Retarded Ways to Get A Chick (According to Movies)

There are all the normal socially accepted ways of courting a woman, and then there's Hollywood.  The Great Show.  Modern Man's Aesop Fables. Why in Hollywood, sometimes the means by which the lead male snags the girl are downright retarded, as shit movies is big business: and business is good.  With the following list, you too can be a tard and still get the chick:

RETARDED WAY TO GET A CHICK #1: KIDNAP HER DOG

Hey, if it can work for Spade it can work for anybody!

In Lost And Found, David Spade plays a restaurant owner who is desperate to get between the legs of his neighbor, a cellist with an exotic look and a spunky dog.  Yet he's Spade, he needs some help in that area, so he decides it would be best to kidnap her dog.  Yes, her dog. He devises a plan to steal the dog and then offer to help her find it out of the goodness of his little heart, with the hope that when he did, she'd blow him.  With the dog tucked safely away in his apartment, he proceeds to waste her time helping her look for the dog, and even goes so far as to put up phony LOST DOG posters with a big reward at the bottom.  So does he exceed?  Well not really, as the dog really escapes his captivity, and with the help of his neighbor's douchey ex-fiance, he gets outed as the Canine Kidnapper he really is.  So she tosses him to the curb right? Of course not, apparently she not only digs thieves, but also smug sarcastic little fuckers with horrible hair.  

RETARDED WAY TO GET A CHICK #2: LIE ABOUT YOUR OCCUPATION

Ah yes, nothing ruins your chances than letting that girl know how you really generate your income (or in some cases: don't.)  Which is exactly the situation Rob Schneider finds himself in in Deuce Bigalow: Male Gigolo.  You see, Rob is just some d-bag fish tank cleaner that nobody likes (well he is Rob Schneider after all.)  Yet due to the wonders of shit screen writing, somehow Rob becomes a male gigolo after destroying a fish tank owned by a he-bitch of the very same distinction. He begins going on dates, all of them horrible, and all for paltry amounts of cash (again, he's Rob Schneider,) but his world changes when he goes on a date with a certain chick and falls for her.  Now Rob has two options, A) Tell the Truth, B) Lie.  Naturally he goes with B and not only does he not tell her that her friends set him up with her for money, but also neglects the fact that in reality he's just a douchey fish tank cleaner with a tiny shit apartment in a shitty neighborhood.

With this precious information with held, the two continue to date, and everything is fine and peachy keen. She even meets his father.  Then, the ax eventually falls (as it must) and she finds out the truth, from the very same bitchy friends who set the whole thing up in the first place.  How does he win her back?  Well by going to her job (she gives dudes hair transplants) and gets so many drugs pumped in him that his face goes numb and he proceeds to drool everywhere.  Awww how cute.  Despite the drool, despite being Rob Schneider and totally out of his league, she still gets back with him, and they lived happily ever after.  What a crock.

RETARDED WAY TO GET A CHICK #3: PRETEND TO BE A CHICK

Nothing really helps you get through the walls women put up than pretending to be one yourself.  Such is the case in epic-shit-fail Juwanna Mann, in which a hot shot NBA star named Jamal Jefferies acts so egregious he's banned from the league.  The next logical step?  Why putting on make up, a wig, fake boobies and joining the WNBA of course! Joining up with a WNBA team under the pseudonym Juwanna Mann (You wanna man?,) the douche becomes a true member of the team, shedding his ego and learning to pass the ball.  Of course along the way there are many showers with the ladies as well as more than a few personal discussions about men and sex.

Juwanna eventually falls for one of his/her teammates and develops a friendship with her, of course on the false grounds that he has lady parts. The two become friends, and meanwhile their team the Charlotte Banshees have made the playoffs. Things look good, but soon friendship turns to hatred, after an emphatic dunk during a playoff game causes Juwanna to lose his wig and is outed for the cheating cross dresser he really is.  He's kicked to the curb until he gives the team an 'inspirational,' speech and apologizes and all that malarky.  Furthermore, not only does the WNBA ignore the fact that all games Juwanna competed in should be null-and-void because Juwanna is in fact a man, but the team actually wins the championship, and Juwanna not only gets the girl, he gets a a championship ring too. Way to go.

RETARDED WAY TO GET A CHICK #4:  PRETEND TO BE GAY

Nothing excites a heterosexual female more than a big flamer.  Such is the situation in I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry.  Adam Sandler plays a fireman who in an effort to help a fellow fireman and friend get his children named primary beneficiaries of his life insurance policy, fakes a gay marriage with his homeboy under the scrupulous eyes of the state. Many cannot believe that the two firemen could be gay, so a caseworker is assigned to their case to ensure the sanctity of their marriage.  For their defense they are given a lawyer--a hot lady lawyer.  Here comes the trouble. . . Sandler begins spending more and more time with her, and they eventually become friends.  Together they make bracelets that say things like FRIENDS 4EVER and GURLZ RULE, talk about men and sex, and Adam even gets a good grope of her boobs when she insists that they are real and that he feel them.  All of this, remember, under the guise of a gay man.  Of course the truth comes out in a big lengthy court battle and naturally she's upset: for a whole five minutes anyway, as she just suddenly forgives Sandler for basically lying to her and pretending to be gay.  All of this despite the fact that her brother in the movie is a big gay rights activist, and she dearly dearly loves her brother.  Smooth.

RETARDED WAY TO GET A CHICK #5:  GET HER FIRED, DESTROY HER MOTHER'S APARTMENT, AND ASSUME THAT HER MOTHER IS A PIMP

Because sometimes, doing one thing just isn't enough.  You see in Dirty Work Norm McDonald creates a 'Revenge for Hire' business, under the belief that not taking crap from anyone is a virtue to be cultivated and maintained with the rough hands of revenge.  Before starting his business, Norm meets a lovely blonde at a bar and chats her up.  The trap is sprung.  Later, at his place of business he spots her across the street and accosts her.  She ends up telling him how much she hates her boss, a real d-bag who sells cars for a living.  So what does Norm do to impress her?  Well, it just so happens her boss is filming a live television commercial, and Norm finds it to be the perfect opportunity to promote his business for free, and help out his potential lady in the same instance. He plants hookers in all the trunks, and as the commercial rolls he charges the stage and trunks start opening all around him.  DEAD HOOKERS everywhere!  After a plug for his business he's off on his merry ways, content that he'll finally get the girl.

What happens?

Well she gets fired.  Way to go.  Somehow, she isn't totally pissed off at him, and they meet at her mother's house.  "She works at home," the woman explained, just as her mother came out to let in some women. For some reason, Norm assumes this means she's a pimp, providing the city with fine tail. Next, Norm is told by some d-bag rich dude with a fondness for fingering his tiny dog's asshole, that he has an apartment block he wants to be roughed up and defaced, so that he may have an excuse to demolish it and put up a fresh new apartment.  Guess what? Turns out to be Mom's apartment building. . . But Norm needs the money to help his father get a heart transplant. . .  So Norm heads into the building with his buddy, made empty after a prior notice stated that the building was being sprayed for bugs.  They fucking destroy the place: they toss cherry bombs in toilets and tag all the walls with curse words and threats, even taking the time to chop down doors and put holes in walls with a sledge hammer.  Yet after destroying the building, they find that the man who hired them to commit the deed is really a scumbag, with no intentions of ever paying them.

Well fuck.

