A Professional Book Review Thats Not Really A Professional Nor Real Review on A Rather Professional Book Thats Not Really A Professional Nor Real Book, My Dudes; Or a Really Long Title For a Really Long Blog Intentionally Written Long For The Sake Of Sticking It To The Non-Believers

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Teen Werewolves: Very Much Unlike Michael J. Fox

In the movies teen werewolves are cool and play ball and can help the geek get the hot blonde chick who's as dumb as dirt but nonetheless looks good.  In real life... well... well, you'll see.

Linda McSoapdish had a lovely home on Winchester Street, off General Custard Avenue, deep in the heart of San Antonio, Texas.  It was an old Victorian classic, with a small porch and a second floor turret with a peaked green shingled roof and green trimmed bay windows. It had a lovely walk up to the porch, with thriving green grass on both sides and a acacia tree.  It had been a venue for many events in the neighborhood, small dinners and potlucks and the like, but never before had any of them been so grim.  The subject of teen werewolves had been brought up by Mrs. Betty Buglefish, who had muttered a silly joke in between mouthfuls of her infamous Davy Crockett Casserole (infamous because no one liked it: many mused that perhaps she called it that because she made it with bits of his hat).  Everyone had seen the news special, and everyone was doing their best to avoid the issue, as it was never good to meddle in with anyone else's family business unless they asked for help.  Or at least so the people there felt.

The evening had been progressing along amiably enough, though it was noticeably more quiet.  That was of course, until Mrs. Buglefish decided to open her slimy mouth.

The family dog Houston had come up to her lap to beg for a slice of ham, still appetizing to his nose despite the stench of her casserole.  She was sitting by herself on an old recliner that no longer reclined--just like she always did-- eating and keeping to herself.  Which was generally how everyone liked it.  It wasn't that she was altogether detestable, she just had faults and mean streaks, and furthermore simply wouldn't have taken no for an answer, even if she was told not to come, so it was best to leave her alone to sit and enjoy her meal.  All the sooner would she leave.

The dog came up to her, and she looked down with a particularly stupid grin on her face.

"Ohh Houston" she patted his head, "At least YOU'VE still got your head."

She tossed the beloved mutt a piece of ham, which he devoured in all of 0.03 seconds.

"What?"  It cut through the air like a knife.  Many had to struggle not to drop their plates.  In fact, Wilmer Applebottom did, and was quite embarrassed.

Whut you say?

The sound had startled her, for she didn't think anyone was really listening to her.  No one ever listened to her.

"Pardon?"  Mrs. Buglefish asked.

"You heard me."  The voice belonged to Amanda Pigguts.  She was Mrs. McSoapdish's sister.  "Don't play dumb.  Not now.  My niece!  That's my niece you're referring to. . . you, you. . ." She was fuming, her face a fine cherry tomato red. "She's just a teenager. . . Just a kid. . . Don't say you never--" she was choking back the tears.

"That I never cut off a dogs head?"  Mrs. Buglefish asked metaphorically. "Why no, I have not.  Not ever."  Her face was now twisted into a wicked oldy lady smile: dentures and weathered hairy lips.  There, there you go you smug bastards.  Its what you get for all those years of you turning your noses up at my casserole, for talking behind my back.  Its what you damn well get.  Your kids are freaks. . . Stupid little freaks. . . She thought all this, but didn't say it.  Mr. Wilmer Applebottom. . . she looked at them one by one. . . Linda McSoapdish. . . Amanda Pigguts. . . oh and what is this?  Cowering and hiding in the corner?  Why, its Alemina Straussencake.  Oh yes, Alemina, how ashamed you must be, just imagine it!  A priest's daughter! Caught up in Kibbles and Bits and wearing a tail!  Barking at the moon!

"DAMN YOU! . . . DAMN. . .  For my sister's sake. . ."

Look, they're going on and on about this, just this:

"Oh yes, oh yes. . . for your sister's sake."  Mrs. Buglefish swooned. "What of my dog?"  She snapped.

"Look my fair people, for beyond the window lays high in the sky a full moon!"  She pulled back the curtain, revealing a white moon set against the sky.  "Those bastards are 'prolly convening right now!  Cooking up some dastardly plot to scoop up Dorothy's Toto!"

