Fernando Flores' Journal Reads More Like A Babysitter's Diary; Britney Spears Farts, Bodyguard Crumples

Note:  The following entry is a copy of Fernando Flores' self-edited diary entry.  All cross outs are taken directly from the original text, as apparently Mr. Flores has taken to self censoring himself for his upcoming lawsuit of Britney Spears.  All crude drawings were added by Mr. Flores himself and have been X'd out in attempt to further censor himself and facilitate the image that he is in no way just a bitter man looking to get some cash out of an ugly cash cow.

Dear Diary Journal,

The life of 'professional bodyguard' is a pretty tough one, filled with danger and the very real chance of getting seriously hurt.  You would think a job description like that would be exciting, but mostly its fucking boring. Mostly you play babysitter to some snot who's only famous because people in general are infinitely retarded.  It can be a pretty glamorous lifestyle too, but also like I said, pretty damn boring.  With celebrities its mostly tight lipped limo drives and picture signings and self-promotional bullshit.  Its always the same procedure, there are fans and psychos and creeps and its your job to pick them out and act accordingly. Sometimes you make the right choice, sometimes you don't. But still, its boring. That is unless you've got some horrible client that's a real target or seems to be public enemy number one. Or unless you get a prima-donna, or even worse, a farter.

So yeah mostly its boring.  I hate to repeat myself so much, but I'm a bodyguard, my job is repetitious, and as such so am I.  My life in fact is run on repetition, I often feel like a kite tethered to the ground that's drawn so tight I can only go in circles.  Its so bad it runs my social life, the way I talk to other people, and renders my writing rather cyclical.

To keep with this theme I'll get back to the farter.  You see Ms. Spears was a constant farter.  I can't stand farts.  If during that time with her she was to ever be attacked by Howard Stern she would have been fucked, probably literally too.  I wouldn't go anywhere near that fart factory.  In fact they'd be perfect together. But nonetheless, other than her constant farting she often picked her nose in front of everybody {editors note: no papparazi photos provide evidence of this} and generally smelled.  She didn't bathe often enough for me, or for an entire flight of people traveling from LA to New York for that matter.  Perhaps when she called herself toxic she was referring to her anal leakage. . . She didn't brush her teeth sometimes for days at a time, she smelled like cigarette smoke all the time, was generally mean to me (I don't have a 'tough outer skin' okay?) and besides, she had horrible fashion sense.  I mean, gurl, really?  Like her purses wouldn't ever match her outfit.  Ever. . .  And sometimes the way she would wear her hair was just so. . . ugh. . .

It was so traumatic I filed a sexual harassment suit against her.

JOURNAL

Look diary^, look at her fart!

A lot of people think I'm just trying to get money out of her.  But they're wrong diary.  I endured a lot of emotional damage when I was working with that woman.  To see a woman like that fart and burp was disgusting, I just couldn't take it.  Besides, that wasn't the worst of it.  One night she showed up in a completely see-through white dress.  She had a cigarette in her hand and was smiling at me innocently, to trick herself into believing she didn't know she was practically already completely exposed. She walked over diary, and dropped her cigarette and bent over to pick it up. . . exposing herself to me. . .

Teeth diary, teeth.

She'd get naked and ask for 7up.  She'd perform sex acts in front of me. She would have sex and make such a noise, such a ruckus, I was sure she was doing it just to get me jealous. . . But I aint the jealous type. . .  Not with her anyway.

But it other news my time away, and my experience with Britney has taught me something.  A bodyguard's life isn't one for me.  Sure I can be as tough as anyone, but I've got my soft side.  A rather soft side.  In fact, I'm very interested in fashion, and fabrics.  I think the feeling of cashmere is amazing.  Lately I've been getting in with the fashion crowd, and have taken to designing dresses now.  Its all for fun of course, and there's no greater feeling than constructing a dress and seeing a beautiful woman made even more beautiful because of something YOU created.  Of course, it would be amazing to try on something I've made, but I don't think there's enough fabric in the world to make me look good in a dress!