Of course they expose the guy, and it all ends nice and pretty with a bow on top.  Yes, Norm gets the girl, despite being Norm McDonald, and the man responsible for his lady losing her job, and her mother having no home.  This chick must be ugly right?  NARP:

RETARDED WAY TO GET A CHICK #6:  PRETEND TO ACTUALLY BE RETARDED

In The Ringer, Johnny Knoxville plays a loser who's Uncle owes a lot of money to a lot of dangerous people. . . So the two decided to bet on the Special Olympics, and plant Knoxville in as a 'ringer;' a man of lacking intelligence pretending to be a tard.  While competing, he falls for one of the volunteers working there, a blonde chick with an asshole boyfriend who constantly cheats on her.  During the movie, we find out that she actually works for the Special Olympics because her younger brother was mentally ill as well.  OUCH, feel like a dick yet Johnny?

The funniest part is perhaps that Johnny is no 'ringer,' at all, and often struggles to beat his competitors in many of the events.  He does however, end up winning a Bronze Medal, and upon his acceptance speech announces that he isn't really a tard at all--just a moron. Naturally this upsets the girl he's had his eyes on, and she runs off crying.  She's totally pissed off at him for about 2 minutes, which in real time is like an hour. After all the swindling she takes him back, at the drop of a hat, despite him not only being a horrible human being, but also a cheat. . . And yes, Johnny totally went full retard:

I understand comedies are suppose to have happy endings, especially in a traditional sense, but would I really care if Johnny Knoxville or Norm McDonald got the chick at the end?  Not really.  In fact if anything, it only adds to the absurdity of the whole situation, as 99.9 percent of the time the chick is way out of their league.

Why not just give em an equally average looking chick?

Oh yeah, sex appeal. . . Something to outweigh the ugly.

Oh yeah, something to make the average schmoe think he's even got a chance.

Yeah yeah.

Nothing pisses me off more than a shit comedy throwing in a pointless love interest for the sake of throwing in a pointless love interest.  They simply shouldn't have to resort to such instances, as its purely formulaic and retarded.  Jokes be jokes.  Laughter is laughter.  A nice story is just EXTRA.

And its for these reasons that iR declares comedic love stories repetitively retarded.

love,

iR

Thundercock: The Tranny Hooker Eddie Can't Get Enough Of

The street glittered in the rain.  It sucked moisture and spit it out as the four wheels of a car ran parallels through the streets.  Burn Rubber. SHWWHSSH.  The downpour hammered cold, and in response the streets had been abandoned for the warmth of the dry indoors; the hookers and drug dealers that had made the area so unpopular were nowhere to be seen.  All life had been drowned that night.

The only exception was that damn car, its bright eyes illuminating nothing but wet.

It slowed, the driver behind the wheel swiveling his head about, as if looking for something.  Alleyways were home to only dumpsters and trash--dripping wet--sidewalks were void of any life, as not even the rats dared to venture out into the open to nibble on soggy food discarded like yesterdays newspaper.  His hands pawed at the glass in a vain attempt to rid it of all this damn steam.

Find her.
Find him.
Find it.

The usual spots were unoccupied.  Still the car rolled casually about the boulevard, the driver behind the wheel becoming more and more anxious with each passing second.  The dreary rain lulled him, and in his brain bubbled memories of a distant past:

Not a lot of time... don't waste it watching this movie.

Must'n waist a second.  Yet, all this damn rain.

Finally the car stopped.  The window rolled down, crying tears.  The object of the driver's obsession had been found: a forty something transvestite hooker host to a multitude of debilitating diseases (though well hid when on the job.)  She had taken shelter under a dripping eave, and although she had been well protected, the rain had taken her makeup and smeared it all about her face.  Big brown eyes dripped black mascara, her lips curled red at the corners, and colors gathered about her chin and massive Adam's apple, a wet clown who seemed tired of all the damn tricks.

"Hey Thundercock!"

She came over, her heels clicking in the street.  It was a casual walk despite the rain.  A well trained and tired walk.  She covered her head with a soggy newspaper.  From her lips dangled a cigarette spewing grey smoke about her face.

"You a cop?"  She asked coyly.  Her breath carried a hint of whiskey.  She looked around.

"What?  No. . . Remember baby, it's me."

She brought her face down to the tinted window for a better look, revealing a face riddled with age lines and years of living a weary life.  Her face seemed to be in a perpetual smirk curled up with a hint of sadness she could never quite get rid of.

"I been thinking a lot about you lately.  I see you still got that bird in the bush."  He said, eying the bulge between Thundercock's legs.  Again, she leaned closer for another look.  She eyed a set of pearly white teeth set in a Cheshire's grin.  He was smiling wide, and soon his mouth opened and out came the unmistakable laughter of Eddie Murphy.

"Eddie Murphy?"  She asked.

"Shhh."  He looked around, cautious despite the empty street.  "It's Professor Klump."  Apparently before The Nutty Professor was shamelessly conceived as a remake, Professor Sherman Klump was Eddie Murphy's pseudonym when picking up hookers.  "You remember, don't you?"

Eddie Murphy/Thundercock dolls: scaring children since their inception.

She did remember.  It was a cold night and she was younger then, and much prettier, before the booze and the beatings.  She was more well known, and could pull in a thousand dollars easy.  There was never a dick that didn't want Thundercock, the name alone enticing rumblings amongst the perverts and sexually repressed.  

At the time she frequented Santa Monica Boulevard, in an area known for homosexual prostitution, and quite frankly she was the best.  She remembered she was wearing her favorite hot pink dress, one which accentuated her assets and allowed a bit of dick to peek through at the bottom.  It made her noticeable, and easy to find, and she liked that.  She liked that very much.

Eddie had rolled up in a SUV (which turned out to be his wife's) with a wad of cash in his lap and a proposition that involved a handful of lube and some lingerie.  She had gotten in the car and they had driven off.  Yet no money could be exchanged for sexual acts, for before they reached their destination, Eddie had managed to attract the attention of the police, red and blue flashing lights in the rear view.  They were pulled over, and the cops had a nice chat with Mr. Murphy, even going so far as to ask for autographs.  Eddie had claimed that he had no idea who she was, and was merely trying to be a good samaratin by giving a lovely young lady a ride home.

Thundercock was of course arrested.

"Oh hell no!"  She said, stomping her cigarette out with the heel of her stilletos.  "I don't feel like getting arrested, you attract cops like shit attracts flies."  She was determined to not get in the car with Eddie Murphy, and after a few minutes of begging and flashes of money, he slowly drove off.

She was just beginning to light another cigarette when he showed up again.

"Hey Thundercock!  Come on baby!"  Eddie said, throwing in his signature laugh.  "Awww come on.  Don't you realize you're the one that got away? I've been with Bobbi Boulders, Sapphire, Lady Bulge, Lady Dick, Betty Balls, Sugar Plums--I've been with em' all.  I just need you and I can say I've been with all the best this side of the Rocky Mountains."

It had been a slow night.  There was no getting around it, and although she didn't like the idea of another night in the clinker, she really didn't know how to do anything else but turn tricks.  She also was quite competitive, and didn't like the idea of being outdone by anyone, especially Betty Balls, whom she had had a scuffle with at a seedy bar years ago.  Eddie had placed two hundred dollar bills on his lap, and before she knew it, she found herself in his car, sitting on the same sticky vinyl seats.  She wondered how often he did this.

He sped off, and immediately got down to the specifics.  He was in the middle of his demands, when again, the rear view flashed red blue, red blue.  He pulled over to the side of the road, and before long out came the cops, who sauntered over to the car slowly.

"We've got another one."  One of them said. . . but upon reaching the car and looking in he seemed to lighten up.  "Oh Eddie, its you."

"Hey James, how are you?"

"Oh good good."

"And the kids?"

"They're fine, son had a big soccer tournament the other day."

"Good good."

"Oh who have we got this time."  Officer James looked into the car at the Thundercock.  "Thundercock eh?  Chasing old flames Eddie?"

"Oh I was just giving her a ride home."

"Of course you were. . . Listen, this has been the fifth time this week.  I can't keep ignoring this Eddie. . ."

"I know, I know. . . this is the last time I promise."  Eddie said with a smile.