She was part right.  Just down the street and out 400 yards into the thicket there was another gathering of similar purpose, and just as grim. They mingled amongst spiny bumelia and black brush that formed a pocket of thorns around them.  It served as adequate coverage to conceal the graveness of their dilemma, and the thorns a deterrent for anyone who would happen to get nosy, and besides: enemies were everywhere.

There were 5 or 6 of them, boys and girls, all teenagers dressed similarly in dark clothing.  Simple enough, if not for the tails dangling from their belts between their legs, across the rocks they sat on, sometimes across their very laps.  Simple enough, if not for the tails, and the chains, and the dog collars, and the leashes, and the contact lenses like cats eyes, like wolves eyes. . .  with grim smiles that revealed false canine teeth, sharp with a malice intent to tear flesh. They were without much artificial light, but the moon above had milked their area over in a dim lunar light.  It only took a moment before their eyes adjusted and they could see one another well enough to give the secret signal of the Crimson Blood Wolf Pack.  It was soon followed by a muffled howl at the moon.  They then all sat, to discuss the grave order of all they had seen.

They too had seen the interview, in fact many of them were in it.  They claimed not to be seeking attention, yet, after the airing it was all they had got.  The neighborhood seemed different, rides to school seemed more cold, school itself was considerably much worse, and the mall was so bad they weren't even allowed to hang outside anymore.  First banned from the mall itself.  Then its OUTSIDE.  Life was tough.  But as I said: enemies were everywhere.

Kimarah Nightfang, the acting President of the Crimson Blood Wolf Pack in Wolfie Blackheart's absence was first off to address her fellow werewolves.  She rose slowly, wearing her traditional werewolf attire, complete with the wolf eyes.  She glimpsed up towards the moon and thought back on what she had done when she first heard the news.  She went on the internet:

Thats. . . lllow.

"This is the honorable Vice President of the Crimson Blood Wolf Pack standing in as President in Blackie Wolfheart's absence.  As you already know, she has been tethered to the chain link fence in her backyard by her parents, who viciously used Wolfie's leash to detain her in the yard like a common house dog!"

Growls of discontent came up from the contingent of werewolves, brooding like the troubled teenagers they truly were.  Kimarah smiled wickedly, she had received the response she was looking for.

"A cruel injustice for our leader!  She has been proclaimed a dog killer!  It has been said that she cut off its head! But we all know the truth, we all know the dog was dead before she removed its skull!  It was already dead! A trifle thing, my pack brother's and sister's, a trifle thing indeed. . . for who cares really, if a young teenage girl wishes to cut the heads off of things if they're already dead?  Tell me?!  What's the harm in that?"

She waited for answer but none came.  Just dog eyes and white teeth.

"Our ceremonial skull has been taken from us, along with our leader! What is the pack to do when it is surrounded by all of its enemies? When its heroes are fixed with muzzles and silenced like tenacious pit bulls?! When its usual meeting grounds have been ransacked and defiled by deviants in the night?  When we have to hide here, amongst the brush like we're EYESORES. . . or something?  Like. . . like. . . aww come on, you know!"

TEEN WOLF DISAPPOINT.

The pack was hanging on her every word, growing more and more intense with each utterance of the travesties their people had been forced to endure thanks to the majority of non-believers void of any dog genes whatsoever.  Kimarah had built up her dogs, and now it was time to toss them a piece of raw meat; it was time to let them loose on a world of nothing but tail-less upright walkers. You could see their anguish.  They were practically drooling.

"Well, of course my fellow brothers and sisters, we must go over there and free our leader from her captivity!  Show them all that they claim us to be, but rather rational beings, human in form and descendants of a long line of wolves."  Barks of content.

"In regards to our ceremonial skull, we can walk along the highway and look for dead dogs so that we may lop off their heads like a well tuned guillotine!"  With that she raised her arm, and the werewolves came out from their thicket with teeth snarling, content that they had not been seen and their meeting had been unnoticed.

But they were wrong.

Through the magnified glasses of his father's binoculars Justin Dingleberry viewed four--no--five--no--six 'werewolves' emerging from the thicket like a couple of silly garden snakes.  He smiled.  Gleaming glass eyes and gleaming pearly whites.  That was Justin Dingleberry.  He handed them over to one of his clan made up of a collection of Seniors from the very same high school.

