Douchebag; or Fred Durst's New Sitcom

The crumbling graveyard of sitcom television fills with the cold winds of Autumn.  There are leaves there, blowing across the tombstones like so many leaflets from so many horrible reviews.  The tears of America grace the cheeks of the Nothing Generation, caught up in a world where entertainment no longer comes from the television.  Some would think that this would be a bad thing, but for guys like Fred Durst its an opportunity. An opportunity to change things, despite his history of failures.  The ink has not yet dried, and already Durst is taking up a napkin to wipe away the tears.

Yes. . . dear friends, Fred Durst is getting into the sitcom game.  He signed a deal with CBS, and not only will be its 'shining star,' but will also be its co-producer.  The show?  Well its called Douchebag, yes one word (as Fred Durst isn't very literary) and its all about some aging rock star trying to deal with his career and his family. A struggle, so to speak, with overtones of comedy.  Of course, it would have overtones of comedy, that is if Fred Durst wasn't involved in the whole process, and it wasn't on CBS.  But alas, it is well known that the poor and cheap have no other choice than to swallow whole the trash that syndicated channels offer them.  And as the 99%'ers like to point out, only 1% of Americans have the wealth to watch whatever they want.  That and own slaves--only we don't call them slaves anymore.

How else can we explain the prevalence of such shows like Jerry Springer and Judge Judy?

We can't.

Luckily, being quite connect with the swine that control syndicated television, I have been give an early copy of the proposed pilot episode.

It goes like this:

INT. MANSION - MORNING

A living room, furnished lavishly.

A maid, MARTHA walks the length of the room with a basket full of dirty laundry.  She knows the lay of the room quite well, and navigates it without having to look in front of her.  The basket is piled high up over her eyes.

FRED enters the room looking quite tired.  He rubs his head with a slight groan and makes his way towards the kitchen for a much needed cup of coffee.

FRED

(tired)

Hello Martha. . .

MARTHA

Late night, sir?

FRED

Yeah, the girls kept me up all night

MARTHA

Your daughters, or those women you sneaked in last night?  One of them was young enough to be your daughter, that's for sure.

FRED

What women?  I'm a changed man, you know that.  I may have had lots of women in the past, but I'm a family man now.

MARTHA

(smiling)

Really, I thought you did it all for the nookie?

She walks towards the door to the laundry room, not taking any mind of Fred

MARTHA (CONT'D)

Oh, and your wife is already up and in the kitchen.

FRED

(shocked)

Not cooking, please not cooking.  I still haven't recovered from the last time she tried to make vegetable soup.  I've never seen mud so thick.

RATTLING of pots and pans comes out of the kitchen.

FRED

Oh dear God, she's cooking.

MARTHA

Mmmhmmm--oh and sir. . . you've got some lipstick on your cheek.  Experimenting with make up again?

Fred only looks at her and blindly wipes his cheek.

FRED

Make-up?  What do you think I am, down with the clown?  You should look into make-up Martha, you sure could use some.

MARTHA
(under her breath)

I could use a stiff drink.

Martha makes a face at Fred, but he doesn't see it from behind all of the clothes.  Fred shakes his head and enters the kitchen, RATTLING coming in clearer as he opens the door.

INT - KITCHEN

The room is half full of billowing smoke, filling the room with each passing second.  

Jane hums while she works at the stove, mixing up some concoction that hardly looks edible.  She seems unaware of Fred's entry.  He walks up to the island in the middle of the kitchen and sits down.  There are pots and pans hanging over head.

FRED

I love the smell of smoke in the morning. . . You know we have people who can do that for you.  We wouldn't want any unexpected fires, now would we?

JANE

What's that supposed to mean?

She works the pan, the food BUBBLING with the sounds of grease as smoke continues to fill the room in thick grey clouds.  

FRED
(coughing)

It's like a Bob Marley concert in here.

The smoke continues, thick.

FRED (CONT'D)

What are you making there anyway?  I've seen science experiments that look more appetizing.

JANE

(frustrated)

The same could be said for some of the women you've been with.  You're being a douche bag.

FRED

(annoyed)

I thought you weren't going to call me that anymore?

He raises his hands and adjusts his backwards baseball cap.  Feeling it out he finds a position that is more comfortable.

Jane turns from the stove to glare at him, her hands rested on her hips.

JANE

I thought you weren't going to act like one anymore?  Life is full of disappointments, dear.

Fred frowns.  The sound of STOMPING comes down from the stairs.  DELILA and SAMANTHA enter the room running.  They scream.

DELILA

(screaming)

Fire!  Fire!

FRED

No dear--

SAMANTHA
(echoing)

Fire!  Fire!  

The children run around the island, screaming and waving their arms in the air.  Delila is seized up by her mother, who grabs her by the arm.

JANE

(shouting)

Enough!  Enough!  There's no fire!  Mommy is just making everyone breakfast.  Isn't that nice?

FRED

That remains to be seen.

JANE

How did you sleep girls?

SAMANTHA/DELILA

(together)

Fine. . .

SAMANTHA

But there were all these noises coming from Daddy's room.

FRED

(surprised)

Noises?  What noises?

SAMANTHA

Oh, Hi daddy.  Didn't know you were up.  Its a little early for you isn't it?

Fred's shock turns to dismay, as his wife serves the children.  He frowns.

SAMANTHA (CONT'D)

Sounds like farm animals.  I think I even heard a cow.

JANE

(angry)

Oh, I thought you gave up fat chicks, dear.

FRED

(innocently)

They were probably dreaming, dear.

The air is full of tension, and smoke.  The children start to play with their food, moving it around with their forks.

DELILA

There was definitely a farmer too.  I remember hearing him talk about his precious hoe.

FRED

Kids and their imagination.

Jane turns from the stove with a plate of food.  She slams it down on the table in front of him.  She stares a hole right through him, and under her gaze he shrinks a little.  The smoke still fills the room and she opens the door to let some of it out.

Fred eyes his plate suspiciously, quite confused as to what it is exactly. The kids continue to play with their food, hardly eating it.

FRED

What is this?

He pokes it with his fork.  Bringing it to his face it drips long stringy substances.

JANE

Eggs, douche bag.

Fred frowns and meekly takes a forkful.  He eats it and his face changes to one of disgust.

FRED

(disgusted)

You never could tell the difference between salt and sugar.  It would be horrible if we had cyanide in the house.

JANE

Who says we don't?

Jane takes the kids plates and puts them in the sink.  She wipes her hands on a dish cloth as Fred gets up to leave.  She turns to look at him.

He stops.

JANE

Where do you think you're going?

FRED

Work?

JANE

Oh no, its your day to take the kids to the studio.

FRED

You're crazy if you think. . .

She stares at him.

FRED (CONT'D)

But. . . honey. . .

She continues to stare, she lifts her hand to rest it on her hip.

FRED (CONT'D)

You've got another thing coming if you think I'm going to bring them to the studio!  They don't even like my music.

JANE

Funny, I thought only children liked your music.

FRED

No.  No.  It's not gonna happen!  No!  No!  Over my dead body.

CUT TO:

Fred is at the wheel of his car, trying his best to concentrate with his two daughters kicking and screaming in the back seat.  They kick his chair, and he rocks forward with each blow.