"Oh alllright then. . . On your way.  Thundercock, you're under arrested."

And they cuffed her and took her in the squad car and Eddie Murphy drove back home in his wife's SUV.  When he got home, he would get in bed next to his wife, he no longer gave him any attention, and slipped off to sleep to dream dreams of chicks with dicks.

Thundercock of course spent the night behind bars, on a tiny cot with all the other prostitutes in the same cell.

It pays to be a celebrity, as opposed to a chick with a dick.

The real story goes like this:

"Making Eddie the most nervous and scared black man in America, Nicole terrified him that this 1997 transvestite prostitute encounter might breach their prenuptial agreement.

The story of the prostitute stands somehow like this:  in the early hours of May 2, 1997, Murphy was driving his wife's SUV down Santa Monica Boulevard in West Hollywood, an area known for homosexual prostitutes.  Murphy pulled over, and a transvestite hooker named Atisone Kenneth Seiuli got in.  They drove off together, but didn't get far before there was a burst of siren, and Murphy was pulled over by a Los Angeles Sheriff's Department squad car.  

The officers spent half an hour talking amiably with Murphy, warning him about the neighborhood and perhaps getting his autograph before shaking his hand and letting him go.  Seiuli, though, was arrested on an outstanding warrant for violating probation on an earlier prostitution charge.

And as quick as Seiuli could post bail, the story was in the tabloids and on Entertainment Tonight.  According Seiuli, in their brief conversation in the vehicle, Murphy had put two hundred-dollar bills on her leg.  Seiuli remembers:  "he asked me if I did this for a living, being a transsexual prostitute.  I said yes.  "Eddie said, 'Do you like to wear lingerie?'  I said yes.  He said, 'Can I see you in lingerie?'  I told him, 'Whenever I have the time.'  He said, 'I'll make the time.'  "Then he asked me, 'What type of sex do you like?'  I said I was into everything."  Or at least that was Seiuli's story.

Murphy's version was not the same, of course.  "I'm married with three children.  I'm not going to be out there screwing hookers off the street or anything like that.  I'm just being a nice guy.  I was being a good Samaritan.  Its not the first hooker I've helped out.  I've seen hookers on corners, and I'll pull over, and they'll go, 'Oh you're Eddie Murphy, oh my God,' and I'll empty my wallet out to help."

Courtesy of Softpedia.com  Full Link

Haha yeah Eddie, and they just happen to suck you dick and let you fuck them, cause you're such a nice guy. . .  This whole debacle was pretty sad, I mean he picked up a known hooker in an area known for prostitution. . . And who really goes around helping hookers?  And does money really help them?  No, it just allows them to buy more drugs and booze.  I mean, I'm sure they're nice people, but most people don't like hanging around hookers, unless they want sex from them.  This also goes for driving around in such hot beds of activity.  The average guy doesn't hang around them unless they want sex for hookers. . . But apparently Eddie Murphy is the nicest guy in the world...

Yeah right.

And it is for Eddie Murphy's inability to man up and his inability to keep away from tranny hookers that iR declares Eddie Murphy repetitively retarded.

My Girl Likes To Party All The Time... Eddie Murphy's big hit when trying a music career.

This song is actually about Thundercock.

Eddie Murphy Raw, and his wonderful purple leather suit, complete with Michael Jackson dick groping gloves:

As always, love iR.

Oh and his brother, Charlie Murphy?  Well just check him bombing on stage:

Kanye West needs to turn this into a beat, stat.

The Last of The Juggalos

AUTHORS NOTE:

There have been many battles against ICP, for their enemies are many. Their most recent entanglements have been with 'the scientists,' who in their eyes ruin all the magic in the world with their logic and common sense. Many a historian has transcribed their battles in lengthy texts, most of which the ICP have never seen, for many still know not how to read.  The following tale isn't much different, though I must say its got more gusto, and pretty pictures to look at.  Its events are as accurate as can be humanly possible, for not all of the proceeding was seen with mine own eyes. Nonetheless, precautions were made to ensure the authenticity of the tale, for the sake of entertainment and history.

THE LAST OF THE JUGGALOS

The United States of America has been home to many tribes of a people with faces painted white, with noses all different but usually round and red; of a people with giant shoes, hyperbolic in every way, along with their every person: the hair flammable in color and obtuse in size, the cheeks like swollen cherry tomatoes, their shit eating grins the size of The Brooklyn Bridge.  They are the dimwits of art and theater who's calamity brings joy, who's tears bring laughter - those people who's lifestyle is so infrequent and onto itself that those who practice it can be considered their own breed; a race of people known as fucking circus clown.

Creepy. . . 

Chief among their tribes are the people of Barnum & Bailey, who in the last hundred years have formed a mutual alliance with the people of the Ringling Bros.  Other tribes exist as well, though hardly as worldly recognized as the two previously stated. Their people have taken up the names of the regions they squandered from decency, dispersed like kindling in the wind. So many of their brothers and sisters have splintered into the deepest crevices, the highest mountains, the lowest valleys and everything in between.  Though so thinly spread, the resolve and determination of each component of the whole hardened each of them, allowing them to live out semi normal lives despite being complete and utter outcasts.  However, these days deliberations are made around the campfire of Barnum&Bailey and The Ringling Bros. on an evil enemy who sullies the blood of his brothers with antics that include not pie throwing, nor the sudden loss of one's pants due to a suspender malfunction.  They speak of an enemy who though featured like them, operates very differently than themselves.  Here in the red and yellow striped tent, amongst the elephants and the smell, their people gather, for a deliberation on rather serious subjects.

Their chief had risen first silent as the multitudes waited with patience. Although he had a station of superiority over the others, he very much resembled his kin.  When he walked his shoes squeaked comically as if stuffed with dog chew toys, and the flower which bloomed from his breast pocket boasted virility without the need of water or soil.  This chief had been named Skid Mark, for his act included an over sized pair of pants hemmed for a man much fatter and taller than he, so they often slipped from his person, revealing a pair of stained drawers -- and living up to his name his pants dropped upon reaching the stage.  Picking them up he cleared his throat and spoke.

"Our brothers in Detroit have been proven to be anything but family.  They sully the name of the Ringling and Barnum & Bailey.  The black and white faces dare to say they walk with our brothers, yet they have never taken a pie in the face, and instead choose to bathe in sugars of Faygo.  They speak of Family, but there's is not our own, and is spiteful of the Shiney Red Nose in The Sky."

Sounds of agreement came up from all those listening, namely the honking of plastic noses and the ringing of bicycle bells.

"They deceive our own children with false hopes.  They sell them the defiling of the mind, body and soul. . . Many a season have our people found peace, and have pursued all avenues to ensure it, but they sing of war, and idolize weapons like hatchets.  To the juggalo the first remedy of any problem is war, and all his tales tell of blood spilled, and hatred . . ."

The wise words of one of their elders had been rudely interrupted by a recent outcast in the village, a clown with hair colored red from the blood of his kin, his garb that of a yellow one piece with sleeves striped red and white, his over sized red shoes laced in yellow.

"Eject this miscreant at once!"  Skid Mark flicked his wrist in a sign of instant disgust.  "The clown of McDonald has betrayed his people, and profits while he feeds our children poison."  The coward was dispatched of, his feet dragging as his captors took him out to rot with the dogs.

yay.

The Chief then paused, allowing the disturbance to pass under the weight of his fierce gaze.  In the silence the interruption was soon forgotten, and all eyes once again fell on the Great Skid Mark.

"The severity of the situation has required the wisdom of our eldest father, who in his many years has gained more knowledge than we could ever hope to obtain.  He was around when our people emerged from the bosom of the earth and only the white face carried the distinction of clown.  It is a rarity that one of our own should live so long, it is the workings of The Great Spirit. . ."