They had taken no interest in the Crimson Blood's initially.  And then it got out that Wolfie Blackheart killed a dog via decapitation.  After a look in the dictionary, the crew knew that this was just a fancy word for cutting a head off.  It really pissed em off.  I mean it really got their goat.  They loved dogs.  In fact Walter Sewergland had a rottwieler and when no one was around he would fuck it in the ass, he loved dogs that much.  The dog didn't seem to mind.  It was surprising really, from a dog with such a nasty reputation.

It reminded Walter that he should never get his balls cut off.

"Gotcha," Justin said.

They spied the 'werewolves' who ran Indian file along the sidewalk, alive with the feeling that perhaps they were doing something that was actually important.  Something worth talking about.  Something worth remembering. . .  And yet their target, the home, was already blowing up on its own. Turmoil squeezed through the cracks in the form of muffled screams and broken dish ware.  Mrs. Buglefish had tackled Amanda Pigguts; an action which surprised everyone.  Not many thought she had it in her. The following scuffle had sent the two into the potluck table. It went to the floor in a crash of casserole and sliced meats and half eaten cakes. It was a mess soon to be devoured by Houston, the family dog in just under 0.03 seconds.  When initial shock evaporated, onlookers convened, and pulled the two grown women from one another, still kicking and fighting like two alley cats.

FUCK YOUEZ

"I'll get you!  I'LL BLOODY GET YOU!"  Buglefish said.

And outside walk the walk came a pack of snarling werewolves.  Behind them, their potential murderers.

"You small old woman you. . . You think you know so much. . . I'LL BURY YOU!"

She got up and pushed her way through the party, like a running back muscling through tackles for the big game winning touchdown.  But she didn't stop, she kept going.  She stopped at the back door to throw it open just as the pack had reached the fence to the yard. . . and behind them Justin Dingleberry and his boys were not far behind.

Mrs. Buglefish reached the steps but was tackled from behind, her glasses squirting out onto the field like a fumbled pig skin.  Her mouth ate dirt, and her nose sniffed the smell of freshly cut grass, and dog shit. She lay there, sprawled out on the ground, her mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air.  When she caught her breath she promptly used it to spew out a torrent of curses and foul language.

The gate to the yard opened wide, and through it came 6 teen werewolves, lead by Kimarah Nightfang. . .

Next came Justin and his boys. . .

Everyone now, was on stage.

The Crimson Blood Pack descended upon their leader, who seemed not to notice all that was going on around her.  Her head was down, her butchered hair covering her eyes in places, and she seemed to be stroking a small brown animal in her lap.  Upon closer inspection it was revealed to be her dog tail, wrapped around her waist and resting gently upon her lap.

Her pack surrounded her. . . and then Justin and his boys surrounded them.  The parents seemed to busy fighting amongst one another to even notice.

Them fightin' words.

Justin had taken down a wolf by his knee, and was now pummeling his face into grape jelly.  Others were scuffling too, and poor Wolfie Blackheart stood cowering in the corner of the yard, up against the fence, her escape hindered by that damn dog chain she had for so many years willingly wore and paraded around with, like a dog dignitary.  Kimarrah went down as well, her face drowning in a sea of grass.  The parents they too were struggling with one another, and all the neighbors had come out to watch.

The next five minutes were a blur.  Noses were broken.  Blood was spilled.  Hair was ripped from its roots and clothing was ripped from its owners.  Chaos rang out through the cold air of San Antonio that day, it would be the talk of the town for many years to come.

"YOU CUNT!  I'LL KILL YOU."  Mrs. Buglefish screamed.

--BANG--

The shot rang out and the scene paused, for a brief instant.  The gun was held by Sheriff Jacob Stinkysnatch, a Colt .45 to be exact, still smoking after discharging the bullet straight into the night sky.  It was a formidable weapon, one he had yet to ever fire when pointed at a person.  The gun itself did plenty of talking, no need for bullets.

"ENOUGH!"  Sheriff Jacob shouted.  "E-fucking-nough!  I've had just about enough of this werewolf business.  You-you-you-you-and-you-and you" he had picked out the teen werewolves.  "You aren't werewolves.  You're just teenagers.  Dumb, dumb, confused teenagers.  Your parents made you. There's nothing dog like about you, except that you all deserve some good discipline.  Go to your homes, and when you do, take a good look at yourselves.  Look what all of this has gotten you.  Don't dare for a second assume your victims, because quite frankly YOU WERE ALL ASKING FOR IT, dressing like that.  Especially here.  Don't you know this is a cowboy state?  Now get the hell out of here, you're a few years from becoming a bunch of furries for God's sake."

