He looked as if at any moment he may cry. The wolf smiled, his face contorted into a wicked grin.

"I know you." The wolf said. Ashton simply curled into a ball, a mouse accepting defeat. "Good boy." He said, as he licked his lips.

2 or so hours later, when Ashton had finally met bail, Officer Barron went to the community holding cell where he was kept. Ashton was found draped over a cot, belly down, with a heavy set man goin' to town on him. He had been in that position for those 2 hours, as the wolf and his pack each took turns defiling him. Officer Barron broke up the sodomy, and like wild dogs they all scampered off, tails between their legs.

Leaving, Ashton found a certain new found appreciation for his freedom, and a certain gratitude that retardation like his wasn't illegal, for he new he wasn't one for prison life.

He's far too pretty.

FURTHER RETARDATION:


Punk'd, ever see it? . . . Exactly.

Real life best friends with Sean William Scott, a real life douche.

Ashton challenged CNN that he could get a million followers on Twitter before they did, in one of the most ego driven competitions in recent years.

At 18 he robbed his high school, convicted to 3 years probation and 180 hours of community service.

What Happens in Vegas, what shit fest...

He was a front runner of that whole Trucker Hat bullshit.

iR

co-writs: Wild Jesse

David Blaine the Child Molester, Vegas Lights Can Ruin A Complexion, and An Underground Kiddie Porn Dungeon

Co-Writs Daniel Rasmussen

The truth is David Blaine used his magical mind powers to brainwash a sting ray into stabbing Steve Irwin in the heart. . . It was a murder driven by jealousy. . . He's the Aquaman of Murder.

David Blaine is an illusionist, which is really just a grown up word for magician - given to old and aging magicians who would otherwise be considered "pathetic" in the already pathetic world of magic. They're too old for simple card tricks, and far too egotistical to perform at kids' parties. They perform "illusions," which are much like the lame magic skits we're all use to, except they require more "skill." They find their work to be an "art form" and in some cases even a commentary on society. They are a different level of pathetic, and David Blaine appears to be one of its most retarded. Now naturally I had all of this in my head when I heard David Blaine's fading voice on T.V. talk about his next trick. He had announced in Vegas earlier in the week that he would be performing a trick, pardon me, an illusion, he called "The Lava Man," and refused to say anything more about it, much to the chagrin of the media.

I had to cover the event. So I did. Vegas baby. It went like this:

*Editors note: The first night the writer apparently got too wasted and couldn't remember the night, save for a few notes he jotted down in between swigs of alcohol. To provide insight on the complete story, and to end any arguments we have had here at the iR offices, we have added his notes, in their original unedited form.

The lobby is a lot emptier at 3 in the morning, wonder where all the drunks are? The casinos are still humming with the slight shuffle of cards and slot machines, symbols spinning, we'll see if we have a winn-ah, a winn-ah, no oh no, not this time around, hang your head - its ok, we're use to it. I never liked the desert. Something about it, nothing but flat dead land unfit for your average person to survive in - perfect location for Vegas, what with all its vultures. Was Vegas made for this desert, or was this desert made for Vegas? No way to be sure really, these people do look like crocodiles. In the casino at 3 in the morning. Nothing but die hard gamblers and ancient women who are probably 70 but look 100 from too many disappointments along the way, chasing the ever deceiving American Dream along The Vegas Strip. They suck cigarettes and doll up their faces like they did back when they were 20, but they know Vegas screwed em, everybody knows it, so they just suck cigarettes and play the slots with only a slight hope that maybe the next pull of the lever will break the bank and end all of their woes. It never comes though. They have these faces - horrible faces, with wrinkles and contortions of flesh - too much time in the Vegas lights melted their skin just like wax, and when the spotlight went out (after many years,) they took to making their fortune with the help of good ole' Lady Luck. Their faces would cool in the casinos, over many years, and an expression of despair would set in that wax. One day it would break, but that would be the day they died.

Fighting man at the bar, khaki shirt, navy blue slacks. In uniform. Workin' the gambling machine at the bar. You can tell when he loses, he slaps the DEAL button harder than usual and shakes his head. Sometimes he'll stir his drink and just stare into it. Damn, they'll even milk a fightin' man, send him off right, with empty pockets. He gives up after awhile, leaves with a hooker. Time to go I s'pose.