FRED

(pleading)

OK, can we calm down?  Daddy needs to drive to a very important gig.

The kids scream louder and kick his chair.  He seems quite upset.

FRED

(to himself)

Now I know what it feels like to be in the mosh pit at one of my shows. . . 

INT - STUDIO

The studio is well lit and clean.  Fred's band members are already fitzing around.  GUITAR RIFFS blurt out intermittently.  A SOUND MAN is stationed at the sound board adjusting the levels.

Fred enters with his daughters in tow.  They are lively and full of it.

SOUND MAN

What's with the kids?

FRED

My day to watch em.

SOUND MAN

Family man eh?  Shall we begin?

Fred nods and kneels by his children.  They are fidgeting around.  Delila's mouth is covered with chocolate, and Samantha has a candy bar all of her.

SOUND MAN

You know, you should never give kids candy.

Fred ignores him and looks into his children's eyes.  He takes on a voice that most parents make when they want their children to do something they know they aren't going to want to do.

FRED

(desperate)

Now daddy has to work, but I know you're going to be real angels.  Isn't that right?

He pats them on the head and leaves them.  He goes into the sound booth and begins to sing.

FRED

(singing)

I'm a loser, yes it's true.
Feels like I'm losing since I met you

Through the good times and the bad

Feels like I'm losing all I've ever had

SCREAMS cut through the air as his children start chasing one another about the studio.  First Delila is seen, then Samantha, chasing after her.

FRED (CONT'D)

Check it out
Back in the days there was ways

I was moving on guns all ablaze

Pullin on the past like I do 
Still can't forgive all the abuse

SCREAMS continue, grow louder.  This time Samantha is seen first, holding Delila's candy bar, followed by Delila chasing after her.  Fred becomes distraught, but continues to sing.

FRED (CONT'D)

That aint no way to rise from the crib

Still running hard from the shit
Why you wanna push my buttons?

Makin sure that I feel nothin?

SCREAMS continue.  The children can be seen crawling all over the sound man.  They wrestle him and he falls from his chair.  He SCREAMS.

The children start to play with the sound board.

FRED (CONT'D)

Do you really think you need to remind me
Just to make yourself feel better?  I don't think so
I just wanna do it all right
Find me a better place in this life

The kids continue to play with the sound board, adjusting the levels.  Fred sounds high pitched.  They continue to play.

FRED (CONT'D)

We bring out the worst in each other

That aint no way to love one another
I'm a loser, yes its true
Feels like I'm losing since I met you

More adjustments

FRED (CONT'D)

(auto-tuned)

Through the good times and the bad

More adjustments.

FRED (CONT'D)

(deeply pitched)

Feels like I'm losing all I've ever had

More adjustments.  The sounds of SCREAMS.

FRED (CONT'D)

(high pitched)

I'm a loser yes its true

FRED
(womanly)

Feels like I'm losing since I met you

FRED
(like a chipmunk)
Through the good times and the bad
Feels like I'm losing all I've ever had

Fred stops singing.  He looks up and see his girls riding the sound man like a horse.  He SCREAMS as they tear at his hair.  His screams make them laugh.

FRED

(to himself)
This is gonna be harder than I thought. . . .

Thankfully, the remainder of the script seems to be stained with some strange sticky substance, rendering the rest of it quite a difficult read.

Since when was Fred Durst funny?  By that I mean, since when was Fred Durst ever funny without it being unintentional?  Sure his career has been funny, but that's only because he himself has become a giant walking joke--complete with a backwards cap.  Even Fred knows it.  With this sitcom, never before has a title been more fitting.  Douchebag is perfect, for Fred's been one for decades.

CBS has come to make quite a grave mistake.  Perhaps they are so out of touch with today's youth they actually think kids like Fred Durst (or that its still the 90's), or maybe they think hiring him to lead a sitcom based on his rather flimsy (virtually non-existent) television credits is a great idea.

In both occasions, they are sorely mistaken.  A cadaver could provide more humor.  If the show makes it pass the pilot episode, I'll be shitting my pants in surprise--though I'm sure lots of people will watch the first episode just to laugh at what he's become.  OK, so if it makes it pass the second episode, I'll be shitting my pants in surprise.

But then again, Two and a Half Men  is still on the air, even with a front man who is turning out to be just as morally corrupt as the man he replaced.

With that said, iR declares the idea of a Fred Durst sitcom to be infinitely retarded.

The Infinite Retardation of Adam Sandler

If you're a 90's kid, at one point you probably liked Adam Sandler.  I know I remember seeing Billy Madison in theaters at some rich kids birthday part and loving it.  The highlight of the movie--at that time--was the dog shit scene, in which Adam Sandler and his pals hunt out a 'good piece of shit,' put it in a paper bag, and set it on fire on this dude's porch.  Soon an old man in his tighty whities and a wife beater comes out and stomps the shit (pun intended) out of it with his boot, only to later realize its full of dog shit.  "Its one of them flaming bags of poop again!"  To which Adam Sandler says, "He called the shit poop!"

For months afterward, it was my newest phrase.  To a second grader, that shit (pun intended) is hilarious, though not quite up there with the explosive diarrhea scene in Dumb and Dumber.  Yes I remember many lunch periods soaked up with laughter just thinking about Harry splattering his guts all over the porcelan, and it was just as funny at the start of lunch, when we ate our sandwiches and drank our sugar drink as it was when we were skinning knees, knuckles and dirtying our clothes later during recess. Oh man and remember like towards the end of this torrent of shits comes a squeaker?  A fucking squeaker man! Hilarious! Anyway. . .

Yet, I grew up and so did Adam Sandler.  Now I only laugh at shit play when its meant to be erotic (see two girls one cup).  Unfortunately Adam never seemed to shed his retarded humor, and when he became too old to play a foul mouthed buffoon that only kids and stoners laugh at, he became an aging foul mouthed love interest that nobody laughs at.  How did such a thing happen?  Why didn't he just flounder and die, or go somewhere and count his money?

Well work ethic for one.  I have to give it to Sandler, his hard work puts out a shit movie every year, and he's been doing it for nearly two decades. Not even the Police Academy movies had that kind of stamina.  Bravo.

That, and connections my dear friends. . . Had Sandler not spent his time in college farting on stage, he probably would have created Facebook; he knows that many people.  From as high up as Judd Apatow to as low down and useless as Rob Schneider.  His tight knit group of lackeys and writers seems to have spawned from Saturday Night Live, where retardation collected in great pools all about Lorne Michaels, and still collects today.

Adam joined the show in 1990, where he met David Spade, Chris Rock, Rob Schneider, and Kevin Nealon; a group of fellas who would come to him anytime they needed money (not so much Chris Rock), and they always needed money.  More importantly than these role fillers, it was where Sandler first met writer Tim Herlihy.  Tim Herlihy is a film producer, screen writer, actor, and one time sketch writer for SNL.  The reason Tim Herlihy has all these other titles other than simply 'sketch writer for SNL' is because of Adam Sandler.  Every movie he has ever written, produced, or acted in, has been an Adam Sandler movie, from Billy Madison to Just Go With It.  As with many comedians, SNL was Adam Sandler's launching point into 'stardom,' but now many decades later we find that though this may or may not be true, the trajectory of this potential launch into stardom nonetheless ends in a big ole' pile of stinking shit.