They walked by defeated, like students sent off to detention.  Sheriff Jacob Stinkysnatch clipped of their tails, one by one as the walked by, and wasn't having any of it.  He ignored protests.  He ignored sniffles and stifled outcries.

"And you!"  He pointed at Justin Dingleberry.  "And I suppose you think yourself to be some sort of Van Helsing, eh?  Well you're not.  You're simply a dumb bully who, whether he knows it or not, will have to start at the bottom rung of the ladder coming out of high school.  Just like everybody else. . . Or I suppose you have some lofty ideas about becoming a college man?  Well you forget that.  You're stupid.  You and your boys are just a bout as stupid as those other kids who believed themselves to be werewolves.  In fact your even more stupid and small.  In fact, some of you look like dog fuckers."

Walter Sewergland blushed.  He had been picked out by a man of the law.  Suddenly being a cop was appealing to him.

"Now get out! All of you!"

Justin and his boys left just as the teen werewolves had, awfully depressed.

He turned to the parents, the 'grown ups.'

"And you!"  He shouted.  "You're the worst of all.  How could you all come to this?  You're suppose to be mature, there's suppose to be some wisdom up in those heads of yours, not hot air!  Fighting like school yard boys, and for what?  Over what?  Trifle animosities over Davy Crockett Casserole?  And Mrs. Buglefish, for the record, it is the opinion of this Sheriff that your casserole is horrible."

Mrs. Buglefish scoffed.  Disdain filled her mouth, so much so that she felt the need to spit.

"Fighting over your children?  Fighting over their need to feel like werewolves?  Sure this is retarded, but one must understand that they're going through a tough time, just like we did.  So what if they want to think they're werewolves. . . As an officer of the law I can say there are a whole lot WORSE things your kids could be doing. . . A whole lot worse.  Now get yourselves inside and start acting like civilized ADULTS!"

"And you all. . ."  He address the onlookers, on their porches shivering in their pajamas.  "Go back inside!  The shows over!"

And what of Wolfie Blackheart?  Well she was totally forgotten, for days in fact. . . She was left out there in the yard chained to the fence, alone only to say:

"Hello?"

"Hello?"

"I'm ready to come inside now. . ."

But the only answer she got back were the crickets, playing her a love song.

Right here is where I would explain myself.  But I don't need to, you see I used a literary device.  I spoke through the Sheriff to say what I really meant.  Don't you feel foolish now.  All them wasted words for the real thing to come at the end?  Well you shouldn't.  Words are good.  They're good for you, really.

He was just my puppet, the Sheriff.

They're all my puppets...

And I'm getting tired of putting on puppet shows no one goes to see.

Maybe the show needs work?

Maybe the audience needs work?

Either way I'm talking to myself.  But I like talking to myself: at least the conversation is good.

And I must be drunk, I'm feeling mean.

Nonetheless, iR declares Teen Werewolves sadly retarded, as in their wake all that is left is shame and tears.

love,

iR

David Arquette and The Succubus

Durr, I had a note pinned to my chest, but I lost it.

Ever see the eyes of a dead or dying dog?

David Arquette has these eyes, that is unless of course, he is watching professional wrestling.  The spectacle brings back that silly grin, all teeth and bulging bug eyeballs.  It reminds him of when he was a kid, when it was generally okay to be retarded because it could easily be pawned off as lack of knowledge resulting from far too little time spent on Earth.  But now he was nearly forty.  Nearly forty, which meant he should know a thing or two about a thing or two, but he didn't.

When he was a kid, the world had heroes of such fine and pure virtues that they seemed to glow, and everything was a distinguishable black or white, and the light always overcame the dark.

These days things ran together too much.  These days he wasn't quite sure.

The theatrics on television awake in him a small coal buried deep in his bosom, one that he thought had long since burned out.  The coal smolders, a dull red, and the more he watches, the brighter it glows.  A warmth begins in David's very center and spreads outward, growing warmer as the coal grows brighter.  He begins to feel safe and warm.

But then the old bitch barks, and the coal dies and David's eyes blink back to those dead dog eyes.

"David, dear. . ."  The word 'dear' stabbing him in the heart, he knows he's about to be asked to do something.  "The soy milk is four days from expiring.  I simply won't drink it, four days from expiration.  Imagine sour soy milk?!  That is just disgusting David. . .  And imagine the smell!  The smell David!  Won't you head out and get some fresh soy milk?!"

