Charlie Sheen Gives Ashton Doucher A Call

The Sheen Estate in Sherman Oaks stirred with activity, though the head of the household still slept.  There was much to be done before Charlie Sheen woke: there were drugs to be prepared for easy ingestion; toast and his favorite jam to be laid out next to his bed, and a special blend of coffee was to be brewed fresh, with one and a half pours of milk mixed in, no sugar, absolutely no sugar.  He had a regular staff to ensure that such regulations were upheld, but it was his two girlfriends, his two goddesses who added those personal touches.  For instance, upon waking from dreams usually regarding hookers and violence, he could be sure that Goddess #1 would be there already ready to provide him with his daily morning blow job, and that Goddess #2 would be right by her side, already prepared with a line of coke -- because thats how winners start their day.  So it was the day things changed, when even his own images and mental delusions cracked under the fierce weight of reality;  and it was all the fault of a damn corpse fucker. . .

You see, it was May, during a time when the weather couldn't make up its mind, crying Spring one day and boasting Summer the next.  Well he woke as usual and. . .

He snorted a line

Then used his mind
To rehab his addictions
He claimed he was sane
But drugs ate his brain
And he needs no prescriptions

He rose up out of bed and stretched off his sleep.  The tiger blood gorged through his veins and arteries, through his many hearts (for he did in fact posses more than one) as the world and all of its intricacies came to him in revelations.  It was the morning ritual, one which had brought him much success in the past, but seemed to be lacking in more recent years.  He frowned, but only momentarily, as he still felt he was winning. Winning by his definition, for he felt good and more importantly felt needed.  Eventually the high would come down though, and like a true winner he was terribly afraid of losing.  The big L word would surface in his mind despite his best efforts to out run it.  It was the reason why he started up a television career in the first place.  To beat it.

Being a winner, he was down with the Twitter and other gadgets of the hopelessly hip.  To be quite frank, he had even set a Guinness Book World Record for Fastest Time to Reach 1 Million Followers (I remember when Guinness Book World Records were important and interesting to me. . . in the fourth grade).  Before being able to check his Twitter his iPhone rang winning.  He found it to be his agent.  He smiled, thinking those pricks had finally caved and given him his job back on 2 and a Half Men.

"So when do I start?"  There was a silence on the other end of the phone. He had caught his agent of guard, but why?  Was his return not as inevitable as he had thought?  No.  Bullshit.  "Listen I've got things to do here" his voice was agitated as much from the cocaine as from having to deal with such shit.

"Look I've had about enough of your act, and I'm not the only one.  That much is obvious to everyone but you Charlie.  I'm tired of it.  We are tired of it.  More importantly CBS is tired of it, they're done with you.  They just inked a deal with Ashton Kutcher today. . ."

Other words were spoken, but Charlie Sheen didn't really hear much of it. He was too filled with hate, his eyes glazed over, his ears listening to all that tiger blood boiling inside of his body.  The room seemed to grow hot, his brow laced with perspiration.  Did his ears produce steam?  Thought of Ashton entered his mind, and all he could picture was a corpse fucker with a goofy grin on his face. A goofy grin on his face.  On his face.  That stupid face!  That stupid jolly face I'd love to smash like a melon. . . Split the noggin like a cantaloupe. . . Wonder if any brains come out?

Just beat. . .

"You hear me?"  the phone squawked.  "We're through.  You got it?! Through!"

The phone went dead.  For awhile it didn't even register.  When it did Charlie felt that perhaps he might cry, which surprised him for he could not remember the last time he had cried.  After nearly a minute without waterworks he concluded what he had expected all along: that he had never cried his entire life.  Not even at birth.  Through the sorrow came menacing vibes of hatred and need for retribution.  It shook him to his very core, his muscles tense to the point of aching.  Something had to be done.

"That corpse fucker. . ."  He said aloud.  His goddesses found him to be distraught and sought to comfort him the only way they knew how, with fleshly pursuits.  He refused their advances and they looked upon him fearfully.  " Go away my dears, daddy has some business to attend to. They left the room shuffling their feet like children sentenced to bed early. With the room now empty he sat behind his desk and took out a cigarette and lit it.  Looking down at it he found is didn't burn quite as he would like, and frowning at it he adjusted the ember with his thumbnail.  As it burned he thought of what to do.  Would he write him a letter and sign it in blood, as he had done with Chuck Lorre?  He thought for awhile and was against it.  No, instead he phone the little shit.