His earlier films only hinted at Adam Sandler's money making and entirely retarded formula of retarded-buffoon-embarks-on-whacky-excursion-under-rather-flimsy-pretenses-and-whilst-doing-so-manages-to-bag-the-hot-chick-who's-entirely-way-out-of-his-league, while his later flicks have mastered it and have made it painfully obvious to the point of being unwatchable.

Take for instance Billy Madison.  Adam plays a lazy, sun burned, lush (respek), living off of the wealth his father made from the family hotel business.  But alas!  Trouble strikes when his father says he's giving the company to the extra weaselly member of the staff named Eric, because despite being a total asshole, he's actually qualified for the job, unlike Billy.  Well, Billy aint down with that, and after his Father shows him to be the idiot he truly is (fool can't even spell ROCK) and how he paid for him to get through school, Billy claims he'll go through school all over again.  Yes, he'll undergo 2 weeks in every grade, take all the tests, learn all the material (impossible in 2 weeks) and when he graduates, then his father can give him the family company worth millions of dollars and feel totally good about it.

His love interest is revealed to be his fourth grade teacher. . . And she falls for him, or rather, he bugs the shit out of her until she eventually finds his drunkenness lovable?  So like, if they were to go to dinner on a double date, it would go like this:

"So how'd you guys meet?"  The woman across the table asked.  I think her name was Wanda.  I dunno because I was really drunk at the time.

"Well honey, do you wanna tell them?  Or should I?"

"No, honey I'll tell em."  I said.

I was seeing four Wandas.  Four Wandas dancing around, and that stupid penguin, looking as cocky as ever. . .

"You see I used to be really retarded.  I used to just sit around all day and drink daiquiris [author's note: respek] and hang out with my friends. . . You know get drunk, look at nudie mags.  Before I graduated high school, the second time, or for the first time legitimately--kinda, I was in fourth grade.  I had been to kindergarten and 1st, 2nd, and 3rd grade before that, but I was scared because I was the only thirty year old in class and we were going to do long division and math and stuff. . . But then in walks Ms. Vaughn, the loveliest teacher I've ever seen.  I definitely wanted to touch the heine."  I then grunted obscenely, and Ms. Vaughn laughed nervously.

"Well, that's all changed now.  Hasn't it honey?  Graduated, and went to college!  Didn't you!"

etc etc.

I know, I know.  I get it.  Its a comedy.  You're supposed to suspend your belief.  If that's so, why even put a love interest in?  Why can't it be just a ninety minute long comedy?  Just ninety minutes of shit and fart jokes, like a Jackass movie.

On the other side of it, we have one of his newer movies like Grown Ups, which is by far Adam Sandler's most disgusting movie, having mastered the Sandler formula in such purity that elements can be swapped out and still it can produce the same turd.  The difference in this one being that he's already won the girl over and they've gotten married and produced spoiled offspring.  Still remaining true is Adam's safety net of buddies, and this time they're the main characters.  It features friends David Spade (SNL), Chris Rock (SNL), Rob Schneider (SNL), and Kevin James (I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry).  The entire movie is an excuse for these fellows to go on vacation and get paid for it, for none of them even seem to be trying.  They all play themselves, with the exception of Chris Rock, who at least tries to play a 'stay at home dad,' but even still is only half-assing it.  David Spade is the same cynical dry bastard, Kevin James is still fat and clumsy, Rob Schneider is still Rob Schneider (some strange character) etc etc.  The writing is so lazy its a wonder they didn't just call David Spade's character David Spade, and Chris Rock, Chris Rock, etc. etc.  There is no reason that this movie should have ever been made; other than the fact these fucks needed some money and wanted to have a damn good time while doing so.

This is obvious in that they don't even try to hide the fact they are advertising crap:

The boys are all together because their fucking pee-wee basketball coach died.  Yeah, they've totally ignored each other for years, but because their pee wee basketball coach who coached them when they were like 12 is dead, they suddenly hang out with one another.  They go on this 3 day trip to this cabin they all used to hang out at and once had their championship celebration at, with Coach.  They decide to spread his ashes out on a nearby island, but first, they must eat KFC grilled chicken, and drink Coca-Cola products.  No, they don't do this before traveling to the island, but at the island itself, right before dumping the man's ashes.  This is a somber and serious occassion boys, I mean the whole basis of this fucking movie and the events that are to follow are that we loved our coach, and now that the rival team has gone up and talked shit to us, 30 some fucking odd years later, we're gonna prove them wrong. . . because we loved our coach, and he thought of us as men. . . So please, bow your heads for this dear man we truly lov--hey can I get a wing?  And yes, of course they fuck up the spreading of the ashes and Kevin James gets Coach all over his hands, but eats the delicious KFC grilled chicken anyway.

HAI GUYZ LES PARTY.

NOM NOM.

Cut to them coming back, KFC grilled chicken bucket on Kevin James' head, which was really artsy I think.  They were showing us what they had exactly done to every one who watched this piece of crap; taken a KFC grilled chicken bucket and placed it over their heads.  Enjoy the consumerism boys.

With this said, Adam Sandler has managed to prolong his retardation, and it doesn't seem like he's ever going to go away, his connections and money are far too vast for that, and as long as actresses who were once considered extremely hot but got too old for anyone to care anymore need a job, they'll always have romantic comedies to fall back on, and Adam Sandler will always be there to catch them.

He's got that shit on lock.

And it is for these reasons that iR declares Adam Sandler, infinitely retarded.

Danielle Staub: Crazy Psycho Bitch

What's baseball?  I'm so pretty.  Aren't I pretty?  Tell me I'm pretty.

When gay marriage was a hot topic, Danielle Staub not only claimed that she was gay, but that she was an active member of the community, and for over thirty years.  She claimed a relationship with another woman, but wouldn't come out completely about the details, and furthermore never really 'came out,' stating that she wasn't exactly sure, despite being a staunch supporter of the gay community. . .

When The Real Housewives of New Jersey was dieing down, Danielle Staub made herself a sex tape with some young dude she happened to be dating at the time.  It wasn't 'leaked,' or at least it wasn't packaged that way, as Hustler published the whole damn thing.  Sick pay check Mrs. Staub, pretty sure sex for money, by definition, makes you a hooker.

When other wives of the reality show were getting more coverage, Danielle Staub had herself a little breakdown, and managed to piss everyone off so bad that her hair was pulled, and she was "assaulted." Now, she's trying to sue the whole damn cast of the show.

To put it simply, Danielle Staub is a dumb, dumb, dumb attention whore.

I mean like really dumb. . .  If she and Jessica Simpson were on an episode of Jeopardy, the winner would be she who lost the least amount of money.

Danielle Staub is the type of whore who walks into a room and demands the attention of everybody.  I mean, everybody.  The problem is, these days she's a little too old for such antics, and you can tell it really gets to her.  From bitching to her teenage daughters like she's just one of the girls, to the extensive plastic surgery and constant attempts to deny nature, you can really tell its getting to her, and as such, she's doin' her best to make sure nobody ever, ever, forgets her.