In other news, the lawn is doing great.  The yard looks great with the new chrysanthemums I planted last week.  All seems to be going well on that front.  Now, I plan on drinking a Cosmo and catching up on some Sex and The City.

Dear Fernando Flores,

Crude fart and toothy vagina drawings aside. . .

There are a lot of internet creeps out there who feel that because Britney threw herself at you and constantly showed you her beaver and that this all in all disgusted you, that you are gay.  If you are so be it.  I don't really care.  After all, internet creeps are just internet creeps (a few who said they'd love to clean Britney's feet with their tongues after that article was posted about her stinky feet stinking up the whole plane) and a person has every right to love whoever they want.

What bothers me is that any credibility you had towards this suit has now been thrown out the window, after your latest comments that Britney smelled and farted a lot.  Don't get me wrong, I'm not defending that tard, and the fact that it meant a lot of 'respectable' papers felt the need to report with hilarious headlines about Flatulence and Drugs brought me much lulz, I'm just saying your grounds are weak and retarded.  You're a bodyguard.  A bodyguard.  Hardly a job one would take if they wanted to keep away from undesirables; people hire you to protect them from weirdos and shit.  But in your case they'd have to be hygienic weirdos, with shit tons of etiquette.  Are you a clean freak too?  Bad choice.

The woman is insane.  We all know that.  If you didn't know that when you signed up in the first place, you're probably just as retarded as she is. . .  This lawsuit is only degrading you both.  Which is why iR must declare you, Ms. Spears, and this entire debacle to be shamelessly retarded.

Alan Gribben Pulls an Aunt Polly on Huck Finn, and Laughs About It

I'm crying, really, I am.

Well in case you didn't know already, there's a douche bag who goes by the name of Alan Griben, and he, along with the help of New South Books in Alabama are working together to revise Mr. Mark Twain's novel Advenutres of Huckleberry Finn, into a piece of politically correct fuff that tries not to reveal the ugliness of the word 'nigger' through narrative; instead it tries to eradicate the word altogether, in an attempt to make the book more readable and less offensive.  Furthermore, Injun Joe has been changed to Indian Joe, and 'half-breed' has been changed to 'half blood.'

Now I happen to have gotten an advanced copy, and I must say these fellows have gone perhaps a tad overboard with their revisions.  Now, a realistic novel on the times with its ignorance and ugliness seen through the eyes of an innocent child (Huck Finn) is now nothing more than a politically correct piece that adheres to the original story loosely, if at all, and completely misses the boat, and the point.

Observe:

CHAPTER EIGHT

So there we was, drifting down the Los Angeles River on our plastic raft, just me and Mexican American Eduardo.  It was easy drifting there, we was already accustomed to watching the river for snags and broken glass, and there warnt nobody around to really bother us.  Nobody that warnt already dead.  It was easy to steer around them floating drowned in the river.  There were many of them, and were so commonplace that after awhile seeing them didn't harm me none.

It was easy drifting like I said, even though Mexican American Eduardo had told my Anglo-Saxon ears last night that he warnt no American and he had runned away.  I asked him if he was still a Mexican and he said yes, but he warnt no American, he was something different.  Some kind of aleeyun.  He said they wanted him cause he took the jobs of Anglo-Saxon Americans and that that warnt right.  I didn't know much about it, but I never sawed him take no jobs from nobody I knowed.  Not Aunt Polly, not nobody.  They warnt partial to real work.  Still we sat talking a bit and Mexican American Eduardo was a pretty good guy for an illegal alleyun.  Best I met anway.  After a piece I got to feeling hot so I slipped off the raft and out into the water.  It was shallow and smelled all kinds of awful, but it was nice.  It was nice but too shallow in some parts where it hardly came up to the ankle.  Well we went on like that for hours, talking a bit and taking dips, living cool and free and easy.  It was the way I liked livin'.  It was nothing like the stiff clothes and even stiffer rules of life with Aunt Polly.  The warnt any clothes to change into, just the same rags and happiness and the day before.  And rules?  Why there warnt no rules.