It was then the ancient clown emerged from his caravan, his likeness on the side fading, the paint having chipped in a disordered fashion from the vigors of passing seasons.  In short, his vessel appeared more to be a tomb than the home of a great chief.  Age had eaten away at his hair, though he still possessed red tufts of matted fur on both sides of his head.  His frame seemed crumbled as he walked a parade that more resembled a death march than a procession worthy of a dignitary. Painted black eye brows gave the appearance of perpetual shock, though his features beneath sagged and were life less.  Upon reaching the spotlight, he stopped to regain his strength.  It was then that he made an effort to stand up, and it was then, with the sound of old and cracking vertebrae that the tribe looked on their most knowledgeable - a clown simply known as Bozo.

He spoke, his words dry and papery.  Every word an effort.

"I have seen many things."  Bozo said, deep in thought.  "Yet I have never encountered beings such as this."  A gasp arose from his collective listeners, as it was believed Bozo knew everything, especially all matters regarding clowns.  "Their tongue I find unrecognizable.  They bring no joy - they make a mockery out of the time honored tradition of making a mockery of oneself!"

Sounds of approval.  Horns and whistles.  Bozo struggled, breathing heavy.

"In short, they're. . . they're. . . retarded."

And with that he spoke his last word, one which serves greatly as an umbrella term for all that is stupid, and breathed his last breath.  His head dropped, his eyes void of any life.  Lifting their fallen comrade, the clowns carried him out of the tent in a somber procession fitting of a funeral. Reaching their destination, they dumped him in a grave fit for any clown - a ditch not far from their camp, where bones mingled with garbage and noisy flies.    

Scaring children since 1928.

"Brothers, we must avenge the death of Bozo, our wisest chief.  It was thought of the black and white faces that seized his mind and stopped his heart!"  Skid Mark said.  "Our Fathers will never be at peace until they have been avenged and the blood of the Detroits flood their cities and drown the seeds of their fathers Chief Violent J and Chief Shaggy 2 Dope!"

Loud whoops erupted from the crowd, and with newfound tenacity they emerged from the tent a mass of angry clowns wielding crude weapons of their own creation.  With determination they met their enemies who were already expecting them, as word from their scouts reached their lands before their enemy.  Chiefs fought among their men in mass - the clash of opposing forces was so great it resembled the crash of the surf.  Shaggy 2 Dope and Violent J appeared amongst their kin, and as clowns and juggalos fell about their feet, they were content to spill blood.

Skid Mark found the opposing forces and with the skill of a marksman beheaded a juggalo with a sharpened pie tin, the head falling clean from its body.  Shaggy 2 Dope on the other side had taken one of his CD's to the face of a clown, and with pressure popped his eye out of its socket.  Still Skid Mark pressed on.  Violent J had found a target and was unleashing his kicks on a fat clown's nut sack.  Still Skid Mark pressed on. Killing enemies on his way he met Shaggy 2 Dope, who welcomed him with eager eyes, and quickly they were engaged in a struggle.

"Whoop whoop."

The war cry of the juggalo rang out as they witnessed one of their leaders engaged in deadly combat.  Encouraged by the vision the juggalos fought on, killing many a clown with a veracity that matched their hatred.  The battlefield became one of mixed emotions, a thousand dead clowns lying there on the ground, their happy painted faces contorted into expressions of pain and shame, cemented in death.  Colors were everywhere, but predominate was the color red; the color of blood.  Skid Mark had engaged in a struggle with Shaggy 2 Dope, the both of them wrestling in the mud as men from both sides fought and died for their side.  Choking Shaggy, he gained control, and taking a sharpened horn from his back pocket he raised it and buried it into the Juggalo Chief's chest.

The impulse to honk the horn was strong, and as Skid Mark gave it a couple of squeezes, Shaggy 2 Dope died.  -honk honk-  Rising in victory, his eyes then met those of Violent J, who had lost some vigor in light of seeing such a loved brother slain in battle.  Skid Mark advanced slowly, Violent J back stepping as he did so, to prevent his enemy from gaining any ground.  The circus clowns seemed to be winning.

Yet amongst the din, a piano began to play over the frightful music of men dieing.

I dare yah. . .

Family. . . 

JCW. . .

Family. . .

I'm a bad, bad man. . .

Imagine the clowns surprise when an eight year old emerged from the destruction. . . whoop whoop:

Riveted by the appearance of the Last of The Juggalos, Violent J charged his enemy with the pride of a father content to eliminate the evils in his son's world.  Charging Ski Mark he was met with little resistance.  After the clown was slain, his red nose was taken as a trophy and raised above the head of the victor for all to see. It proved effective in rallying his troops, even the young Violent JJ, who proceeded to hurricanrana clowns and elbow drop fallen foes, much to the juggalos enjoyment.  Once again, the war cries of the juggalos rang out: whoop whoop, whoop whoop in a savage cry they alone posses.  They continued killing circus clowns, lead by their only head chief and his prince.

When victory seemed apparent the sirens rang out and painted the landscape red and blue red and blue.  The combatants scattered like cockroaches when the lights come on.

The cops opened fire, guns blazing through the night in tiny explosions of death, and often they didn't miss.  The casualties were great, far greater than the combat that had ensued prior.  Violent J had fallen, and so had many of his comrades.  The circus clowns too, suffered many a casualty, many still crawling on the ground with holes in their bodies.

All that remained was Violent JJ, who's small person deemed more difficult to hit.

Twas the day I witnessed the last of a vile and retarded race of the Juggalos.  

The clown is a descendant of the jester; a creature so small and feeble he would be killed on a whim.  And often for a laugh.  To pursue to be one is retarded, even if you try and deviate it with rap music and weapons.  In the case of Violent JJ, it is apparent that juggalos, though they claim to be a loving bunch just looking for acceptance, are very much indoctrinated in violence. . .  You can't tell me this Violent JJ kid isn't going to grow up to be the biggest piece of shit to ever walk the earth.  I mean, he's already made of poor stock (I think he's Violent J's kid, I don't care enough to get the facts straight,) but now they've already got him 'wrestling' and walking around emulating the bullshit actions of the 'grown ups' around him.  Sure, you may claim that ICP and all of that shit really has a good message to preach, one which only juggalos seem to be able to decipher, and hey, lets assume for a second that this is true, but this kid doesn't understand it.  He's just a kid.

Let him be a kid.

Seeing as how this is all the same garbage over and over again, I have but only one diagnosis to give.  Thickheaded as they may be, surely I must be making some ground, right?

Due to the nature of ICP and its recurring retardation, iR declares ICP and Violent JJ, repetitively retarded.

The Last of The Mohicans was a book written by James Fenimore Cooper.  The Last of The Juggalos was a shit blog written by yours truly.

John Wayne Gacy was a serial killer who gained the nickname "Killer Clown" after he made appearances at children's events dressed as a fictional clown he created himself....

Killer Klowns From Outer Space is a shit movie about. . . killer clowns, from outer space.

Pennywise is the name of the monster/clown in Stephen King's It.

Coulrophobia is fear of clowns... if you have it you probably never made it through this shit.

Logophobia is fear of words... if you have it you definitely didn't make it through this shit.

love,

iR

A Case of Herpes: Much Like Tila Tequila

Aint nothing in the world that can't be fixed by a fresh bowl of meth amphetamine.  It can make you forgive that time in your life when you fell in love with the surgeon's blade; it can help you look at yourself without really looking.  It makes it easy not to realize everything in your life is phony, including your prized silicone breasts.  It also helps if you're fucking retarded, as is Miss Tila Tequila.