Even if this means everyone remembers her for being an utterly retarded crack whore.

You see, Danielle Staub was in this book "A Cop Without a Badge," that apparently was full of lies about her, so all these years later, she wrote herself a book so that she may 'straighten' everything out.  That is to say, she used her star power to get herself a ghost writer and have some shit publishing company produce her ramblings in some vile hopeless attempt to turn a profit.  The most retarded part is that this book, written in response to all the lies told about her, is called "The Naked Truth."

And its full of fucking lies.

For instance her ex-husband Kevin Maher, is trying to sue the pants off her for defamation; that the claims that he "beat her into a cocaine stupor" are totally false, and that the cops never arrested him, and that further "[he's] never spent a day in prison in his life," like her book claims. Now the average person could assume that perhaps these are just the words of a scorned lover, looking for the opportunity to score some cash from a big fat cash cow. . .  But this would be the assumption of a person who has never really seen the retardation that Danielle Staub is capable of. . . She's exactly the sort of retarded bitch who would claim something like that; something easily refuted by documentation and real evidence.

Any day now, Danielle is gonna claim she's been raped by aliens on Mars. . .

But you see, Danielle lives in her own little world, of buttercup toadstools and chocolate milk waterfalls. . . No wait, soy milk waterfalls - chocolate milk is fattening.

Kevin aint the only one either.  Her ex-boyfriend, you know, the one she did that sex-tape porno with?  Well, he's saying that all the details regarding their sex-tape porno have been stretched a bit, by Mrs. Staub. Apparently, the whole damn thing was her idea.  Surprise, surprise.

One in the same.

Danielle Staub herself has said:

"You either love me, or you hate me, there's no in between with me."

Lemme rewrite that for yah babe, make it more accurate, yah dig?:

"You either pretend to love me, in which case you hate me after I sleep with you, or you just straight up hate me, in which case you probably have a brain.  There's no in between with me."

There yah go, yeah... Yeah... aint that better?

Yeah, cause you're certainly retarded Danielle.  I mean you put out this tell all book, I assume to get people to talk about you, and when they did, you threw a total shit fit about it. You were surprised to find that people chose to ignore all that bullshit about you being a victim, and instead concentrated on your faults:  the coke, the prostitution, etc. . . Really? You were surprised by all of this?  Oh man, life is a real bitch when people you've made to be your enemies find it difficult to feel sorry for you and just talk shit.  Yeah, a real bitch. . .

Way to go.  I guess, if you act shocked, it didn't really happen right? Even though you were beggin' for that cock. . .

Recently, Danielle has found that perhaps her reality t.v. career will, indeed, one day dry up, so she's done her best to try and expand out as much as she can.  She's gotten into music (as of course, according to her, back in the day she use to be quite the singer) and produced herself a single with a respected female artist (who she claims to be her girlfriend, sometimes. . . when its convenient.)

It debuted on Bravo, and was introduced by the Devil himself.

And if I could, stretch out these five minutes of fame. . .
Anyone else find this video disturbing?  I mean The Devil is sitting there in the dark with a glass of liquor in one hand, and he's smiling like a mad man.  Pretty sure its cause Danielle sold him her soul.

Danielle looks deep in thought. . . but really thats just that mixture of tequila and prescription pills she had this morning.  Either that or she's finally feeling the affects of silicone poisoning. . .  Of course the song was just another attempt to sap away attention and bring it upon herself.  How popular it is, I don't know, and in fact, even those in the business of knowing about such things don't know how popular it is, either.  I mean, thats the first time you've ever heard it right?

Cause who really watches bravo, I mean really?  The Real Housewives of New Jersey is so bad that even die-hard reality t.v. show fans don't really like to talk about it.  This reality show, coupled with MTV's Jersey Shore makes New Jersey appear to be a really, really scary place, where the dumb youth there grow up and become dumb adults who are just as addicted to drama and themselves as they ever were as ego-driven teens.  The very latitude and longitude seems to attract them like flies, almost as if they were driven there magnetically, or instinctively like a flock of birds trying desperately to out-fly the winter always at their heels.

These days, Danielle Staub has a whole website dedicated to her, and her ego.  Aside from constantly stroking her, the site also provides information for Danielle Staub fans (all 200 hundred of them, all currently living in Danielle Staub's head.)  To the right of the site, you can keep up with her retarded ramblings (thanks twitter,) and the site also features an online store, complete with "Danielle's Mafia" tee shirts, and "The Naked Truth" boy shorts.  I mean, we're talking some real classy stuff:

Godfather rip off logo'ed t-shirt for only 25 bucks?  Hell yeah!

The site also keeps up with her appearances, and guess what?  She hasn't had one in months. . . Guess its time to start some more shit, Danielle.

We'll be waiting.

Danielle Staub is gaining enemies, and at a rapid rate.  No one really cares though, everyone is just a tad bit tired of her bullshit.  And rightfully so.  She's that person in your life that is over dramatic about everything, and just loves drama and all of the attention.  She's made worse in that there are cameras around her, which entitles her into believing that people actually care about her and her life.

Maybe ole' horsey face still thinks she's on Broadway or something, or the big star of the show that everyone comes to see.

In a way she's right.  People tune in to see her do retarded shit, and on that show, she's got a shit ton of competition.  Like that chick, Teresa Guidince, in 10.5 million dollars of debt. . . the one that likes to flip tables when she's pissed off, and claims to have a very active sex life, even after squirting out four children.  Or Caroline Manzo, the enforcer of the show, who'll bust your ass if you look at any of her family wrong.

Danielle Staub look its your daddy:

And so, it is for these reasons that iR declares Danielle Staub, infinitely retarded.

The Unfunny Bitch in The Room: Sarah Silverman

A lot of people have said that Sarah Silverman is where she is today because she is one of only a handful of women willing to drop to her knees and suck Jimmy Kimmel's dick. . . This simply is not true: she's willing to suck anyone's dick for a job.

Born December 1, 1970, Sarah Silverman is a "comedian," "writer," "actress," "singer," and musician (the upright skin flute.) Her career started after meeting Lorne Michaels of Saturday Night Live - but to her credit she didn't know she was blowing the father of SNL, she believed him just to be another average Joe willing to shell out fifteen bucks for a blowie. She was brought in as a writer, though how much writing she actually did is not known. Her onscreen contributions however were limited to background work, as Sarah doesn't do characters or voices, or comedy for that matter. For instance she was one of the dancing foods during Adam Sandler's "Lunch Lady Land" song, the skit making up most of her onscreen time with the show. A whole 4 minutes. Needless to say the unfunny Sarah Silverman was fired after a year of her "services," and like Marty McFly in Back to The Future 2, it was done by fax. BURNNNNN.

Note: Websites actually sell replicas of this fax to Back to the Future Superfans. . . spending 20 bucks on a photocopy never felt so good.