By and by it started to get dark.  We steered the raft to the left side of the river under a bridge.  Cars drove noisily overhead and we pulled the raft up out of the water and took shelter under the bridge.  Eduardo got the pan and the tin can, and matches and all the things we need to start a good fire.  I fetched a meal and catched a rat down the river apiece.  But it warnt animal cruelty.  The animal was already dying, and in a way I was putting it out of its misery, because I knowed it was a sin to kill any animal, and know that no one should ever do it ever. . . ever.  It was the sort of thing intellyctuals would say, and Pap hated intellyctuals, and if Pap hated em, there must be something to em.  So like I said, I killed that there rat humanely and was mighty sorry after I killed him, but I knew I was doing him a favor and ending his pain.  And I got a good rat too.  It still got its tail and everything.  Eduardo got his knife and cleaned it and fried it and we ate it.

By then we was pretty well stuffed and the sky grew dark and up over yonder the lights of the city started twinkling.  After the meal we were both powerfully lazy and comfortable, so we just layed there and let the raft do all the work.  I couldn't sleep, only think and smoke.  I thought of Pap and how I runned out on him.  How I made it look like I was kidnapped and how Tom Sawyer would be proud for how well I done it all. It was a real adventure and I done it just like in all the books, like Tom Sawyer said it was supposed to be done.  I left no tracks, other than those I wanted to be found, and after they couldn't find the kidnapper I knowed they'd come looking down on the river.  Lots of lost kids ended up in the river.  Most of em drowned.  

I had many days head start.

Before long I was tired, and before I knowed it I was asleep.  When I waked up I didn't know where I was.  I reckon I must have been asleep for a piece.  It was awful dark and quiet.  The raft drafted along and I could hear nothing but Eduardo snoring.  I couldn't see much.  There seemed to be no town nearby, there were no lights that could be seen.  Then after a piece I saw smoke.  And then the lights of a new town.  The town grew nearer and nearer and the cemented banks began sloping up toward chain link fences, some fifteen feet high in places.  The town came by and there were lights and factories.  Then McDonalds' and Taco Bell's. Before I knowed it lights came through the fences and out onto the river. Big beams of light.  I roused up and looked along the parts of the fences and along the bridge.  There were cars, some parked and some roaming up and down the streets.  There were people there and police looking down into the river.

I knowed what was up.  We was in the Glendale Narrows part of the river. I knowed cause it was the only part of the river without a cement bottom. A tree growed up through the ground in the shallow river.  The water ran past rocks and brush and I found us a way there in the brush and out of sight.  "HUCK?"  I was scared, but I didn't wake Eduardo, afeared that he'd holler and give us up so I stayed shut.  They looked along the river apiece, and before long one of the lights came right to where we were amongst the brush!  It stayed there and I thought to muffle Eduardo's snoring.  My heart nearly beated out of my chest and wouldn't stop.  I held my breath knowing they couldn't possibly hear, but still I reckoned it best to keep mum.

"HUCK?" They was talking out of contraption that made their voices louder than usual.

I didn't want to go back, and I was beginning to like Eduardo, even though I knowed it was wrong.  I couldn't help it.

"HUCK?"

By and by they moved on back up the river, and I stayed still long after I could hardly stand it.  After a piece I shoved off, and Eduardo woked from his snooze, mighty comfortable.  He smiled at me before long and we got to talking.

"Why they calling you alleyun, Eduardo?"

"I don't quite know Huck."  Eduardo said.  "Neenyo, its because I'm not like them, like an alleyun.  As far as I can tell."

"Different how?"  I asked.  "You like food don't you?"

"Yes."

"You scream when pricked, just like everyone else right?

"Yes, Huck."

"Well then I just don't see no logic in it."  I didn't.