When waking in the morning her first duty is to put on her face, because as stated before, nothing about her is natural.  This process takes anywhere from forty-five minutes to an hour, depending on the look she happens to be going for that day.  Today's look:  Trashy Slut.  With her look intact she heads to her computer, to write for her "celebrity gossip blog."  She often addresses her fans as her Tila Army, and when logging on for the first time she usually thinks of the glory days of Myspace, when she could easily keep count of her ranks simply by looking at her friends list.

These days things weren't so great.

AFter tapping into her muse - meth amphetamine, she gets to adding her latest bit of celebrity gossip, a dreary bit of vocal diarrhea made worse in that its written down, a rotten bit of text that hurts your brain the moment you try and read it:

WHOOO!!

I'VE BEEN SO BUSY LATELY!  EVERYBODY IS ALREADY TALKING ABOUT MISS TILA!  WATCH OUT PIGGIE PEREZ! LOL!

Things had gone awry somewhere.  A failed singing career, a failed stint on television, a failed modeling career, and now the last attempt for some bit of obscure fame rested squarely on her shoulders under the job title:  Celebrity Blogger.

LOL!  YOU SHOULD HAVE SEEN LINDSAY LAST NIGHT!!  WE ALL SAW HER YOU KNOW WHAT!  LOLOL AND TILA WOULD DEFINITELY GET ON THAT!  TOO BAD SHE'S A JUNKIE THOUGH!   HAHA SHE KEPT LOOKING LIKE SHE WAS GOING TO THROW UP AND WAS STUMBLING AROUND EVERYWHERE!  I'M DIRTY BUT NOT LIKE THAT!  LOL!

Nothing but reaching out for the limelight, a quest to be constantly noticed, even if that means being noticed as a complete moron.  More hits from the muse.  Blue smoke and the smell of something rotten.

AND A CERTAIN FRIEND OF MINE, WHO'S VEYR WELL CONNECTED (obviously, he knows you Tila) SAYS THAT A CERTAIN FEMALE CELEBRITY KNOWN FOR HAVING A CERTAIN ABNORMALLY LARGE BODY PART, LOL!  IS ACTUALLY CHEAP AND RETURNS ALL OF HER CLOTHES AFTER JUST WEARING THEM ONCE!  I THOUGHT SHE HAD ASS...ETS.  LOL!

Nothing but a shitty blog writer picking on celebrities with whom she holds some sort of retarded grudge.  Her gossip stories are all from "friends" (probably imaginary ones) that have about as much redibility as an iR blog.  Fallen and as low as Perez Hilton.  The scum of the fucking earth.

WELL THIS UPDATE SURE IS GETTING LONG!  I HAVE TO LEARN NOT TO SAY SO MUCH!  I'M GETTING SO LIGHT HEADED!

MUCH LUV MY TILA ARMY!

XOXOXO MISS TILA!

The light coming through the shade meets with Tila's face, the prolonged exposure causing it to melt like wax. She shifts into the comfort of the cool shade and takes another hit of meth amphetamine.

Too much sun Tila, too much sun!

She slips off to sleep, to dream up Tila dreams, of bondage teddy bears and cotton candy.  As she sleeps the real world goes on, and in the real world she's not respected by anyone with a brain.  Her celebrity blogs only further serve herself and her love of herself as most of the material is about her, its merely dispersed with the sprinklings of total ramblings from a complete and utter retard.  In the real world, she's a has been that never really was.  At 18 she got her first job as a model for Playboy magazine - she had that Vietnamese hooker look that's been popular ever since the early 70's.  Her entire career was catapulted from mediocrity to toal retardation when she found a happy home for herself on Myspace.  She became somewhat of a 'Myspace celebrity' a fact that isn't all the surprising when considering the fact that the majority of Myspace users have been clinically proven to be retarded.  She essentially became famous for being famous, much like a similar plastic Barbie doll by the name of Paris Hilton.  With her newfound fame she took up a shitty music career I have had the luxury of not hearing a single note of.  Her singles "I Love U" and "Stripper Friends"  both failed to chart, and after many legal battles with the company who produced her only album:  "Sex: Tila Tequila," the album was shit canned and then released and then shit canned and then released only to have absolutely no one give a shit.  As recent as last month, (April 2010) Tila released another single that no one really ever listened to called "I Fucked the DJ," and is said to be coming out with another album entitled Welcome to the Darkside, slated to appear sometime in 2010.

Her T.V. career started on the reality show Surviving Nuget, a show which comprised of many scared and retarded contestants (Tila being one of them,) and one crazy-out-of-his-mind celebrity named Ted Nuget.  After losing the show, what followed was a given for any "celebrity" slipping into the waking void: a Vh1 reality dating show.  Being a highly diluted and egotistical person, it was a perfect match for Tila, as Vh1 pooled 32 of the country's most retarded individuals and put them to work vowing for her affection.  Tila loved the attention naturally.  The show differed from other reality dating shows in that Tila claims to be bisexual, so the contestants were both male and female.  The show pissed off a lot of Chrisitans and Asians, who became big targets for Tila and her rambling blogs, but shome how, despite all the slack and bullshit and lack of interesting material, the show lasted a whole two seasons.  At the end of the second season, Tila picked a girl named Kristy Morgan to be her "shot at love," but Kristy turned her down. . . Well aint that a bitch.

Tila's career in television isn't just limited to reality television, she's also completely willing to appear as herself on shows that are openly mocking her.  MadTV, The Clevaland Show, and Robot Chicken have all written her in in rather unsavory roles as herself, and she's so starved for attention she didn't mind appearing in any of them.

And then of course, she disappeared for awhile.  Not that she was ever really around.

Tila was only around in wrinkled magazines under troubled youths' mattresses.  Tila was only around on broken down iPods once owned by junkies who either died in the streets or ended up crazy or in the slammer.  Tila was only around in the remnants of her own personal blog, a ranting bit of madness coupled with shots of Asian beaver (for paying customers, of course.)  She was a faint whisper told from the mouth of a person with horribly bad breath.

Disappeared and petty.

This blog game just gotta make me.

And it is for these reasons, and her inability to ever die or go away, that iR declares Tila Tequila, repetitively retarded.

Further Retardation

Is pregnant with a boy.

Is planning on adopting a child from Haiti.

Has her own record label called Tila Tequila Records.

Has her own management firm called Little Miss Trendsetter Management LLC.

She became a model in California because of her "violent adolescence," in Texas.

Claims her nickname Tila Tequila came about when she started experimenting with alcohol at the age of 13.

Ha sher own book Hooking up with Tila Tequila:  A Guide to Love, Fame, Happiness, Success, and Being the Life of the Party.

Her celebrity blog is called MissTilaOMG!

iR

Vin Diesel Plays Dungeons and Dragons

or; Meet Melkor and Mark Sinclar Vincent

Through the dastardly vines barbed with lashing spines; in the deepest thickets of hairy jungle, four brave warriors tangle with the harsh environment, carrying on despite Mother Nature's cruelty. Driven by immortality, they cut through greenery vicious in nature and wicked by design. Melkor leads the crew of collected hopefuls, a blade in one hand, a bow draped across his torso. He's light footed through all the brush, and surveys the land with expert eyes capable of spotting a tick on a hounds back nearly a mile away. The men behind him lack the benefit of light Elvish feet, so they struggle through the bunches of burdock sprinkled about like spiny mines ready to go off and lodge in the skin; sweat through hanging vines under the mask of dense tree growth over head; curse at the sight of poison ivy, and its friend Foxtail; and generally spit out their discontent at everything around them. The harsh winds burn their eyes: this land was not made for man, but rather for beast, who cared little about burning sand winds, nor pits that made meals of men, nor skies which always seemed black and drowned all the world in misery. . .