Through the casino up to the room, pass the Texas Hold-Em tables, where all the men look up at you and judge you with their eyes: Too small for this man's game, hit the slots with all the other ladies, dip-shit. You probably can't even cover the small blind! Up the elevator, into the hall - the black carpeting got red oval designs that look like red blood cells on it. Red blood cells, drunk fools with money are the life blood of Vegas right? I may be drunk, and I may be a fool, but I aint got money. S'pose I don't belong in this bloodstream - better get to my room. The Luke Perry room, with artificats from his movie career up on the walls, and a yearbook from his high school days encased in a small glass side table. A look out the window. Louis Vutton building being built across the way. A hotel? A modern affair, nothing but glass windows, and is almost a whole block long. What a monstrosity. How much to build that fucker? 120, 000, 000, 000 dollarzez? Doll-hairs.

*Editors note: There are more notes, but the rest seems to be legible only by drunk people. Its nothing but chicken scratches and is stained brown from a Jager spill. Luckily the writer recovered and was able to finish the story.

Keep reading, its good for you!

I woke up hung-over. Had to get downstairs though, to meet up with David Blaine. I had been given the opportunity to interview him before the big night, which was only two days away. I dressed and met him in the lobby, where he was smiling and levitating there in the center of the room. A crowd had gathered, and he seemed to be giving special attention to the children, who he beckoned to come closer and grab on to his legs for a closer view. When he saw me he called me over. They all gawked at him, some of them even frightened, by what they believed was some kind of demonic act against the laws of nature. The children were ecstatic and he gave them all high fives, and even managed to get a hug in with one portly little boy. When he saw I wasn't all that impressed he frowned a little. Like an upset child, he cut through the crowd, making his way towards a little place for some breakfast. We sat at the table - steak and eggs.

"So what's this magic trick you're doing?" I asked. He was entertaining the children behind me, he didn't hear me. "You like kids don't you?"

"Loooove em." He smiled. "Its why I got into magic in the first place. . . All kids love magic, don't they? They're close to my heart."

"Ok M.J. - what's this magic trick you're doin' on Friday?" I asked again.

"Trick? Trick?" His lust gaze on the children had been broken, he was no longer that sweet innocent Blaine. "I'm not a dog, or a dolphin, come now. . . I do illusions my good man, illu-sions." He smiled, and with a slow sweeping motion over the table he turned over his hand and a fork appeared. I wasn't impressed, so he then "bent" it with his mind. . .

"Sorry yeah, so what's this illusion you're doing?" I was annoyed.

"Well its an illusion, well more of an endurance trial, its, its, an endurance illusion." I could tell he was talking out of his ass. "They're feats of amazing endurance, that test the human body and the human mind to almost the breaking point. In a way they're almost super human. I mean I've nearly died doing these things."

"Nearly." I scoffed. "Too bad."

"Huh?" He asked, I didn't acknowledge him, so he continued. "Well yeah, as I was saying, they're amazing feats, most of the time when I'm done I'm shipped off to the hospital. I tell you, they really are trying, but worth it in every way, don't get me wrong. . . Yeah I've stayed encased in a block of ice for a week, did a stint in a giant ball of water for a whole week. . . Stuff like that - you familiar with the glass box stint I did? Suspended over the air in a glass box."

"Yeah, I remember. People started throwing food at you."

"The unbelievers!" The worlds nearly exploded out of his mouth, he seemed embarrassed by how loud and quickly they came out. He was use to being the quiet one, in school he was the creepy kid who took to the corners of rooms and never really had any friends. He's had those bags under his eyes all his life too. After some fidgeting, he calmed himself, continued. "In truth, the only restrictions on our capacity to astonish ourselves and each other are imposed by our own minds." He reached out for his napkin, fluttered it in the air, and it turned into a dove, which flew off through the restaurant. The kids behind me applauded wildly, and Blaine blushed. He often did this where ever he went, like it was some itch he had to scratch constantly. Sometimes he'd pause while walking down the street, and snatch up a man's newspaper, twirl around and come up with roses, and hand them back to the annoyed man who only wanted to read his paper. Other times he'd stop someone and ask to see the time, and when they'd look he'd tap their wrist and the watch would turn into a snake and slither away. He had a real way of pissing people off, but his favorite place to perform tricks was at playgrounds, or outside elementary schools - anywhere children frequented.

"But you know my next illusion?"

"The Lava Man. . ."