From there it was off to other forgettable roles for television shows that either went on successfully without her, or died silently in her very hands. A hand job got her on the sketch comedy show Mr. Show, but that gig only lasted 2 years. She appeared on Seinfeld, as Kramer's girlfriend - she had to eat Larry David's asshole out for that part. Double penetration got her a spot on Star Trek: Voyager for a whole two-part episode, a demonstration with sex toys was needed for a regular role on Greg The Bunny, and of course a blow job for Mr. Jimmy Kimmel was given in return for a part on Crank Yankers.

Her movie career is equally as forgettable and epically retarded. For instance, Silverman played Mary's friend in There's Something About Mary, what? Yep. She was also in Evolution, and I've seen that movie more than David Duchovny has, and I don't seem to remember her in that either - she's like some kind of Jewish specter. School of Rock, Bulworth, School for Scoundrels, and I Want Someone to Eat Cheese With are also included in her filmography, but none of these are more offensive than Funny People. Being rather unfunny, the sexual acts she had to perform on the producers of that movie to get the part are so vile--so illegal-- that I can't bare to mention them aloud, let alone put them in text for all of eternity on such a reputable and tasteful blah-g (blog) as mine.

Her movie, Sarah Silverman Jesus is Magic is a movie/rock opera/stand-up special, and all three facets of the movie suck bawlz. Its 109 minutes long, but seems more like a three hour epic. The songs aren't particularly funny, nor is the stand-up, the majority of which discussed 9/11, AIDS, Cancer, Jews, Blacks, racial slurs, and the Holocaust just to a name a few. I don't know what is more surprising, that this woman actually sold out a theatre, or that people actually found her funny. Her jokes are more offensive then anything. . . For instance:

• "I told my niece everytime she loses at tag, God gives someone AIDS."
• "Being first is important. . . If American Airlines was smart, their motto would be 'American Airlines' because we were the first to hit the towers.'"
• "No no, 9/11 was a tragic day, for me personally. . . It was the day I found out soy chai lattes are like 900 calories. . . And I had been drinking them like everyday."
• "I'm gonna feel like such a Jap for saying this. . . But this diamond I want to get is so pretty. . . And by Jap I mean Japanese. . . Its made from the tailbones of Ethiopian babies. . . Soooooo cute."

Deadpan line after deadpan line, and somehow the audience finds it funny. Occasionally you're given a break from the comedy, with a cut to a pre-recorded music number. "You're gonna die soon, you're gonna die soon." She sang to a group of elderly people at an old folks home. It seemed like hours had passed. To my dismay I had only watched 30 minutes worth of "funny material," I found myself thinking "If only Jimmy were here." For if he was Sarah's mouth would be full, and I would no longer have to hear her try and be funny.

Shit Central, looking for its next offensive unfunny show (MIND OF MENCIA) saw Sarah's special and undoubtedly found it funny. A golden shower later and Sarah Silverman had her own show - The Sarah Silverman Program. . . It opened to 1.8 million viewers, a record at the time, but this isn't at all surprising, The Jeff Dunham show opened to record breaking numbers too, but thankfully drowned quickly soon after. Yet, somehow Sarah's show has managed to make it passed episode 3, in fact past even season 1. The Sarah Silverman Program has had three seasons worth of episodes, so naturally one might assume that she is perhaps funnier and less offensive than Jeff Dunham... right?

Yeah, Sarah Silverman fans are the type of youtubers who film copyrighted material on their televisions: in short they're retarded. . . Horrible sound yes: The Young Sarah Silverman has some dog shit on the end of a stick, and is standing on the sidewalk saying Doodie at every car that drives by, while her mother slowly dies inside. So funny. . . like omg!

Despite her popularity among the Shit Central crew, the Emmy's did not share their love of Sarah Silverman. Although she was nominated for Outstanding Lead Actress, she did not win, losing instead to Toni Collette from the miniseries Tsunami: The Aftermath.

So what's in her future? Well she's no longer dating Jimmy Kimmel -- his connections can no longer get her anywhere. She's now dating one of the writer/producers of Family Guy and therefore an asshole by association, Mr. Alec Sulkin. Perhaps a spot on the similarly unfunny show is in her future, perhaps Sarah has finally found her home among similar clowns with no sense of humor whatsoever.

Due to her ability to turn whatever she touches to shit, and similarly her ability to never ever go away, Infinitely Retarded declares Sarah Silverman: Infinitely Retarded.

FURTHER RETARDATION

Was placed #50 on Maxim's Hot 100 list, which isn't all the surprising, as I'm sure Maxim 'readers' are hardly interested in a woman's personality, or whether or not she possesses a humor or even a voice worth listening to. The following year she moved up to #29 and appeared on the cover.

The Observer in the UK had an article naming her "the world's hottest, most controversial comedian."

Doesn't consume alcohol, it 'nauseates' her.

Started some controversy after telling a joke involving a New York radio and TV personality named Joe Franklin. She claimed he raped her. She told it very straight faced, very dead pan, almost as if it were a fact. People found this offensive... Also Joe Franklin, who had never met her before, claimed he was going to sue her for defamation, but never followed through.

Struggled with bedwetting when she was a teenager.

Plays Scrabble on the internetz.

Currently dating Family Guy producer/writer and therefore asshole by association, Alec Sulkin.

Sold an idea of a book of humorous essays to HarperCollins for 2.5 million. Holy fuck hook it up.

She's the unfunny bitch in the room, that is unless Andy Samberg walks in.

iR.

Kiddie Leashes: Infinitely Retarded

*Sometimes life runs parallels. So don't get confused, its three tiers twisted together like a fuckin' Twizzler.

After the 'incident at McDonald's' involving one Ashton Kutcher throwing a temper tantrum after finding out that the soda machines were out of his favorite sugar drink, fruit punch, Demi Moore took to fashioning Ashton with his very own kiddie leash. It was the very same one she used now, pulling Ashton from the Caribbean surf one tug and grunt at a time, so that they may go and have themselves a nice nap.

(Life is problematic enough without having to watch your kids, for there's nothing worse than offspring with the feet of a road runner and the curiosity of a cat. . . If only they were tethered to me and couldn't get away. . . Why the little bastard has it coming - being so full of life and all - don't he know he took it from me? Just sucked it up like so much water till there wasn't a drop left and all that remained was a drought of wrinkled features and dried skin? It seems my only natural reaction, to reach up a snuff him like a filthy little pigeon. . . to cage him till his wings serve no purpose other than to prove that he was once free. . . ) Gloria thought wicked thoughts of her child as he tried his best to escape from his kiddie leash. He kicked just like a dog caught on the scent of another beasts odor, for he wanted desperately to be free, free from his captor, who to him, was no longer Mom but rather Attila the Hun. . . Elsewhere thought a pitchman:

"Shit, I'm fucked."

He stood in front of an entire crew of similar leather faced business men, pitching a new break-through in the Kiddie leash industry. It was a product that he thought of all on his own.

"Alright guys, I'm real excited about this one. " Douche LeDouche said. He sweated profusely, feeling as if those 10 pairs of eyes watching him were really just 10 different fires, warming up to burn him alive. "Its a new prototype, a little something I've been toying around with here in the office. . . Its, uh, kind of revolutionary in a way, but also somewhat retro. Its a sort of throw back kind of thing." He covered his mouth and laughed nervously, the joyous sounds spewing in between his fingers and into the brains of all the bitter men around him. It may has well been Jello; it was childish.