Roll forward in time, a thousand or so years to 1974, to a land of much more comfortable living: to a dug in basement. A radio sings and the walls echo back the radio's laments. The room smells moldy, dust dances in fragments of sunlight coming from a nearby window, and from these rays, like a celestial gift from the Gods, lays a game of Dungeons and Dragons - already in full swing. Four boys sit about the table, all of them looking meek and malnourished. They speak in a vernacular of ritualistic lines and practiced code, in a language foreign to outside-above-ground dwellers. They sound like real squawkers, fitting in that they are but children, but one, the youngest one, talks above all others with a voice like that of a man already swelled from years of listening to his own ego. . .

"I can do this. . . " He booms.

"You must'n. . ." A fat mage with a nasaly voice pauses only to eat a few Fritos before continuing. "Let us down Melkor. . ."

Back now: great buildings slowly peel back their window and wall skins, slowly disassemble themselves steel bone by steel bone. . . Whole cities retreat from their cancerous growth, back over hills and rivers, shrinking to their very centers. . . Fallen civilizations once evaporated reappear, grow putrid, start fights, become angry, settle prosperously, rise slowly, and evaporate once more with the footprints of a single group of human beings. . . All of time slips back, ticking gently to the passing second hands of day and night. Slips back to Melkor and his men, back in the year 856. The crew stumbles upon a nest of giant scorpions with claws strong and big enough to split a man clean in two. Melkor raises his bow, steadying it with forearms built of steel cables. He spies his target. His comrades stalk through the nightshades. He fires.

The boy with the voice of a man rolls a twenty sided die. The arrow is released, whizzing through the air with silent certainty.

"With precision and speed, Melkor helps all those in need. . . With bow and blade, all enemies are slayed. . . For the world cannot yet begin, until it is purged of its sin!" The boys voice straines as he tries to produce a higher pitch.

The die slowly tumbles to a stop, resting on the table face up; 20. The arrow pierces the scorpion right between the eyes, precisely where he intended it.

"20!" The voice shrieks. "Critical hit!" The voice deepens, back to its mature tone. The owner of the voice lowers his eyes, ashamed for breaking character. He never heard an elf with a voice like gravel before. . . Never heard an elf with a voice that deep before.

The scorpion hisses, spewing green fluids thick and congealed the instant it comes into contact with the open air. It dies as its comrades are slain by the other three members of the group. Melkor's eyes shine with a glint of the fading sunlight, but shine even brighter with a glint of defeat. This is the boys defeat. The blistering heat waves across the skyline. Melkor wipes his brow. The boy wipes his brow. Somewhere stampeding beasts rampage across the tortured earth. The boy's mother is coming down the stairs now, heavy heels and squeaking wooden steps. A great rumbling is heard, born from the trampling feet of yet another potential danger in the lands of Dungeons and Dragons. Melkor's ears perk up, the bones in his ears having heard such a rumble before. Its recognizable, but somehow out of place, as if from some other distant time far off. . . The steps continue. Its something big and nasty, he says, and his comrades ask what? Something. . . something, he stumbles on his words. Something. . . The boy's mother reaches the bottom of the stairs.

"Something. ."

She speaks.

"Hey honey." She says.

"Treacherous. . ."

"Just doin' some laundry. . " She places the basket down matter-of-factly. Goodbye scorpions. The washer goes on with the rush of unseen water. Goodbye hellish land. With her work she begins to hum, a habit picked up to help past the time. And with each note, another layer of a fantasy begins melting away in the collective minds of the four boys, and before long Melkor is no longer an Elvish Ranger, but rather simple old Mark Sinclair Vincent (Vin Diesel,) a shy 7 year old boy driven from popularity due to an unusually deep voice capable of sponsoring beer commercials.

So life was for Mark Sinclair Vincent, battling fierce dragons and beasts in a far off land materialized in the thin filaments of his imagination. A world kept pocketed, where not even the harshness of reality could get to it. Battling fierce dragons, and losing it all when Mom came clunking heavily down the stairs, as if she were climbing down into his very imagination, to where he felt the most safe, and then upon arriving shattered it with the heavy blast of the clothes basket. Shattered it so easily. She even had the the nerve to address 'Melkor the Magnificent,' as honey!' 'Honey!' And in front of his comrades no less. . .

Mark Sinclair Becomes Vin Diesel: Porn Star Action Anti-Hero

His interest in acting began when the practice was thrust upon him - it was either that or jail. As it turns out, aside from Dungeons and Dragons, Vin and his friends were also into vandalism. One night they broke into the community theater with the intent to spray paint vulgarities all along its insides. They failed however in their mission of youthful deviance. They were caught and offered the opportunity to be in the play, instead of in the arms of some strange man behind bars that night. Naturally they excepted the former, and all became members of the theater that night. For Vin it was a good thing, for he found that he loved life on the stage, the acting, the prancing, the pantyhose. . . His love for the stage effectively rounded out his nerd status, giving bullies tired of beating him up for playing D&D a fresh new reason to beat him up. It was a malady which struck him for most of his life, until he turned 17 and finally gained some muscles and dropped his nerdy image. Having found himself a paradox in the Dungeons and Dragons world, Vin decided it was time to move on, and get himself a job. Due to his size he was able to get a job bouncing at a nightclub in New York City called "The Tunnel." It was there that he would change his name to Vin Diesel, namely because Mark Sinclair Vincent simply wasn't gay enough - which leads one to wonder just what "tunnel" the club's namesake refers to. . .

Now I know what you're thinking, with a name like Vin Diesel, he was destined to become a porn star, right? No: not quite, instead he became an action star, but I'm sure that was your next guess. One of his first films was a short film which he wrote, directed and a appeared in, called Multi-Facial. It was basically about how Vin was a mutt, which meant he wasn't black enough to be typecast as a black guy, and not Italian enough to be typecast as an Italian, making it rather difficult for him to get a good acting gig. So he gave up and went into porn right? No: it was this 20 minutes that got him a part in Saving Private Ryan and effectively started his whole movie career.

A movie career made up of Riddick movies, Fast and the Furious movies, and xXx movies.

Pitch Black/Chronicles of Riddick

The movie said to cement Vin Diesel in that anti-hero-bad-ass-does good role, Pitch Black was a movie that simply had no budget. Its about a criminal named Riddick who's being transferred by ship to another planet. The ship crashes on a real shit planet, allowing Vin to escape captivity, along with a select number of the crew. They soon discover not only is the planet in a perpetual dark phase, but it is also inhabited by human eating aliens.

Shitty right? Yeah, for everyone but Riddick, whos got eyes that glow like quicksilver and can see in the dark. . . What follows is a tale of morality, as this bad ass murderer with glowing eyes some how comes to the notion that he too can do good, and in doing so becomes the good guy, helping all those around him with not only his strength but his cat like eyes. Which is some Hollywood shit I can't bear to swallow, for anyone who's delt with a charlatan, or thief, or a liar, knows that these unworthy characteristics aren't shed on a whim - and for murderers, one must assume its very much the same. For that cancerous defect in them, that seed that germinates into a budding thorny flower cannot be cut as simply as a bunch of daisies. . ..

The movie was received with mixed reviews, as science fiction fans found there wasn't enough science fiction to satisfy their appetites. For horror fans there weren't enough spine tingling moments. But nonetheless its become a sort of cult classic, adored by those still stiff in the pants from images of Barbarella floating around in their brains. So naturally a franchise was born, complete with its own endless line of useless fluff bearing the Riddick name and Vin's likeness.

Chronicles of Riddick, being a chronicling of retardation has also been made into a cartoon, for which Vin Diesel lent his voice, and is also said to be returning to the screens with a third movie, not yet titled.

yay.....