He picked up the phone. . .

Across town a much younger man was getting up to the first rising rays of sunshine with a smile upon his face. He inspected his sheets and was glad to see that his aging wife had managed to keep control of her bladder that night whilst she slept.  He knew there were things to tend to before the head of the household woke up: there was oatmeal to be prepared with prunes to help for her digestion, the morning bath was to be prepared, and ginkgo biloba (to improve memory) was to be placed bedside.  Walking around he noticed his wife's massive doll collection, and noted that they needed to be dusted.  He liked feeling needed. Downstairs he heard the scuffle of the children, and smiled.  Heading towards the door he was ready to descend upon them, to take them into his arms and live out a real phoney baloney Hollywood story. . . but his phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Hello Ashton?"

"Why yes, who's this?"

"Charlie Sheen, do you know who I am Ashton?"  he asked rather simply without taking away from his anger.    He smiled.  He was already accumulating his past accolades like some sort of adding machine that always equated to 'winning'

"Why yes. . . yes I do. . ." Ashton replied, politely.

"It was a rhetorical question Ashton," cold as iceeeee.  Smirnoff Ice. Enjoy a nice cool refreshing Smirnoff Ice this summer, whilst hanging out with all your boyfriends under the veranda.

"Oh. . . I just thought. . . I mean you were so quiet I thought. . ."

"Don't think Ashton, its not a good look for you.  But returning to my original thought, do you know who I am?  I'm a war vet, I'm an ex-navy seal, I'm an extreme skydiver, I'm a rookie cop, I'm an ex-con turned Major League relief pitcher, but more importantly, I was a father figure to that fat little shit for eight long years. . ."  His anger subsided, and was replaced with a strange feeling in his heart--yes The Grinch's heart was growing bigger Whoville; he really did love that little shit."

"And who are you, Ashton, who are you?"

"Well I'm. . ."

"Again. . . rhetorical Ashton.  You are a stoner incapable of finding his own car, a computer generated deer--which I would never do by the way--and an overall idiot who can't even handle a coke deal properly. . ."

"You saw My Boss's Daughter?  Aww, that means so much. . . "  Ashton said genuinely touched.  "Not many people saw it."

"Yeah, unfortunately I did."  On the other end Ashton frowned.  "Say, by the way did you hit that?  You know, you fuck Tara Reid?"

"What?!  No we're good friends."

"Yeah. . . didn't think so."  Sheen said.  Then, under his breath "Fag."

"What?  What was that?"

"Nothing."

"You seem to forget. . . " Ashton said meekly.  "I was also a CIA agent, and a Texas Ranger."

"A CIA agent!"  Sheen laughed.  "Yeah with a blonde bitch for a partner. I'd ask if you've hit that, but apparently young blondes aren't your thing. And a Texas ranger?  Yeah playing second fiddle to James Van Der Beek.  How is that guy the toughest motherfucker in that town?  Seems the law round them parts aint very tough if you ask me.  Or is it just the town?  Full of male ballerinas and wine drinkers?  Real fluff Ashton. Real fluff.  I'm trying to make a point here."  He was angry, angry at the entire situation, he had felt properly fucked by the press and the media.  "My point is this.  You can NEVER replace me.  You can never be me, I'm Charlie fucking Sheen.  I've killed men.  I'm a real bad ass.  Look at the facts, you are married to a geriatric with dimming headlights, and I'm living with two women.  Both of them are my girlfriends.  One's a model, lingerie and shit.  Swimsuits. . .  The other is a porn star.  I piss 151.  I've got tiger blood.  The only thing pumping through those veins of yours is chicken broth."

Ashton knew not how to feel.  It seemed as if Charlie was rambling, becoming nonsensical.  His anger was obvious.

"Your movie career has been a total failure--your T.V. career has been based on looking cute and playing dumb--it comes natural to you, I'll give you that--and putting on practical jokes on all your celebrity friends, almost as if to say 'look who I know!'  If I were to Punk you, you'd be dead, I have shot people you know.  I can do it.  I shot Kelly Preston. . . "

"How'd you get this number?"  Ashton asked.