"Yeah." He ducked his head so he could talk to me softly, to prevent eavesdropping. "They're gonna put me in a giant lava lamp - large coils on the bottom are gonna heat the liquid I'm submerged in - gonna be hot wax floating all around me, just like a real lava lamp! They're gonna leave it on for a whole week, during which time I won't be able to do anything but simply endure! Endure my friend."

"What's the point in that?"

"The point is I'll be trapped in the world's tallest lava lamp - a Guiness Book Record in itself, and it will be a visual interpretation of the everyday struggle we find ourselves in every waking moment of our lives! But most importantly its yet another example of the great things we as human beings can do, the wonderful feats we can accomplish if we just put our minds to it! Impressive, isn't it?"

"Not really. Sounds retarded. Sounds horrible. Sounds like a bunch of phoney baloney to me. . . It aint phoney baloney now, is it. . . Mister Blaine?"

"If I was a phoney baloney. . . could I do this?" He got up slowly out of his chair and turned his back to me. He started to levitate again. "HUH?! HUH?! . . . Wait wait, you're at the wrong angle, move over the left a little. . . No wait you're too close. . . Is it working? No? Wait maybe its the damn lighting, the damn lighting!"

1. Empty

2. For blowing dudes.

3. Filled with an intense love for Houdini, children

4. Empty

5. Filled with hidden cards and flowers

6. For kneeling (see 2)

The children were no longer cheering, they were in fact booing, and each boo seemed to cut through him like a knife. They soon got up and left with their mom and dad, which made David even more upset. He actually started crying.

"Please, don't leave me. . ." Sob sob sob. "I love you. . . I love you, alllll."

So many thoughts ran through my mind, for in my heart I knew his affection for children wasn't healthy. I thought of perhaps performing a magic trick, justing pulling that trigger and making him disappear forever - Tah Dah! In the end though, I just left him there crying. Soon enough he would get his.

As I was leaving the hotel, I was passed by a man in a hat with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. He may have been a ghost: he was wearing an Acapulco shirt, tea shades hid his eyes, and in his right hand he clutched a leather doctor bag. He didn't seem like a doctor, he certainly didn't dress like one. Maybe it was the shorts and the wicked glare that gave him away. Maybe it was the smell as he passed me: bourbon. Turns out he was on assignment too. His piece started like this:

"We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold."

And it ended like this:

"I felt like a monster reincarnation of Horatio Alger. . . a Man on the Move, and just sick enough to be totally confident."

I thought of that ghost, and 2 days later David Blaine attempted his "The Lava Man" stunt. It was well covered, I remember. At the 7 day mark he was taken out. 5 minutes later he was pronounced hopelessly retarded. The stunt had caused severe brain damage, he quit the illusionist game, but got a good job doing magic for kid's parties. He was extremely happy, until a concerned mother phoned police after her son told her Blaine had made inappropriate advances. 2 day later Police raided his house and found a kiddie porn dungeon. Stories then started to come out, from children who had claimed that David Blaine had commited horrible sex acts upon them, and threatened to kill them with his magical powers if they said anything. They were all tragic teary eyed tales like this one:

Little Nathaniel Westbrook, seen here with David Blaine was raped by the illusionist in his hospital bed after the magic star promised him the "magic cure" and a wonderful show, to boot. Nathaniel Westbrook was quoted as saying "He didn't pull a rabbit out of a hat, he pulled a rubber dick out of his ass." The poor boy, a cancer patient is still fighting his disease and is traumatized by his encountered with the magician.

It is for these many reasons that iR declares David Blaine, hopelessly retarded.

FURTHER RETARDATION

Blaine fasted a week before being submerged in a tank of water for an entire week, to prevent having to worry about defecation during the stunt "Drowned Alive." he was given air and nutrients through a rubber tube.

During his "Dive of Death" stunt, billed as a 60 hour endurance trial for Blaine to be hanged upside down from an elevated height in Central Park, Blaine would come down once an hour for medical checks. He also took breaks on a waiting platform, right side up.

Lulz: Voted the 'Biggest Loser' of 2003 in a British poll for spending 44 days in a box suspended over the River Thames in London, without any food.

USA Today called David Blaine "The hottest name in magic right now." What they really meant to say was "He's the only name in magic right now. . . except maybe for Penn and Teller, and nobody gives a shit about them."

The Sun once lovingly called him "Bonkers Blaine."

iR.