"Get on with it, Mr. LeDouche!" An angry bigwig said.

In the Caribbean Demi wiped Ashton down, taking particular interest in the corners of his mouth. She adjusted his skewed swim trunks and squeezed his cheeks. Gloria smoked another cigarette and loathed she hadn't started earlier - before the damn tike was around - when all this smoking would do her some good. Douche LeDouche sweat from the forehead and around the ears.

"Well, I was thinking of Michael Vick the other day." He swallowed, pure limestone. "And I got to thinking about dog fights, a natural sort of progression when considering Mr. Vick's history, you see. I thought of them dogs. . . Those viscous things, praised for their blood-lust, and much like most dogs, forgiven for behaviors deemed inappropriate; a priveledge that is also given to children. . . And so, gentlemen. . ." He smiled again, half in fear and half in total pig headed confidence. "May I introduce to you - " . . . He pulled a blank sheet of canvas paper from its giant pad . . . " - The Muzzle!" . . . Revealing a diagram that looked like this:

Yes that's right. . . THE MUZZLE! Child too wacky and hopped up sugar to watch all the damn time? Too busy trying to pick up boyfriends? Is your son also a biter? Well with HASBRO's new product, The MUZZLE, you'll be able to pick up Johny Hot-Pants without having to watch your child - or having to worry about him releasing the pent up aggression that is often associated with being ignored, in the form of a savage bite that takes someone's ear off! If it's good enough for Dr. Hannibal Lecter, surely it's good enough for your child!

Gloria spat, indifferent. Demi tended to Ashton, preparing him for bed. Mr LeDouche took to sweating some more. Gloria's child started wearing himself out. He ran in place, tethered to the immovable object that was his mother. LeDouche stood in front of an audience of silent onlookers. His neck seemed to be swelling, or rather his collar seemed to be shrinking (Maybe all that damn sweat - I never was one for public speaking. . . I always got nervous, I always would sweat, I always turned red. I'm probably red now.) Right about now he was looking like a bright apple.

"Alright. . . Park it." Gloria said, looping the handle of the kiddie leash around a concrete pole painted a dull yellow. "Momma needs some whiskey to get her through the day. . ." The door to the convenient mart opened with the ring of a bell, and shut with a soft hiss. LeDouche still stood in front of his clients, already preparing to be fired. Gloria's child kicked nervously outside the market, even snarled at a stranger, growling a guttural mutt language that in its native tongue, means "fuck off. . ." Demi Moore peeled back the sheets of the bed preparing it for Ashton.

"I fuckin' love it!" Shouted on of LeDouche's potential career killers.

"A pint of whiskey." Asked Gloria.

"Come now, beddy-by time Ashtie!" Advised Demi.

"Really?" LeDouche nearly choked on the words the relief was so great.

"Abso-fucking-lutely." The man said. "Greatest idea since the introduction of the backpack buddy. Genius boy-o, genius. How they gonna say the kiddie leash is restrictive and treats kids like animals now? We're saving lives boy-o, saving lives. . ."

The backpack buddy, in case you were wondering as to its look. . . Yeah a friendly beast with its arms and legs wrapped around you, its "junk" poking you in the back. . . Many heroin users say the addiction is much like a backpack buddy; you've always got something on your back and although you're happy, everyone around you is pointing and laughing their asses off.

Gloria left the store with the same ring and hiss, opening her bottle for a quick swig. She took the leash from its pole and began to walk the boy. He took straight off, tugging away at the leash, his mother behind tending to the rope and her newly acquired pint. LeDouche and his men packed up their things and made their way through the office, ready to go home and fuck their wives - today was a good day. (Ok, lets go, a head nod was all he needed.) Demi Moore tucked Ashton into bed, kissing his cheek before slipping under the covers herself.

"Aww you little fucker, you'll take my arm off." Gloria said.

"You think it'll sell?" LeDouche asked.

"Nightie night." Demi said, eyes already closed.

Gloria's child wormed his way around the corner of a building, his body at a 45 degree with the ground. Gloria didn't notice, she was too busy drinking, but her son noticed them right away, and took off like a rocket down the sidewalk. He shot off so fast the leash slipped through Gloria's fingers, and followed behind the boy like a long tail. LeDouche and his cronies had exited the office, there was a certain calm in the air - a certain joy that no doubt emanated from this new idea. Success was at their fingertips, and yet there seemed to be a strangeness in the air. . . The kid drew closer, one sidewalk square at a time. LeDouche felt uneasy. Closer. Demi dreamed of bunny rabbits and lilac. Closer still. Ashton dreamed of basketballs. Closer. . . He pounced.

Douche LeDouche turned his head just in time. Demi rolled over in bed. Gloria screamed. Douche LeDouche screamed. Gloria's son didn't scream, he growled and dined on LeDouche's ear - ripped it clean off his head.

"Yeah. . . I think it'll sell. . ." The blood poured from his ear as the boy was pried from his head.

In the Caribbean Ashton woke suddenly from his bed.

"Just a nightmare, thats all." Demi said.

And put him back to sleep.

iR

The Clown Cult From Detroit (ICP)

The Great Plains states, that is to say from the Dakotas to Oklahoma, those which were once home to herds of giant buffalo, are now home to a different stampeding wild beast, one which similarly isn't particularly bright, and when assembled together in large groups can be just as dangerous and destructive. And although they've been known to roam the Midwest and its neighboring states, there are those who say they are everywhere. I of course am referring to the insane and infinitely retarded evolution of human life known as the juggalo.

Juggalos are douches, often teenagers (though their retardation does not age discriminate, so there are indeed much older juggalos,) who have horrible taste in everything. Most of them suffer from an inferiority complex, feeling as if the world has shut them out and labeled them unsavory. . . And what better way to further bastardize yourself in the eyes of society than to load yourself up from head to toe in ICP gear and paint up your face like a Ronald McDonald twisted on far too many horrible drugs? As a whole, they try to be unique by dressing up like everyone else in their group (other juggalos.) They all of course listen and actually enjoy the music of the Insane Clown Posse, a rap group made up of two guys from Detroit, who wear clown make up, but only in white and black.

Cult members Shaggy 2 Dope and Violent J.

Juggalettes are female versions of juggalos, and are therefore also douches who suffer from an inferiority complex. They however differ in that they feel all their woes result from them having a vagina. Naturally they are bitchy, fat, and ugly, and are made even uglier when they wear their ICP paint. Some are even slutty, and don't mind sleeping with dudes who wear wife beaters, even if they have an uncanny resemblance to a member of their family. . . Some are all three: bitchy, ugly, and slutty. They too enjoy the music of the Insane Clown Posse, and don't mind that the group refers to woman as "bitches," straight to their "bitch-ass" faces.

But tonight:

But tonight one group of juggalos is running through the fields, through the recently wet fields of Savannah, Illinois, weaving through the tall grass like snakes in the night. They cannot be seen, but they can be heard.

Listen:

Whoop Whoop

Listen. . .