"Never mind how I got it. . . I'm Charlie fuckin' Sheen.  I can do a lot of things Ashton.  If you think anyone is going to give a shit about you coming to 2 and a Half Men, you're sorely mistaken.  You're just there to make all the old women with cob web crotches like your wife wet in their granny panties, and after a week or two they'll get bored of that when they realize you have no talent whatsoever.  You can't bring even an iota of what I bring!  I'm CHARLIE FUCKING SHEEN!"

And with that he hung up the phone.  He threw it to the ground and breathed in.  Cold cool air seeping in through his nostrils and down into his burning lungs.  He exhaled and felt its warm.  His belly felt like a smoldering fire.

Across town Ashton put away his phone as his wife stirred.

"Anything important, honey?"  Demi asked.

"No. . . " he turned "no, nothing at all."

He smiled and bent down to sit on the bed.

"Ready for your enema?"

This has all gone on too long.  Its nice to feel like its over with, but alas, their making more episodes.  I don't really watch the show, nor CBS for that matter, so I don't understand why anyone even cares.  What I can say is that it has been damaging to Charlie Sheen, he'll probably never come back from this.  Not like it really matters, what with all the ridiculous cash CBS was throwing at him.

Bah humbug.

iR declares this whole debacle irreparably retarded.

Sheen has taken up a business venture involving electric cigarettes, called "NicoSheen."  The package is said to grace his 'signature smirk.'

Sheen really did accidentally shoot Kelly Preston, his then girlfriend.  After being shot she broke up with him.  Sheen still does not know why.

Sheen has his own clothing line, called Sheen Kidz, with a 'z'.

Two and a Half Men airs EVERYDAY in Argentina. 

The Australian once described Two and a Half Men as a "sometimes creepy, misogynistic comedy."

Two and a Half Men has been nominated for 30 Emmy Awards, and 2 Golden Globes.

The Icelandic Phallological Museum

Why's he touching it?  Why not?

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

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

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

Wait. . . what?

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

Yeah. . . interesting.

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

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

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

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

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

As such, the museum grew...

and grew...

and grew..

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Icelandic Phallological Museum

love,

iR

The Irreparable Retardation of MTV's Jersey Shore New Years Special

Somewhere, some d-bag was spending his New Years packing his shit and cleaning out his desk: the picture of his wife and kids, the mesmerizing kinetic desk toy he got for Christmas, and frankly not much else.  All that was left was the fake Formica potted plant in the corner, which had collected dust in that very spot for fifteen years.  Fifteen years. And now because of this whole MTV New Year's Bash 2011 featuring the cast of the Jersey Shore idea, he was out on the street without so much as a Happy New Year.  Down and out and without a job.

Welcome to the masses Mr. Massey.

He should of known it was too ambitious of a project.  A New Years show?  On MTV?  Even Dick Clark's New Years Eve Special was better, despite the presence of Ryan Seacret there with the inspirational Dick Clark to even the balance.  There was no way one could defy tradition, even if tradition was fading already under the passing of far too many New Years vastly becoming the Old Years.  Even worse was the thought that Whitney Cummings would have made a suitable host.  It down right made him sick.  He couldn't help but dry heave.  He had finagled a deal that allowed the nobody comedian to come aboard only under the condition that before the show she be provided with plenty of alcohol.  This was no problem, as the Jersey Shore cast had already signed on and they had such similar conditions.  In fact, they were useless without the devil water.

But that's of course how it was for Mr. Massey.

For Whitney Cummings it was like this:

2 hours to go.  2 hours till show time.  These mimosas will do.  These four mimosas will do.  Yes, a fine nectar for a fine lass.  But then there were all those other shots, and sips of straight champagne.  Time passed, but faster than she had assumed--had any time passed?--and it was already time for the show.  She staggered out onto the stage and there were people there: mostly teenagers who had taken a break from the cold outside for a chance at some warmth and an up close look at the cast of the Jersey Shore.  It was certainly something for Facebook. Something brag worthy.