If it warnt proper to like alleyuns than so be it.  If it meant going to the other place, than fine, it aint no mind to me.  I knowed it was a place for me and Tom.  Aunt Polly said so, on account of us being such bad boys, and I aint too particular about no place where folks like Aunt Polly was accepted.  So it was the other place for me, and I was quite partial to that.  I would like Eduardo, even though I knowed it wrong. . . 

This current 'revision' not only destroys art, but also fundamentally mistakes is bastardization of Huck Finn as anything other than that; pure sickening bastardization.  Firstly, I am in no way condoning the word, but in the case of Huck Finn, far too many people have focused on the word itself and not WHY it was used.  For one, it was the time after all in which it was written, and one cannot claim that Mark Twain is a racist.  This book in no way promotes racism, in fact it questions and reveals it ugliness.  Tis why, my dear lads, the story is written from Huck's point of view.  Huck lives in a time of racial tension and ignorance, and Huck sees and hears it all and question it, as his innocence and youthful purity finds faults and utter bullshit in it all.

Even Aunt Polly, who's said to be respectable and takes Huck in to be 'civilized' constantly berates him with her own prejudices and beliefs, cementing the theme that perhaps all these grown ups know "nothing about nothing."  

I mean Huck Finn spends all his time on a raft with a run away slave named Jim.  He knows its wrong to help him, society says so, but he does anyway.  Initially its just to get away from Aunt Polly and the structured life she represents, but along the way Huck begins to love Jim, and condemns himself willing to Hell for saving him, of course because in the eyes of society saving a run away slave and breaking him out of captivity is growns for eternal fire and brimstone.

Mark Twain even writes Jim to be a good man, a loving man.  He doesn't degrade him no break him down.  He reveals the true beauty of the man, that which exists beneath the color of his skin and in doing so, reveals the utter bullshit of racism.  Its a story of freedom, and how everyone deserves it.  How is this racist?  But then again I suppose you cock suckers never even read the book.

Even Twain states:  "a sound heart is a surer guide than an ill-trained conscience."  He describes the book as "a book of mine where a sound heart and a deformed conscience come into collision and conscience suffers defeat."

To change the word, to eliminate these negative connotations is to destroy that element in the story, and to ignore all the hatred, bloodshed, and ignorance that made the word so negative in the first place.  One may as well paint censor bars over the genitals of angels in the Sistine Chapel, or fashion a pair of Levis over the statue of David because certain parts were offensive to onlookers.  When you dabble in art, and mix and match, I get inklings that you're a fucking Nazi, for no one has the right to change art, more or less and man's own fucking words.

And it is for this reason alone that iR declares the revision of Huck Finn to be shamelessly retarded.

The Adventures of Huck Finn has been banned from countless high schools, to which I ask, Why Bother?  High school kids don't read anyway.

The book has been made into 18 different adaptations, yes 18.

It has also been made into several musicals, and has been adapted for the stage.

First published in December, 1884, reaching the states in 1885.

Mark Twain wasn't a racist.  He was a bad ass who could write and smoked cigars.

the end.

love,

iR

Zak Bagans, Ghost Hunting's Biggest D-Bag

The only REAL ghost hunters...

Everyone knows about the glitz and glamor of Las Vegas; the riches to be had, the clean hookers free of STD's and drug addiction to defile, the copious amounts of easy to get drugs and booze. . . But under the pretty glossy images lie grime and grit, caked blood and dried semen, all belonging to an entire breed of swine amalgamated in the flat lands of the desert. They're as tough on the outside as cacti, some as cold blooded as vile snakes so disgusting they can actually LIVE in such a shit climate, and are above all, willing to do anything for money.  Its a distinction that does not segregate: teachers, nuns, lawyers, doctors, city officials. . . all suffer from the same great Las Vegas poisoning: the Big Dream.  The next convenient spin of the dial, or the wheel, or roll of the die, or turn of the card. . .

Yes: the five dollar all you can eat buffets are contaminated with salmonella and mad cow disease.