Whoop Whoop

All throughout the tall grass, calling to one another, the juggalos cry. Its animalistic and its more prominent then any other outdoor sounds - no crickets playing the tune of the waking night, no owls hooting their wisdom out to anyone willing to listen. Silence, nothing but the grass and the sounds of the hidden feet running, and that damned juggalo cry - whoop whoop. They're so chatty because tonight they're recruiting another member into the Family - that collective dark sinister carnival all juggalos talk about but most have never really seen (because it doesn't exist.) Its a sort of metaphorical family, where all juggalos are said to be safe, and free from persecution, despite the fact that juggalos often turn on one another and degrade one another, just as much as their enemies do (haters.)

They cut through the grass and don't stop till they make it to their destination, a hidden location where juggalos can be free from the watchful eye of normal people (haters.) It is here that the cult assembles, it is here that the ritual begins. Somewhere ICP raps:

Come here man and check it out,
You know they're laughing at you man,
Fuck them man, you know what I'm saying come down here man,
And join the carnival man.

The carnival assembles, its leader lit by a flood light, his arms go out, and he stands, like a scarecrow with the face of a clown. The air is still, the wind blows cold, everywhere is the smell of cow shit. Somewhere ICP raps:

Well hello boys and girls, c'mon in seen the show,
Its the mystical, magical, great Dark Carnival,
Don't bother looking for parking, get rid of it,
It aint like you ever coming back, you fuckin' idiot!
The Carnival emerges only when you about to die,
Now muthafucker you are up in the sky,
So come and put your soul and the Murder go Round,
And we'll strap you down, and swing you into oblivion.

The newest victim is brought out, the newest juggalo. He's wearing ICP and he's already been "painted up," the process through which normal looking retards paint up their faces and take on the juggalo persona. The boy looks ecstatic, he looks like he has found himself some little place to call his own, safe in the busom of the dark Carnival. He smiles, the bottles of Faygo open, and the newest cult member is baptized in the soda, one which boasts such appetizing flavors as cotton candy, champagne cola, and a puzzling flavor simply called "Frosh."

Faygo, the official drink of Juggalos: If you spot someone you know purchasing or especially drinking Faygo, proceed with caution, they may be a juggalo/lette.

The music is turned up, it blares out through the open air and bounces off dying trees. The cult gets to dancing, the buffalo are stampeding once again. Faygo fills the air, you can smell the lack of nutritional value, it combines with the smell of sweating white trash.

But listen:

Somewhere far off an army is marching across the Great Plains, a rumbling thunder across the land, increasing steadily in speed. The juggalos, oblivious to its sound continue to dance, in ritual and retardation. The army draws closer, and peaks up over a hill. Its a young army, of youth and rock n' roll - men in long rows, with faces painted white and black, their uniforms made of thick leathers and studs, spikes and steel. They stand, waiting for their commanding officer, the face of this upcoming violence. . . The air grows still, as if even nature itself is waiting for the rumble to start up again and rip across the face of the earth.

"The army is assembled sir." The cat, a sergeant says.

"And there are more reserves waiting in the wings, sir." The star, a corporal says.

"Then we will attack, post-haste." The demon, a general says. He raised his eyes to the juggalos below, like ants in his eyes, he wanted to squish every last one of them. "You ripped us off motherfuckers!" He says, Mr. Gene Simmons himself, leading an army of KISS followers, they too donned in white and black paint. "We're the only freaks in black and white from Detroit!"

His arm swings forward, the army descends like a flood upon the juggalos, who only now notice they are about to be swept up in the tide. Fighting ensues, bone and flesh, high heels and platformed shoes stomp legs and shatter knees, juggalo face paint smears with blood, a red white and black mess. The cries of juggalos fill the air, as they are slain one by one in the dead of night. And the KISS army does not stop until they are all dead, so that Gene may place his platformed boot upon the dead body of a juggalo and raise his arm in victory. . . as the true freak from Detroit City.

"But we are not done boys, off to Hot Topic!"

iR.

FURTHER RETARDATION

Juggalo Julez:

Juggalo Julez is a juggalette who gained certain fame on the internetz after posting several videos in an attempt to seek publicity after the death of her baby, who died 13 minutes after it was born. A tragedy yes, but the real tragic part was that Julez blamed it on the hospital, even tried to raise money to hire a lawyer and sue the bastids - the only thing was that she failed to mention that she was using drugs while pregnant with her child, but that didn't have anything to do with it right?

Juggalo Julez is also an important person in the juggalo scene because she has clearly shown, time and time again, that this all loving "family" that juggalos talk about and consider themselves apart of, is far from an understanding place "where people don't talk shit." One day she called a radio station, to talk about her dead daughter and use her tragedy to get free merchandise, and proceeded to get flogged by her heroes, two other juggalos, who called her a dude and did nothing but just that: talk shit.

A loving family? Bullshieeet.

As you can see this is only part 1. . . it goes on. . .

ICP Lyrics/Songs:

"Death always comes at a shitty time."

"The bitch slap master, I slap your train wreck face."

In My Room - About love in Shaggy 2 Dope's bedroom with an underage girl, when their secret is found out, he proceeds to kill those who know, including a young kid.

Mr. Johnson's Head - About both Posse members and their days in school, they kill their teacher Mr. Johnson, because they are bored in his class and don't want to learn the "shit he's teaching."

At a signing Shaggy 2 Dope was filmed asking a 12 year old if his "nuts have dropped yet," and then encouraged the same kid to go out and commit a crime, because "when you're older they don't fuck around with that shit."

At the same signing, Shaggy asked another 14 year old if he "does drugs," and when the kid replied with the negative, Shaggy encouraged him "Well go home and smoke some shit."

So you Wanna Be a Juggalo?

A juggalo explains how you can be one, and further shows juggalo on juggalo shit talking -which 'the family' claims is non-existent.

Mr. Jones: Infinitely Retarded

After learning about a particular "dis" blog aimed at myself and an associate here at the iR offices, it appeared to me to be a challenge. A challenge, to not only retort in such a way, a particular hate monger would never again utter such hate towards us, but embarrass her greatly. For if she did the wrath of Mr. Jones: Infinitely Retarded Vol. 2 would be far worse than what you are about to read.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you with no honor, and a burden that should not be bestowed upon any man, Mr. Jones. . .

Mr. Jones, attack mode.

I met Mr. Jones a year ago, where she was immediately given said nickname (stemming from a song written by one Bob Dylan entitled Ballad of a Thin Man.) A nickname so cruel and inhumane, one must pass a test by persistently annoying us. Needless to say, she passed with flying colors. Mr. Jones, has no respect for others because she has no respect for herself. She is delusional, shows no signs of being self-aware, is miserable to be around due to her constant criticism about "how messed up life is growing up in northwest Glendale, and is the reason behind this blog in the first place. She is, infinitely retarded. She can't simply make observations, there's always something more to it, some hidden insult about her that she finds a way to bring out and skew and stretch out so it fits just to her liking. Everything is to be challenged, unless of course she says it, and even a person who says "oh its a nice day aint it?" will find themselves at the wrong end of her stick, as she'll find a way to turn all their words around and make them feel like they were attacking her, insulting her oh so horribly that they should be ashamed. And seh always takes to poking and prodding, to baiting you this way and that; she's perfect for government work, anybody who doesn't think like her obviously has something wrong with them, and its up to her to let them all know all the things that are wrong about them so vigorously that she doesn't even notice her own faults. She's some invinicble hate monger, immune to anything foreign that comes in contact with her, and anything foreign is wrong, because she is so righteously perfect.