She wasn't afraid.  She wasn't worried at all.  All she had to do was read the words, and the words were already written.  But she couldn't stop seeing double.  Things congealed, words ran amuck on her and the stage at times to her resembled quick sand.  And she was sinking: but too drunk to assume it would do her any harm.  Too drunk to assume that perhaps this could be the one big thing to ruin a career that most people didn't really know about anyway.  But she felt she made all her best decisions drunk; tis why she is, after all, Whitney Cummings.

Who cared anyway: she could just wing it and use the talent that lead her to where she was now as an elected orator for a show so vile it ended a man's job and sent him into a bout of alcoholism so fierce all the well constructed pillars of his life had been destroyed, split as easily as celery stalks.  No more wife.  No more kids.

Welcome to the masses, Mr. Massey.

She could just wing it, and guess what?  She kinda did.  CUE: failed jokes and crotch shots--funny because she's a chick?

But that's of course how it was for Whitney Cummings.

For anyone watching it went like this:

Whitney Cummings came on drunk, wearing a blue dress and a smug smile resulting from an overzealous appreciation of the upcoming New Year with the help of a bottle.  Oh yeah this chick.  That random chick who showed up at some random Shit Central Roast and 'tore the place up.'  Or so some people said.  She was another one of these chick comedians: a hybrid of Sarah Silverman and Chelsea Lately; a lass who says crude things deemed funny I suppose, because she's in possession of a vagina. . . One which coincidentally she couldn't help but try to expose throughout the entire special, sprinkled throughout jokes so horrible no one was laughing, except a rather drunk Ronnie.

To the boys, this use of sexual innuendo and outcries of PENIS and VAGINA was an open invitation to fuck.  This was no mere joke, not a tactic used by an unfunny snot to gain attention: it was an invitation for sexual harassment: and Vinny and The Situation were more than willing to oblige.  In fact both of them seemed to fight over her attention and in turn the chance to fuck her, which was silly really, she was gonna fuck them both.  It was apparent that for the Jersey Shore boys the first thing on the lineup card for the New Year was gonna be a Whitney Cummings gang bang.  Family Style.

Because a family that doesn't share STD's is a family in turmoil.

The Situation even went so far as trying to make out with her, and I'm sure if the cameras weren't there, she would have.  She certainly was intoxicated enough, which is precisely how The Situation likes them.  His well trained snout can just sniff em out, like a hog to a trash heap.

But it wasn't just all copulations and bullshit by Vinny and The Situation. The rest of the cast was there.  They all looked like they didn't want to be there like jaded celebrities paid to make an appearance at a shit party--money is money--content to mingle off in a corner of their own getting drunk on MTV's dime.  JWoww was looking particularly classy for the event: she seemed to have taken a string and Bedazzled it with fake jewels and worked it all into a sort of net which she draped over her plastic boobs.   Her nipples were covered by strips of what looked like purple tape.  Snookie was in all of her usually Snookie glory, looking a little more orange than usual, not doubt a result of a bit of booze.  Ronnie was as big as ever, drinking, and Sammie still stood by his side, but with this sort of sad smile on her face and a glazed drunk look in her eyes.  DJ Pauly D DJed the whole shindig, which was nice, as we often didn't have to hear from him.

They even revealed the new room mate for the third season, a tiny thing that looks like if Snookie fucked Angelina, and atop that gelatinus ball of retardation was place a nose not unlike Barbra Streisand's schnozola.

All of them had one thing in common though.  All of them were drinking, and at one point even Whitney Cummings was seen with a glass of some conspicuous liquid.

There were other antics too to fill the time between the inevitable Snookie Ball Drop (yes, they were going to encase Snookie in a plastic ball and drop her at Midnight, down at the New Jersey Shore.)  like a horrendously retarded attempt at setting a World Record for Number of People Continuously Fist Pumping for One Minute.  It effectively proved that you can't get a bunch of people to fist pump.  Its just not going to happen, huh-uh.  Because its fucking stupid.  It also proved what a bang up job all those other shows do on New Years Eve, in that they have hosts that are actually capable of starting a countdown on cue, and not getting stinking drunk before the show has EVEN STARTED.  You know real professional and whatnot. . . And all the while the crowd kept thinning.