Yes: the twenty dollar hooker gobbling on your knob actually has a penis. And herpes.

Yes: there are dark spots in the brightest city on earth (as viewed from a satellite.)  And it is in these pockets of despair that one must be careful, for there are scavengers and swindlers everywhere. . .

Like Zak Bagans, a Michigan man who was attracted to the bright lights and gambling.  He indoctrinated himself in the culture and soon began a swindle of his own.  He started a 'ghost hunting' community called The Ghost Adventures Crew.  It served as his base of operations, from which he would sell 'ghost hunting' equipment to Ghost Adventures Crew members (who of course joined for a fee.)  It was a damn good racket, I mean check this shit:

CHECK THIS UBER COOL ASS KICKING EMF DETECTOR DUUUUDE, ONLY 64.99!!

What does it do?  Well I'm glad you asked. . . Apparently ghosts are said to be made up of electric magnetic fields, and this helpful little thing measures these fields.  Just watch for a jump in the numbers, and you're probably measuring a ghost!  Or the T.V., or electric wiring, or anything really, because electric magnetic fields are everywhere!  They even occur naturally!

OR WHAT ABOUT THIS ULTRA-AWESOME SUPER-DUPER BALL BUSTING VOICE RECORDER, YEAAAAH.  ONLY 84.99

Ghosts are said to be able to talk within the white noise, and with digital voice recorders you can actually pick them up if you turn the volume up loud enough. . . Yes, just like in the movie The Sixth Sense.  The problem here comes with noise pollution, and a likeliness for the mind to interpret sounds and through auto-suggestion perceive to hear certain words/phrases where there are NONE.  Fancy doctors call it aphophenia or pareidolia.  Google it.

Then there are all the other tools: the full-spectrum HD camcorder: 150 dollars and up, the laser grid scope: &29.95, the Infrared Camcorder: $44.90, and a whole spectrum of temperature gauges and fancy jigamawhatsits. . . 

And then there are the less conspicuous scam machines, like the unimaginative 'Ghost Meter': $27.95 (not bad for a bit of plastic, a blinking light, and a dead needle), and the illustrious McGuyver of Ghost Huntin', the RT-EVP Spirit Box: $286.95, which simultaneously records and plays back ghost sounds. . . Ooooh fanciful.

The gadgets made the ghost swindling business quite lucrative.  Quite lucrative indeed.  It made Zak a great deal of money, as membership in his Ghost Adventures Crew grew steadily with each succeeding month. Yet as membership grew, his members looked to their leader for more than just equipment: they looked to him for actual ghost adventures, the real raw shit that scares kids and makes grown men scream. . . So he took himself to Travel Channel, and with a bunch of his own money he started up a ghost hunting show.  Ladies and gentlemen, I introduce the always hilarious:  Ghost Adventures:

As you can tell, Zak is a little over dramatic, as apparently everywhere he goes is a "tunnel to," or "an island of," or "the bathroom from" hell.  But hey man, he's just jacked up on roids and hair gel!  He's ghost hunting's bad ass: a juiced up monkey with the arms of a gorilla, the hair of a porcupine, and the brain of a pulsating jellyfish.  He's not scared of any ghost, and isn't afraid to back down; he's got the Affliction shirts to prove it.  If he could, he'd make ghosts tap, bitch.

And why such the hard attitude?  Why the muscles?  Why the air of douchery?

Why genetics of course.

You see Zak was born in Washington and spent a lot of time in Michigan, and was raised by a stout couple who could stand the cold that came in every winter.  They could take the lake freezing over, and the eight inches of snow.  But not Zak.  At the time he was a trifle thing, all sinew and bone, as if crafted small and then stretched out to an above-average height.  He did not seem to have any of the genes his parents possessed, and because of it, he suffered.  The cold shook his bones.  He often got beat up for being such a fucking weirdo.  Even his parents didn't like him much, so in time Zak left Michigan and headed west, not stopping until he found the barren deserts of Barstow, and soon Las Vegas.  There he would start anew, as a different Zak not to be ridiculed or made fun of.