"Yes dear."  Dead dog eyes and a voice of defeat.  But what he really means is its only four days from expiration!  And everyone knows the expiration date is but a mere guideline!  But then she would say it's all the same, and he would get an even dirtier look. It was just best to say yes dear.  He wanted to say that you probably couldn't even smell it, even if it did spoil a week later, what with all the damn flowers in the place. . . But again it was better to live like a bitch in a lilied palace than to take a whippin'. . . and oh how could she belt em out.

The whip crashes and the mule goes to work. . .

The foreman works the gears and the cogs do all the work. . .

The zombie begins his sluggish trip down the road for a quart of "Fresh" soy milk. . .

I can go on and on. . .

But how did it turn out this way?  David thinks to himself, as he speeds down the road.  He takes a look at himself in the rear view mirror.  He considers driving right into the ditch, at 60 miles per hour.  In a convertible?  He felt good about the chances of it killing him, but then he considered how badly Courteney would beat him if he were to kill himself. He knew how sad it was to fear a woman so bad that not even death could deter her righteous vengeance, but boy would she be mad, mad at his dead corpse, and what then?  She probably knew of hexes. . . But. . .

How?

How did I become Courteney Cox's bitch?

Well lets see David, how now, did it all happen?

Well David, you've had a career in the movies that carries far more titles than most people generally assume, but thats because most of your work is just that forgettable.  The pillars of your douchey career are a handful of movies most people (or just myself--) know of only because they are that bad (--for surely not everyone enjoys movies because they are bad, right?) Nonetheless the list reads like this, or at least in my estimation:

Scream, See Spot Run, Eight Legged Freaks, Ready to Rumble, Never Been Kissed (casted as the cool ex high school jock - really?  No really?)

Yes.  Those movies alone.  They're how you became Courteney Cox's bitch, starting with Scream, a movie where your character was so pathetically retarded anyone could see the underlying malice in Courteney's character suddenly finding an interest in yours, as you just so happen to be the brother of a girl who's friends just start dying. Seducing you would be quite useful for a fame hungry news reporter like her.  Anyone could see she was using you Dewey (David,) as it could be the only possible reason she would even talk to you, as not only were you a joke of a cop, but a joke of a man. . .  Yet alas, the wonders of Hollywood script writing strike her dead in the forehead, and somehow this 'successful' news reporter Gale Weathers (Cox) falls for a rent-a-cop still living with his parents (Arquette) and with a shit stain on his upper lip he shamefully calls a mustache. . .

A pretend on screen relationship that somehow blossomed into a real life relationship just as retarded, and controlling. . .

Its almost like a Tom Hanks/Meg Ryan movie.

Yes and then theres Scream 2, where, being a total franchise, your character totally evolves and develops throughout each movie. . . In Scream 2, this means Officer Dewey has gained himself respect, and has managed to finally learn how to read (after many many lessons,) and finally gets his hands on one of his 'beloved's' books (Cox.)  Low and behold, Dewey finds out that perhaps this Gale Weathers chick aint so friendly after all, that perhaps she's just a biiiiitch:

Yet soft enough to come back for the compliment, even after all that...

And soft enough to say 'yes' after she asked YOU to MARRY HER.

In real life, and in the movie, yet somehow, the real life thing was more pathetic.

Remember how she made you get down on one knee?  -Now pull out the ring David, good now on my finger- And then she said 'You are going to marry me,' to which you replied 'yes, yes of course.'  And then she said 'I wasn't asking, I was telling.'

Remember?

But she makes most of the decisions right?

For instance your 'mutual' company Coquette Productions, named by taking the Co from Cox, and the Quette from Arquette is named as such to provide the illusion that now that 'we're married,' we share everything right down the middle - but this could hardly be true, as Coquette Productions is headed by Courtney, and further serves to keep her around, as she is not only an executive producer on every show the company is involved with, but it has also recently pumped out her own show, with her as the star: Cougar Town.

Just nothing but dead dog eyes.

But back in the day, why, back in the day David had fun, David exhibited a strange bit of unique retardation all of his own.  David, was David:

An awkward. . . 

dancing. . .

boob lovin'. . . 

pot head?

Damn you Courteney, damn you.