Not only was the show horrible, but it was now abundantly clear that the people there were there for the warmth.  Many of them had left for the real show on 35th Avenue.  Not that it really mattered anyway, its not like anyone was laughing at any of Whitney's jokes anyway, it wasn't like anyone was going to notice a sudden drop in laughs; there were none to begin with.  The crowd kept thinning and thinning, so much so that towards the end of the show, before the Snookie Drop, there were not more than 15 to 20 people there in that gutted out studio that once held throngs of screaming idiots during the TRL years.  It was so bad the camera guy had to start doing tight shots to make it look like the place wasn't so damn empty.

They Snookie drop to say the least, was disappointing.  It had gained steam when MTV foolishly thought it would be ok to do the ball drop in Times Square.  Huh uh.  There's only one big boy around here.  And we don't like Jersey.  Besides, no one cares--want to scare off all the tourists or something?  Want them to think NY condones the idea of putting orange smurfs in giant hamster balls?

New Jersey on the other hand, had absolutely no problems with it.  Why would they?  She was a hometown native.

It went like this:

Yeah unfortunately this is the only version of the Snookie Ball drop currently up, as even MTV is embarrassed by the whole thing.

And so that was the big hurrah, the shriveled rotten cherry on top of a giant shit sundae.

And everyone had made sure Mr. Massey ate every bit of it up.  They had rubbed his face in it real good, and because of it, it would be his last New Years, his last day on Earth all together.

Thanks a lot Ms. Cummings.

There are several factors that make this whole fiasco irreparably retarded.

For one, the very idea that MTV thought dropping Snookie in a ball in Times Square would fly.  What a silly notion.  Or that they could even compete.  Its lucky that they didn't, as Snookie's Ball setup was so lame I was surprised she didn't have a Spinal Tap moment and get stuck in it, or that it even dropped at all.  Being next to the one on 35th avenue would have only made it look even more shameful. . . And with that said, New Jersey was a perfect setting, a fitting mediocre ceremony for a mediocre place.

Secondly, the drunkenness.  I'm all for drunkenness, especially on New Year's Eve, especially when the Jersey Shore cast is involved: as they are boring with out it.  But when it came to Whitney, it just set her face in a sort of sloshed grin, and made her outlandish humor even more wicked. Not to mention all that awkward flirty between her and Vinny and The Situation.  It just came off as tacky, but I suppose it was foolish of me to assume anything different.  I guess I was surprised by Whitney, she lowered herself down to their level and became a drunken promoter on a shameful hour long Jersey Shore Season 3 promotion poorly disguised as a New Years Eve 'bash.'

And thirdly, it wasn't even funny. . . well not as it was intended to be.

It is for these reasons that iR declares MTV and its New Years Special irreparably retarded.

This is what JWoww wore:

Because nothing screams I'm intelligent and self confident than showcasing some gravity defying plastic boobs.

This is what the new cast member looks like:

Seen here after giving Vinny a blowie behind the dumpster in the alley.

And in closing:

love,

iR

Marv Albert Likes Lady Panties

Marv Albert was born Marvin Philbert Aufrichtig in 1941.  At the time Great Britain and France were at war with Germany, and his parents owned a little grocery store named after their last name Aufrichtig, a German word that can be loosely translated to 'devout or honest.'  Though this may have been a fitting name for their grocery store, it hardly was fitting for their son Marvin, for he would grow up to do a great deal of strange things only to lie about them.

But that comes much later.

Marv spent his childhood in Brooklyn and graduated from Abraham Lincoln High School.  Later he went on to Syracuse University's Newhouse of Public Relations: the very same establishment responsible for Bob Costas.  Three years later, he graduated from New York University.

From there it was off to Madison Square Garden, where he became the official voice of the New York Knicks in 1967.

Something to keep you reading. . . What does it mean?

But don't dare assume that that was all Marv Albert did, although he did have a thirty seven year tenure with the New York Nicks.  His voice was deemed vital in narration of all sports in general, including baseball, hockey, and football, and as result has done commentary work on NBC, TNT, and MSG.

He was there when Jordan was tearing up the NBA, building a legacy that still today inspires douche bags to shout his name mid-shot, despite having no talent and being far worse than Michael Jordan ever was.  He was there in 1998, when Jordan drove home the winning shot against the Utah Jazz in the NBA Finals--that day he was wearing a pink brassier, with matching panties.