The Fast and The Furious (2001)

A fast paced nitrous boost of retardation, this shit fest is all tough guy antics, unrealistic street racing, and even more unrealistic scantily clad women. But hey, its Hollywood right? And in Hollywood, street racing is all Papa Roach and Limp Biskit songs, candy colored Honda civics, bitchy racers, and cars that blow up when you shoot them with uzis. Vin Diesel plays Dominic Toretto, a douche bag racer/team leader in trouble with the law. The movie moves quickly, which is a blessing, in that it isn't very good, pausing only for brief moments so that a character may say something prophetic sounding. Words no doubt, every street racer should live by, and keep written in a little book to be placed in the breast pocket before every race. . . The first nugget of wisdom dispatched by Ja Rule:

"It's not how you stand by your car, its how you race your car."

The second comes from Vin himself. He's cocky after winning a street race which nearly resulted in the horrific crash of a fellow racer (its Hollywood so he only fishtails and stops abruptly without a single scratch - but had it been real life the car probably would have rolled across the highway like a tumble weed, crushing the man inside. . . and Vin probably would have gone on gloating and strutting anyway.) Vin Diesel:

"It don't matter if you win by an inch or a mile, a wins a win."

Again Vin imparts the last bit of polished romance the movie has to offer, a view on life every REAL racer echoes wholeheartedly into the waking void:

"I live my life a quarter mile at a time. Nothing else matters: not the mortgage, not the store, not my team and all their bullshit. For those ten seconds or less, I'm free."

Somewhere in there, there's a story. I think.

Fast and Furious (2009)

8 years later Vin would return to the franchise, after a minute part in The Fast and The Furious: Tokyo Drift, that served as teaser for the already slated fourth film.

Like many sequels it befalls its previous incarnations and therefore has a need to top them in order to appease the audience. For Fast and Furious this means more outlandish driving and explosions, often to the point of being utterly impossible or totally ridiculous. Things happen in this movie that shouldn't really happen, things so over the top that its successors will have to jump a speeding car over a shark during the middle of a raceto top the crazy stupid shit in Fast and Furious. Aside from the excessive CGI and over active imagination, this movie is essentially the same ball of shit that was the original - their practically identical names are just a proverbial middle finger to any douche bag who actually paid good money to see this movie.

Fast Five (2011)

Fast Five will probably be the last incarnation of the series, or at least the last one with its main reoccurring cast members. By the sixth movie, the only people desperate enough to do the movie will probably be guys like David Spade and Ray Romano. . . and there won't be any budget, so they'll go driving around in beat up old station wagons. . . Now that's a movie worth seeing.

xXx (2002)

I have been lucky enough to have not seen this movie, so I can only go on what Wikipedia has to say on the matter. "xXx, pronounced "Triple X", is a 2002 action film starring Vin Diesel in the lead role as Xander Cage, a thrill seeking extreme sports enthusiast, stuntman and rebellious anarchist turned reluctant spy for the National Security Agency who is sent on a dangerous mission to infiltrate a group of potential terrorists in Eastern Europe."

Now that just about sums it all up right there. A thrill seeker, extreme sports enthusiast, stuntman, rebelious anarchist, reluctant spy on a dangerous mission. . . Cool, but does he know any show tunes?

Sam Jackson is also in it, and although he has appeared in many a fine film, he is also well known for his inability to turn one down - even the shittiest of shitfests, like this movie. I'm sure he plays the bad guy, and is the usual sort of villain he always plays, probably with a scar on his face.

Another sign of this movie's retardation is how much money it made, as movie goers have lowered the their standards over the past decade. xXx made 277 Million dollars, a good haul considering the budget for the movie was only 70 million dollars.

Still not convinced? Well then this photo should do it for you:

Yeah, that's totally Vin doing a board slide down a railing on a silver serving tray.

Aside from all the cool shit: the jumping out of convertibles with parachutes attached, the plane jumping, with jet skis, the sweet explosions, Vin wasn't invited back for the sequel. . . He was instead replaced by Ice Cube, the studio probably figuring any man of ethnicity would make for a good replacement.

Boo hoo right? Not quite.

xXx: The Return of Xander Cage (2011)

Currently Vin Diesel is in talks with the studios to come back in the third installment of xXx, where he is sure to milk the pigs for all their worth. It is likely that he will be returning, as the studio found that having a main character (Ice Cube) who is also known for spouting out explicit rap lyrics kind of scares away the white audience - at least with Vin he kinda looks white - or at least Italian.

Further Retardation

Vin Diesel really does play Dungeons and Dragons. . . a lot. He's been with the whole gang since day one. Die Hard kid, die hard.

His D&D character is named Melkor, a witch hunter. The name appears tattooed on his stomach in the movie xXx.

People can't seem to decide if he's gay or not, seriously, type in vin diesel on google, the first suggestion is 'vin diesel sexuality.'

Was accused of trying to get a 23 year old woman kicked out of a bar after she refused to go back to "the room for a little boom boom." Oh, we failed to mention Vin has a way with words? Well he does.

In 2005 a certain studio thought: "Wouldn't it be funny. . ." if they hired a certain bad ass to play in a comical family movie with kids. The studio was Disney, and the "badass" was Vin Diesel, the family movie was The Pacifier, and no, it wasn't funny.


He's into World of Warcraft, even installed it on a computer in one of his cars.

iR.

The Human Billboard, Lessons on Selling Out, Repetitive Retardation

The Human Billboard doing what he does best.

The first day Rob Dyrdek showed up, he was dressed head to toe in DC, a walking billboard. I wondered what it was about this pogo stick from Ohio that made a company want to choose him to be the face of their entire business. But then I remembered the skating. Oh yeah, the skating. But that's how it is with a lot of skaters, if it weren't for skate boarding they'd just be total jack asses. He arrived in the mid-afternoon, and although they sky was blue and setting up for a beautiful day, I felt a certain dread, as if it were going to rain, at any moment. I assumed it was his doing. He wasn't alone either. He had a camera crew with him, the same guys who gave The Jackass crew their fame (hmm I see a theme developing,) and although he was friendly, I wasn't fond of the cameras.

"Cameras?" I asked.

"Yeah I film everything now. . . I find that I'm just such a volatile force of creativity that everything I touch just turns to gold. . . "

"Like King Midas." I said. "From the myth."

"King who? From the what?" He shook his head, the confusion was water in his ears and he was desperately trying to shake it out. "As I was saying, I'm a genius." He echoed Kanye. "And I just couldn't live with myself - just couldn't sleep at night - you know, if I ever missed any of it, because then I wouldn't have a chance to exploit it. . . And that my good friend, is what life is all about, exploitation." He smiled. "I'm an inspiration, and you should feel lucky to be around me."

It was good to see that fame wasn't getting to him.

"So why I'm here is I was thinkin' maybe I could write your blog, and then you could go to a skate park and try and skate, and we'll film it all. . . Its for my new show idea, "Switching Places with Rob Dyrdek."" He framed the title in the air with his hands, his eyes already glowing with some imaginary light bulb billboard that said just that "Switching Places with Rob Dyrdek," it was a billboard only he could see. "I was thinking about how great it is to be me, and then got to figuring that everybody wants to be me. . . So I came up with this show, where me and a contestant switch places, I do what they do, and then they try and do what I do."

"And what is that? Singing all the time, selling out, walking around generally disrespecting stuff and being to wealthy for one's own good? . . . I'd like to try that - I just generally disrespect stuff, all the other perks of being you might be fun."

"No, no." He threw his arms out, it was a defensive move he learned from rap videos. "They skate, the people in the show I mean, they skate, because I skate. . . I'm a skater."

"Oh is that what you do?" I asked.

"Weren't you listening?" The arms came down, it was a swinging motion he learned from rap videos.

"I was, I was, it just sounds retarded, Rob."