David Arquette use to say "Where's the weed at?"

Now all he says is "Jose, the weeds in the front yard need killing."

And it is for that reason alone, that iR declares David Arquette, sadly retarded.

David Arquette appeared in an ABC comedy series In Case of Emergency which was canceled after only one season.

David Arquette's sister is a tranny named Alexis Arquette, who in all actuality has a little hood in her: she once had an altercation with hecklers during which she threatened to use a patio umbrella as a weapon.  

David Arquette won the wCw World Heavyweight Championship title, despite not being a heavyweight, or any good at wrestling.  If that doesn't prove professional wrestling is fake, nothing will.

The band The Black Math Experiment wrote a song entitled "You Cannot Kill David Arquette," obviously, they have never met Courteney Cox.

David Arquette has his own clothing line.

David Arquette will be in Scream 4, alongside his wife Courteney Cox.

Amanda Bynes and The Plastic Polystyrene Face

There's nothing like a torture chamber to bring two people together: the constant drilling eating away at enamel like sugar only a million times faster, the patients and their blinking eyes full of terror, much like a cornered rat, the cold clinical feel of steel.  . .  Its precisely the sort of torture dungeon in which Mr. Rick Bynes met a lovely little dental assistant named Lynn Organ, over the muffled screams of a poorly dosed patient still painfully aware of every poke and prod.  Soon they wed, for they were in love:  Lynn liked Rick's jokes, and loved the dental profession, and Rick found her to be beautiful and a wonderful assistant, but more importantly, he loved that she laughed at his jokes.

For you see, despite being a dentist, Mr. Rick Bynes was such an asshole that he was also a part-time comedian.  That is to say, he often played around with the idea of telling jokes and being funny, but he always had the worst timing.  For instance Mr. Bynes loved to try out his jokes off on his patients, and soon it got around that anyone who had Bynes as a dentist not only had to endure the gruesome pressure of his drill, but also the pressure of his equally gruesome humor.  The idea that anyone having such a sense of humor while filing away at someone's nerve endings with a demented tool was something nobody could really swallow, so naturally Rick had to cut out the jokes.  And besides, they weren't even that good to begin with.

But Lynn liked his jokes.

I guess she's just as demented.

So they based their relationship around these two frail things in common, and had themselves a couple of children, one of which just so happened to be Amanda Bynes.

Yes, she's the product of Dentist Fucking.

Amanda grew up well enough, and made herself quite the famous little actress/comedian, but it was the years afterwards that were slightly unsettling.

Lots of girls can account for it: its all downhill after blowing Frankie Muniz.

Whhhhhhaaat?

It wasn't much different for Amanda Bynes either: after Big Fat Liar, the psychological damage Frankie Muiz did to her was enough to fuck her over, and at a very young age.  (Frankie was unavailable for an interview.)  Everyone's favorite little star, who was confident enough to stand up in front of a bunch of strangers at the age of ten and belt out horrible, but albeit somewhat adorable lines became so obsessed with her image that she constantly found herself looking at herself in the mirror, and researching physical disorders that she didn't even have.  And so she, like so many other stars that are surrounded by nothing but critics and dwindling numbers of loved ones, became infatuated with the blade, and plastic surgery.  Over night, a face that had othing wrong with it became just another casualty of a horridly fucked up world called Hollywood. . . A world so horrifically awful that a person can self destruct publicly and no one says anything, even as the vultures come out to pick the bones clean.  It was the same for Amanda, she was slowly allowed to decompose, to molt without the ever watchful eye of celebrity, and when she got too old to be profitable in regards to children, she was kinda stuck.

Kinda, really, stuck.

So it was time for a change, and unfortunately Amanda sought change with the help of a surgical blade.  She did something to her face, what exactly, only an expert in face mutilation could really identify, but even without the eyes of an expert, anyone can see she did something to her face. . . The once lean face of just another American girl changed and gave way to the face of a chipmunk - with cheeks bulged due to a large haul of nuts found out in the forest.  To be foraged for winter.

Yet, it didn't wet her appetite.  Her mind had already picked out other features that she found disadvantageous, so she altered them too.  A young casualty in the war against plastic surgery, little Amanda Bynes has already had at least three superficial procedures, and she's only twenty four years of age.  She had more and more, till now, she only slightly represents the girl she once was, and can only be considered beautiful in the right lighting and from the right angle.  Its a real shame, considering that even now she's not happy with her appearance.  In fact, her alterations have made her even more conscious of her look and has made her just another statistic.