He was there in 1986. . . when the New York Giants football team went 14-2. . . and for their final game was wearing a bright red pair of lady panties, with a white tuft said to represent a rabbits tail in the back.  

He was there in 1994. . . when the New York Rangers won the Stanley Cup.  That night he happened to be wearing a maroon lacy number, with tears in the panties and skid marks in the back.

He has called countless Superbowls since 2002, and often likes to go 'commando' during such games.

He has called Tennis championships wearing purple thongs - before they were ever made popular.

He has even co-hosted Breeder's Cups, wearing dog themed panties, complete with a big wet tongue in front.

And why does Marv Albert like wearing lady underwear so much?  Well, because he's a freak:

In 1997, Marv Albert became a subject of much controversy, after a forty-two year old woman came out and accused the man of forcible sodomy. The woman had had a ten year relationship with Marv, and stated that one night he threw her on the bed at a Ritz-Carlton in Pentagon City, Virginia where he then proceeded to bite her on the back fifteen times, sodomize her, and force her to perform oral sex on him.  He also reportedly made her sit on his face for periods of up to forty-five minutes.

It went to trial and Marv was sticking to his story: she was just trying to defame his name because she was upset that he was ending their relationship.  (hah, like thats believable.)

Yet soon another woman came out, relating a story that involved Marv Albert wearing lady panties and a garter belt.  She too claimed he forced sex on her, and he even forced her to shit in his mouth.

I SHIT YOU NOT.

Still... Mr. Marv Albert was sticking to his story: he's no sex fiend, and his hair?  Totally not a hair piece.

The trial heated up, and Marv Albert, if convicted would face life in prison.

ARGGH I'm a Panty Pirate

The court room was right down the middle, as there were those who refused to believe such a well respected man could be capable of such heinous acts--for who in their right mind would put up with ten years of such abuse unless it was consensual, and then there were the cynics who couldn't wait to see him receive justice for the abuse of an undeserving victim, with over tones of masochism.  

Did you keep her in the kitchen too?

I'm sure you denied her the ability to get a job too?

Feminists everywhere were in quite the uproar.

The turning point in the case came when DNA proved the bites were indeed Mr. Marv Albert's.

Immediately, he pled guilty to misdemeanor assault and battery charges.  The Judge, being a big fan of his work and his "Oh!  A facial' trademark 'Albertism' when one player dunks on another (apparently he uses it in the bedroom too,) and had the sodomy charges dropped.  Instead, he was given a 12 month suspended sentence, during which Marv Albert could not consume human waste, wear lady panties, nor bite anyone anyone for any reason--whether it be sexual or in self defense.

As a result, he was fired from NBC after twenty years of service.  He was replaced by fellow Syracuse University School of Communications alumnus Bob Costas.  Ouch.  He also lost all football duties, the position instead being filled by tom Hammond.  It is also reported that he was slated to lend his voice to an episode of The Simpson, but was quickly replaced after the scandal broke out.

. . . . . . . .

Summers came, children were free, and summers went, and children were caged again.  The winter turned the world white and brought Santa Clause and all the lights.  Spring melted the snow and the world started anew.

Marv Albert did too: he got his job back in 2002 and has been commentating ever since.

Aww, I just love a happy ending. . . 

I don't really know what leads a person to want to consume another human being's shit, but I'm sure they've got a real fancy term for it with psychological analysis to back it up. . . Whatever it is, Marv Albert has got it, he's got it real bad.

Sure there's nothing wrong with having a few fetishes, but forcing another person to do anything they don't want to do is quite wrong; especially if that means destroying orifices that weren't originally intended to endure such abuse.  Whats tragic is that once again, celebrity has saved another d-bag.  Basically, he got a slap on the wrist for all that he did, and hey maybe the chick was just upset over the ending of their relationship and wanted to get back at him.

Which is where she fucked up too.

Just sell it to the tabloids and use it against him for ransom.

Duh.

This is hollywood bullshit 101. 

Get with the program.

It is because of Marv Albert's inability to change his ways, that iR declares Marv Albert, irreparably retarded.

Just another photoshop with panties:

Did Marv always have a toupee? 

love,

iR