He packed on the muscle.

Got a couple of tats: a Dracula tattoo on the wrist, a generic cross tattoo on the bicep, and a back tattoo so douchey not even Zak likes to show it off.

Whala!

A bitch in tough guy clothing.

Watch the fuck out ghosts, Zak Bagans is on the hunt. . .  Zak doesn't even need all of those fancy machines to find ghosts, he's got his own special equipment, tuned to pick up even the slightest bit of ghost activity.  Why yes, whenever a ghost is around Zak gets so excited his nether regions become hard, his erection like a natural Geiger counter beeping along when he finds radiation. . .

Watch the fuck out ladies, Zak Bagans is on the hunt, and yes, he will hit on you with that creepy smile of his. Never mind his wife, she's a dumb bitch; I mean, she actually married the guy, right?

The only thing worse than Zak Bagans and The Ghost Adventures Crew is its many fans.  You know the type. . . d-bag dressed in all black, hanging around cemeteries doing grave rubbings and reading Edgar Allen Poe--cause you know-- 'he's so dark duuudde.'  Once you get past the throngs of women who find him irresistibly attractive, you'll find a mixture of ghost freaks and devil worshipers, amateur Wiccans who get all butt hurt when the term witch is used negatively, and the odds and ends of a douchey goth world bordering on the occult. . .  Whatever they may be, they all have one thing in common: a modicum of intelligence.  But don't dare tell them that, for they will defend Zak and his crew to the death, as if in some way, if one were to out them as total phonies and fakes it would in turn be a direct challenge to their beliefs and the fragile state of their mortality.  

Their beliefs?

Well, there are demons, and they can shape shift.  Oh and there are portals everywhere, through which said demons can enter the real world anytime they like.  Demonic possessions are real, though rare.  Ghosts are not only capable of learning, but also know that the world is going on around them, and adjust accordingly (a defense used by a GAC fanboy when an EVP of a supposed ghost from the 18th century used 'modern terms.)  Also wiccans are not horrible witches, and in fact magic is VERY MUCH REAL.  

So naturally, retardation breeds retardation.

Gosh, I love this show.

Hilarious.

Ghost hunting is much like trying to prove who in the room farted, the only real way of knowing is if someone comes out and says it, and people are known to lie.  In ghost huntings short history, all of them have been proven to be phonies.  Starting with Charles Fort.  He was said to be America's first ghost hunter, which means he was the first one to hear voices and not blame it on booze or God.  Nah, he said he was hearing 'dead people.'  But then again... Charles Fort also believed in fairies and giants, and UFO's and all kinds of retarded shit, and even wrote all about it in a book called The Book of The Damned.  He's so popular in fact, that today he still has a magazine named after him called The Fortean Times, which covers such similar bullshit, including Big Foot and vampires.

Yay.

Then of course there was Harry Price, who set the trend for modern ghost hunters today.  He was one the first ones to create his own machines that could supposedly 'detect' ghosts.  The real plus here was that no one knew how the machines worked, except for Harry Price, who knew they didn't work at all... Because he was, in fact, a fucking phony.

Next came the Fox Sisters, who put on bullshit seances where they would supposedly talk to the dead.  They were real popular for awhile, until someone discovered that they weren't talking to ghosts, but instead eavesdropping on potential customers in the parlor before seances, and using any information they let slip out under the guise of it being some dead relative talking to them.  Even better: they were only 10 and 12 when they started this little swindle.

Then of course came our modern wave of ghost hunters:

The TAPS team: started by two plumbers... I shit you not.  Oh and yes, they were totally proven to be phonies too:

Which of course leads us to the Ghost Adventures Crew, who also have had troubles during live shows, and have been outed as phonies as well:

Apparently a ghost pulled it from his hand... But obviously he's throwing it.

Of course fans will always defend them, even with such footage: stating bull like "Its a shame that they have to lose credibility by faking shit to draw more viewers and make more money."