Look:

Time between alterations became more and more frequent.  Poor lass.  Congrats, now you look like everyone else.

I swear, if you were to see her now, your heart would sink and any boner you had for her would shrivel almost instantly.  In fact, the only roles she gets these days are playing the stuck up blonde cheerleader, as full of herself as she is full of complete and utter bullshit.

And that may just be the saddest thing of all.

Recently she's outing herself as a non-drinker (lame,) and spouting all this shit about how she's not your typical Hollywood celebrity.  But these days her Twitter proves otherwise:

GF= Girlfriend

BF= Boyfriend

OG = Original Girl

If you love someone, and want no one else, marry them immediately

I like black guys, just fyi

tats = tattoos

I know 24 is a young age to retire, but yes I am

Yeah Amanda Bynes' Twitter totally proves her celebrity status, in that more often than not, she can't help but let something retarded slip out of her mouth, and all under 140 characters.  And yes, Amanda Bynes totally retired from the business. . . for a whole month, before she came back to say "I'm back!"

I guess she had to do this because if she didn't, no one would recognize her.

Although she was highly annoying as a child, it was ignored because everyone knew she would eventually grow out of it.  She did, becoming a tween with a strange creepy pedophile fan base.  Then she lost the teen and became a twenty-something, a twenty-something with a much bigger issue than just being annoying.  Her new fault however, cannot be as easily shed, or lost in time as the mind and body matures.  Her face will never be the same, and upon seeing it it produces feelings similar to waking up on Christmas and running downstairs to see all the presents glowing bright under the tree, and running to them and tearing off all the pretty paper and instead of an army of toys lay only a funeral procession of clothes. . . stinkin' clothes.

A real disappointment.

iR cannot blame Amanda Bynes for her disorder, or her skewed body image, that's a rabbit hole far too complex for anyone without the proper education to travel down.  And as a result I've laid it on all real sweet, real sugary sweet, because the idea of a twenty four year old already caught up in the whole plastic surgery thing is far too sadly retarded to ever really accept.

So its with winced eyes, and a voice as timid as Oliver Twist that iR declares Amanda Bynes, sadly retarded, for no joy can come from her decisions here on out.

Amanda Bynes is a Thousand Oaks girl.

Amanda Bynes tried to start her own clothing line, but soon after it started up, the company had to file for bankruptcy.  

Amanda Bynes was one of the highest paid actors under the age of twenty one.

Bynes has recently been "reevaluating" how to spend her time socially.

In 2010 Bynes did a photo shoot for Maxim magazine, declaring "I think every shot. . . was sexy."

Boners boners boners.

Dustin is going to kill me.

Amanda's twitter

Amanda's official website

love,

iR

Farmville: Sad Retardation

By noon the men outside are already dripping with sweat.  Tired yet knowing their work is far from finished, they break only for lunch.  They eat outside near their unfinished work, some too tired to even clear a space out on the ground.

"You know."  One of them says, looking up from his sandwich.  His eyes are bright amongst a dirt stained face.  Its wrinkled from time spent out in the sun.  "The wife been complaining about the family."  He spat.  "Got some relatives from the city, from . . Ell. . . Aye. . . some girl that refuses to do work.  Don't wanna work none.  Too busy on the computer playin' some damn thing called Farm - Villll."

"Farm what?"  Another asks.

"Farm - villll."  The other replies.

"What's it 'bout."

"I don't try and understand it none, but 'pparently its 'bout farmin'."

"Well if that aint the dumbest thing I ever heard. . . Hey Randy you ever hear anything as dumb as that?"

"No, and I spend lots of time 'round you."  Randy says.  They laugh.

"What do city folks know about farming?"

"I don't suppose nothin'.  But they do say it requires the Dee-Es-El."

"The what?"

They all have a good laugh.  Down the street in a humble home with a beat up wooden front porch the man's wife tends to the stove.  Although she had started early preparing dinner, she's behind schedule and is preoccupied with a relative from out of town.  A little thing with pig tails and the demeanor of a "rotten vulture, a rotten vulture she is, I tell yah..."

"Off that blasted thing."  She yells.  "Off!"  There's work to be done."  She calls out into the other toom but no answer comes.  "God damn that blasted thing, Lucy."