When you say something she can't comprehend, she takes to the three questions, Meat? Minteral? or Vegetable? And if you give her a chance, if you toss her up an idea like a wiffle ball, she'll hit it out of the park with her retardation, every time.

But, where did this retardation stem from? Is the world we live in really so deserving of so much criticism from a person with no real perspective? In order to find out, I had to dig deep with a total disregard to my own safety, because to find this out, one had to travel to the deepest crevices of Hell.

She was born on a typically cold January evening, the winds whispered through the trees and the moon hung low in the sky, blood red. A wolf cried, it rang through the air as a pickup truck sped past, bouncing along. A woman was in the back, all alone screaming, as a freakish looking man drove, the truck hitting every pothole in the street like he meant to do it intentionally. The man was driving fast because he was trying to get to the hospital, and the woman in the back was screaming because she was about to have a baby, bouncing along, in the back of a pickup truck. She was in the back cause "whut if-yah pop and get yah baby juicin's and blood all on mah new leather seats! In the back widd-yah wo-man!" The woman ended up having that baby, bouncing along in the back of that pickup truck, and the baby, who's head was still soft and new bounced along too, scrambling her brains just like scrambled eggs. The poor thing never had a chance. Despite the scrambling, the genes had still passed from her parents. Her mother was a truck stop tramp, which meant she was good at turning tricks and leaning against walls in such a way that would make any respectable male vomit. Her father was a carnie freak, he liked to swallow fire and bite the heads off of bats, and from him she developed her love for livestock and animals of all kinds really. Growing up in the circus environment was perfect for her, for there was no shortage of livestock - the circus was a real traveling zoo, and some of the beasts were actually men, men in coats with slick tongues that conjured up bullshit and raked in money at stands and fixed cranie games. One of her boyfriends was one of these beasts. He was 72.

Being legally raped for years, she wanted something more, something natural. Apparently, having to wait 15-20 minutes for the Viagra to kick in before sex each time wasn't doing it for her anymore. She decided to broaden her horizon, with her first, true love; livestock. This was the beginning, this is where she felt most comfortable, frankly, it was her roots. She wanted to be on of them, have her own commune where man and beast can walk as equals. Home. It was there that she took to caressing the llamas, putting them down to sleep nice and soft, just like a caring mother, and she would pet the horses with a great adoration, and eye the goats with a hidden lust she tried to conceal but could be noticed by any beastialty officionado - theres something about the eyes. Yet much to the disdain of all the other livestock, she found herself one true love -mini horses. And not just any mini-horse. She fell in love with Goliath, an award winning mini-horse, who in his hay day had taken every ribbon in the mini-horse rodeo, and had even inseminated other mini-horses, to preserve his lineage and abundant talent. Although that was in the past, he was still a majestic mini-horse, though you can tell his days are behind him. It didn't affect her, oh no, she loved him like he was still 4 again, and could jump through rings of fire and had many a female steed looking for his affection.

One day, while on the road, she was passionately horse fucking when the ringleader of the circus stumbled upon her trailer. He thought to himself, "how can I seel this?" Mr. Jones was to be a star, but not on the silver screan. No, but to be a founding member in the underground bestiality circuit.

On a cold autumn day, the truck pulled up to a run down whore house, Mr. Jones was the main attraction that night. There had been talk about a revolutionary performance, a performance with 4 mini-horses. The lights dimmed and the crowd was patiently waiting with great anticipation. Amongst the crowd were men of great social importance: murderers, child molesters, child rapists, catholic priests, and Jews. A spotlight turned on, aimed at the side of the stage, then Mr. Jones appeared. She was wearing a wedding dress, a beautiful gown, could have even been a gift from a family member. Then, a cup was brought out and was put in the middle of the stage by a man dressed in all black. After the grand entrance of the cup, four horses were brought out, one of whom was Goliath, all their handlers wearing black as well. Each man lead their horse to the cup where the horses then relieved themselves into the cup. Mr. Jones got down on all fours and slowly crawled over, the crowd grew silent. They had never seen such a display of raw passion. The house filled with the raw stench of fresh horse manure, as Mr. Jones and Goliath met at the center of the stage, just next to the cup where they both lowered their heads down and started eating. After getting a stomach full of horse excrement she gracefully slid her hand down Goliath's side, slowly, erotically, finally reaching his phallic member, he always went first. She went to work. The other horses started growing anxxxious, "shhhh" she said, "you'll get your turn." They relaxed as if they understood. Goliath blew his load in her mouth, she assumed the doggy style position as the other horses, one by one, took their turn. You almost had to feel bad for the horses, not knowing that they were committing a sin. A sin, punishable by an eternity in the deepest pit of Hell. A sin no man could forgive. The crowd rushed out the door in disgust, a 49 year old man curled up in the corner crying. A priest threw up on himself and declared it was the workings of the Devil. Before she could swallow and pack up the horses, a small crowd was forming outside the house. They wanted blood. They were mostly made up of peasants, the same folk that Mr. Jones so gallantly stood by. The same folk, that were forgotten by society and she would speak of any chance she got. "I'm making a difference," she would tell herself. Sure you are. They were poor, and couldn't really afford foor or health care, but they could afford torches and rioting.

Goliath, may he rest in peace.

They burst into the room, some of them with rifles, distraught at the vile acts they had just seen. One man in a straw hat drew up his rifle, and fired. The bullet hit Goliath in the side, the mini-horse fell over from the force of it, turning his hide from white to blood red. Mr. Jones cried out, loud, she tried to save him, but her family dragged her off stage, and as they made their getaway, she turned in the backseat and watched the building begin to crumble, for the mob had taken fire to the place. They were content to let it crumble and leave only ashes in its wake. The tears stained her cheeks, she knew she would never love again. Her sole occupation from then on would be hate, and over the years she would get very good at it. It would be refined, made stronger, till she got to the point where she believed she knew so much better than everyyone else, that she was so much nobler, despite the fact that in her past she had let dozens of mini-horses train fuck her, one at a time, for money. Her family changed their names, to escape the tragedies of their past, but she couldn't forget Goliath. She kept a picture of him in her heart shaped locket, kept there forever and protected from the elements.

They enrolled her in school, where she was treated harshly, "They just don't understand" she would say. She was greatly hated, and she echoed their bigotry and hatred towards her with words of hatred all of her own, and proclimations that she was better than everyone else, and so much more noble. It became a theme in her life, a sort of mantra that she would say to herself each night, "I'm better, I'm more noble. . . I'm better, I'm more noble. . ." and she took it all to heart. She became a scaley dragon, with hatred for her fire, and she never feared breathing on a man and turning him to nothing but ash. In fact she enjoyed it, it brought her pleasure, for the world had taught her nothing but hate, and she reflected it daily.

And so Infinitely Retarded names Mr. Jones, well. . . infinitely retarded.

cowrits; pbarnes.