"Retarded? Wh-what?" He was shocked, he adjusted his already skewed baseball cap, it was a move he learned from rap videos. "Retarded? Do you have 21 Guiness Book Records? Do you have 2 hit shows? Your own line of personalized skate shoes, clothing, and apparel? Do you have your own movie, that you wrote, directed, and appeared in? Have you done commercials? Have you been in video games? Do you have your own line of kids toys? . . . How many clip shows have you even done?"

"Clip shows?" I asked.

"Hah." He laughed, sandpaper. "What we in the business call clip shows - recap shows, you know where you just go over all the memorable moments of the season in one nice and simple episode all of its own? You know, so you can put out another show in the season without having to come up with any new material or having to put in any real effort. You can seel yourself, your image, sell more commercial space, appease an episode contract you can't fulfill with new material, and you don't even have to use your noggin. . . Now that's smart!"

"And you actually do this?" I feigned ignorance.

"Oh yeah, I've practically done a whole season's worth of clip shows, 8 , 9, 10 episodes at least! Plus it feels great. . . no greater promotion than shameless self-promooooowowowtion." He sang the last part, like an R&B singer, and laughed again, sandpaper.

"I don't think it works with blogs Rob, or even literature for that matter."

"Why the hell not? You can do a blog recap blog, of all your other blogs, of just the good moments. . . It would be genius, and since it was my idea, I think I should help you with it."

After much debating, Rob finally convinced me, we were going to do a recap blog, sell out style. . . It went like this:

"Hey J. Wood, remember the time you had your kid sister cousins from Germany stay with you and your family for the weekend, and you told them a bed time story?"

"Yeah I do. . ."

"And how did that turn out for you?" He looked at me for an answer. He threw his arms up in the air, a move he learned from - oh you get the point. "Well lets just go to the 'clip' then, shall we?"

And suddenly its that time, my young cousins in their bed trying to sleep but failing due to the warm unfamiliar Californian weather. . . I forget what year it was.

"Can you tell us a story?" They asked one night, so innocently I couldn't say no.

"Sure sure. . ." I sighed heavily, searching my brain for a story, and then it came. "Once upon a time, there was a half-man half-bull named Brock Lesnar."

"A minotaur!" One of them shouted out.

"No no, he's just a normal man, now let me finish the story." She frowned and let me continue. "He was born a particularly soggy summer afternoon, on July 12th, and aside from the rain it was a particularly strange day. . . It was to be the day when a cow gave birth to a human being, the first recording of its kind. All the boys were hanging around, shooting the shit, drinking beers, when they heard quite the ruckus come from the barn. It was old Betsy, the crowned gold cow of the farm, crowing like she was about to give birth. Sure enough, out came Brock Lesnar, half human-half bull. He was the result of a lonely night on the farm, when some tired farm hand yearned for the touch of a woman but found himself to be surrounded only by cows. . . During his days as a kid he'd shoot up steroids - the kind they use on horses to help fix races, and was fed nothing but proteins - 3 raw eggs in the morning, and 3 more at night. When he was 16, he'd run around town scooping up chickens and biting their heads off. He'd eat them," I demonstrated his ravenous feeding as I said this, for added effect. "While the torso still flapped around molting feathers - the hunt for him was like some sort of primal urge he could not control. When he grew up he wrestled, and even was in the UFC, where he'd tend to your face like a man tends to a pillow." I illustrated the pounding for them, my two poor cousins staring back at me with wide fearful eyes. "And he's swelled up by all the steroids, and by his ego, and by the limelight, which further swells him up, so he just stands in the ring and looks giant from all the swelling. He looks down at you and he's got fists like sledgehammers; two large 4XL gloves that fly out at you with a vengeance and try and crack up your face like so much concrete. . ."

I stared at them, nothing but half covered eyes and white knuckles, white knuckles up around their heads where they had pulled the sheet up over themselves for protection, even though they knew it may as well been tissue paper at the hands of a dangerous retard like Brock Lesnar.

Suddenly back to the present.

"Who would of thought that you would be such a nice guy that you would read terrifying bedtime stories to your two little cousins." Rob said sarcastically, staring into one of the cameras - his safety net.

"Yeah they didn't sleep much after that. I had to convince them that Brock Lesnar only beats up other athletes, and not women and children - which we all know is a lie."

"True dat." He said. "Now. . . I've been around some big people, but never any big women, Bobby Light don't get down like that, I'm more of the 'dirty girl' kinda guy. . . But your boy Tom Arnold seems to love em."

"Yeah he does." I affirmed.

"But we all know sometimes it can be a hazard, like in this next 'clip.' Check it out. . . "

"Can you stop sayin' clip?" I asked vainly.

Suddenly its 1990.

They lived in bliss as the years just seemed to float on by, Tom Arnold got his own show and he and Roasanne opened a restaurant, "Rosanne and Tom's Big Food Diner," a roach house for ugly obese people in Illinois. Yet the marriage started to deteriorate after Rosanne trapped Tom Arnold in her massive vagina, for three whole days, much like Jonah had been swallowed whole by the giant fish in The Old Testament. During his captivity, he sang songs to keep himself busy, finding amusement in the echoes that rang off her vaginal walls, and kept himself fed with the carcass remains of other men she had trapped in her vagina, and totally forgot about. By candle-light he wrote his memoirs, and vowed after getting out to become a star all on his own, and to divorce Rosanne as soon as possible. It was as if he had found himself in a sudden clarity, as if the beer-goggles which seemed attached to his face were suddenly taken off, and now he had seen the error in his ways - and all it took was three days in a deep hot dark cave that smelled of rotten fish.

Suddenly, back to the present.

"How did Tom get out of her vagina anyway?"

"He escaped with a grappling hook he made from the spines of other ex-boyfriends of Rosanne, who, as it turns out were not as craft and smart as Tom Arnold was. . ." I said.

"He certainly has gone to hell and back." Rob said, pausing for laughter that wasn't there. . . Speaking of hell, didn't you do an iR about the Devil's other son?"

"Yeah. . . Billy Mays."

"And how did that go?"

"I don't think this is working Rob. . ." I said finally.

"Why not, clip shows are a staple in the t.v. industry these days."

"Yeah, the t.v. industry Rob, it doesn't work the same with stories and written words. . . Why what if Hemmingway did it, or Faulkner, or Carroll? What if they wrote a book that was really just made up of all other books? Everything would get so mushed up that people would confuse the stories, Alice would no longer be a lost blonde hair girl, but a ball player, or maybe a fireman that burns books. Or maybe there was no Alice at all. Dorian Grey wouldn't be vain, he'd be homely a sickly and longing for his Dear Lonore. . . The raven wouldn't be a raven at all, but maybe a seagull out of The Old Man and The Sea, and nobody would be the wiser of it being any different. . ." I frowned a heavy frown.

"I don't think I get it."

"Yeah I don't think you do Rob, I don't think you do. . . You just can't recycle shit over and over again, and expect everyone to enjoy it. You can't expect everyone to love you just because you're everywhere. . . You've spread yourself thin Rob, real thin. Your retardation plagues many fields, it isn't just skating anymore. You're a reality star now, and guess what that makes you retarded."

"I still don't get it."

"I know Rob, I know. . . And you're so retarded you repeat your retardation over and over again, like some broken record. . . And its true, you really are an inspiration Rob."

"Really?" He was excited by the thought of it.

"You've inspired a whole new type of retardation. . . Repetitive Retardation, you're repetitively retarded Rob, repetitively retarded Rob, repetitively retarded Rob."

repetitive retardation n. - retardation in an individual that is constantly repeated, without ever straying from the formula. Said victims are repetitively retarded.

"Hah you said that three times."

"Good Rob. . ." I waited. "I said, repetitive retarded." It was the code work. Out from the cupboards, from other rooms came men dressed like a swat team, guns in tote. They fired these guns, at Mr. Dyrdek and his camera crew, and killed the whole lot of em.

The end. fuck. shit. ass.

iR.