Lucy's mouse clicks.  This is her planting a new crop.  Outside her cousin grunts.  This is him planting a new crop.

"Its downright disrespectful, Lucy.  To be so lazy when your family is outside working so."

Lucy's straw slurps.  This is her drinking soda.  Outside her cousin coughs dryly.  This is him dying of thirst.

"God dam Lucy. . . You're wasting everyone's time."

This is common sense nagging.

What plagues Lucy so?

In Farmville you pay money for fake crops and tell all your friends about it!  Its really awesome!

FarmVille, a legal drug manufactured by Zynga.org, one which is most often used by retards.  Zynga.org was founded by Mark Pincus, a silicone head with a bullshit idea to "transform the world through gaming."  In reality Znga.org's slogan should change to "lining or pockets through gaming," as all of his games are nothing more than a profit making venture which utilizes the retardation of an entire generation.  (Or"transforming the world through gaming for the worse" will suffice.)  And its no real surprise, Mr. Pincus has an MBA from Havard Business School.  Pincus' venture generates money by offering intaginble computer generated products to its gamers in return for real-cold-hard-cash.  For instance in the case of FarmVille, users are offered the opportunity to spend real money in return for special imited edition crops and items that can then in turn be planted and used on their farms - features that non-paying gamers do not have access to.  No other perks can be found from purchasing these "crops," other than the ability to brag about them. . . But who the fuck actually brags about having imaginary crops?  Well certainly the same people who would spend real money to buy something that is tangible only on the computer screen.  Retards, yes: these people are actually bartering something real for something that is entirely imaginary.

And the best part is, there's no way to really win at FarmVille.  There are no objectives other than to plant crops. . .  It is a life long game in which retards become to daily financial backers.

Aside from selling imaginary things to generate real life money, Zynga.org and FarmVille also utilize the social networking sites they run on.  Whenever gamers level up or receive new items/plant new crops, they're given the opportunity to publish these events on their social networking sites, for all of their friends to see.  This of course creates more potential gamers, and more potential money.  This mode of business in turn essentially makes all of its gamers nothing more than spammers and total asshole who become advertisers for the game, advertisers that actually PAY Zynga.org to advertise FOR THEM.  More users in turn generates more revenue - both from "in game features" and traffic through the use of ads.

And one of its most succesful "games," in this regard, is none other than FarmVille.

But why is it popular?

Because its nothing like real farming.

Aside from the fact that crops need to be watered regularly (using a computer's internal clock to register when crops are "planted" and in turn when they are "in need of water" hours later) Farmville is nothing at all like farming.  The fact that the game utilizes time management only furthers its retardation, as some players are actually giving up real social appointments to "maintain crops in need of water," and tend to farm animals that are "in need of care."  Its one of their 20 plus games which fully utilize (I.E. spam) nearly every social networking site/application, and also allows the option for its gamers to "share the experience" of the game, whether it be through Myspace.com, Facebook.com, My Yahoo, MSN Messenger, or cellphones, including applications for the dreaded-and-all-powerful-pompous-communication tool, the iPhone.

FarmVille and its other sister games are all described as life-simulators, particularly by Zynga.org.  The fervor generated by them and the utter time wasted by them makes them cancerous to the human body - the human way of life.  When considering the fact that people spend more than five minutes on these things, it must be a fraction of a growing preference toward simulated worlds.  This is further proven by the fact that people spend real money of virtual items, giving imaginary things worth.  It is a problem that began with World of Warcraft Douchetards, but was never fully utilized until Zynga.org came along with its mission to connect the world through gaming.  

What a crock.

And it is for these reasons that iR declares FarmVille, Zynga.org, and all of its products to be Sadly Retarded.

Further Retardation

Zynga.org boasts 70 million users a day.

19 Zynga games are featured on Facebook

8 on Myspace

1 on the iPhone

1 on MSN Messenger

Zynga.org's founder doesn't even play games. . . he's got a separate company that handles the actual game work. . . he just counts all the money.

A boy in the United Kingdom ran up a bill of over 900 pounds on his mother's credit card playing FarmVille, without his mother knowing.  When she found out she tried to get a refund, but Zynga refused, basically saying "be a better mother next time, and it won't happen again."

On any given day 500,000 tractors are sold in the game FarmVille. . . at 20.00 USD a piece, thats a lot of fucking money for a lot of fucking NOTHING.

Love,
iR