Yeah whatevers.  Ghosts may be real, but all of these ghost huntin' shows, and an any evidence presented on said shows has been proven to be FAKE.  Get over it.

And its for this reason that iR declares Zak Bagans and ghost hunting: shamelessly retarded.

No Zak, isn't really a swindler.  Or at least he doesn't present himself that way.

No, he probably wasn't born all tendons and bones.

No, his parents didn't dislike him.

Yes, ghost hunting is fake.

Yes, I enjoy eating cheese.

love,

iR

LeBron James and The Cleveland Massacre

The original reads:  When I look at myself, I'm not representing LeBron now.  I'm representing the league, the city of Akron, the city of Cleveland. . . I'm not going to disappoint anybody."

Now that LeBron James is in Miami, the throngs of retards who followed this long debacle can finally change their dirty drawers and wipe the drool from their mouths.  Ridiculous, if you ask me.  The whole God damn thing, as hoping for LeBron is much like praying for your guardian angel just as you're about to be swallowed whole by quick sand: even if he does show up, you're still fucked, as theres nothing he can possibly do.

Next years champs are already envisioning their gaudy championship rings, and guess what?  They won one last year.  To assume the mere addition of a young kid dumb vain enough to get 'Chosen 1' tattooed on his back would be enough to beat out a hardened, veteran team with arguably one of the greatest players in the game, and arguably one of the greatest coaches in the game, is not only irresponsible, but downright retarded.

Lakers three-peat.

Have a nice day King James.

But I digress:

Now that this whole thing is done with, it leaves the idea of fantasy wide open.  This is how it would have gone, had I done it, and not King James:

Weeks of frantic calling between Dan Gilbert, owner of the Cleveland Cavaliers, and LeBron James have led to this:  mass homicide. . .

News of LeBron shopping around made Dan rather nervous, and after each visit with a different team, Dan would call LeBron like a jealous girlfriend, demanding just how many times he was copulated, and by whom.  (Was it that bastard Isiah Thomas?  Was it?)  Naturally like any jealous girlfriend, the more LeBron went out, the more suspicious Dan became, and with the passage of time, Dan's franticness only swelled inside him, making him feel much like a balloon.  By the time the balloon was ready to pop, LeBron had just about made up his mind as to whom he wanted to go steady with.

Frantically, Dan Gilbert sought the help of Frank Jackson, mayor of Cleveland. . . 

While LeBron was getting stroked by the New York Knicks, Dan was making the call to Frank Jackson:

"He's cheating on me dammit!"  Dan said.  "Dammit it all to hell!"  He seemed as if he was sobbing, if not due to anger than to total sorrow.  "He's gonna leave me. . . The bastard is gonna leave us!  The city of Cleveland, all of us, every last one!"

"Calm yourself, Dan."  The Mayor replied.

"This is bad for everybody!  Even for you Mayor Jackson, even for you!  The economy will go down the shitter!  Tourism will drop from five thousand visits a year down to only two, or by God, only one thousand. . . They'll hang you my friend!"  Dan was yelling into the phone, due to a certain frenzy only jealous girlfriends can have when their man is just about to scoot out on em'.  "You'll forever be known as the mayor who let LeBron get away!  Do you really want that Jackson?!  Do yah?"  Jackson didn't say anything, so he continued.  "Well if that's what you want, then you can just sit back and watch your city turn to shit."

"Dan. . . -to shit-. . . Dan . . . -to shit mayor-. . . I'm with yah, but what is it that you propose?"

Somewhere over the country in a private jet LeBron James listens to Kanye West, because he's fucking cool, he's the 'Chosen One.'  He texts and flirts with teams.  Below, Mayor Jackson and Dan Gilbert organize a plan.  Miles off, a dead body floats peacefully down the Cuyahoga River, out of downtown Cleveland and out to sea.  The Post-LeBron Era's first casualty. . . Days drift on by, as the city of Cleveland goes about its daily business.  LeBron is the topic in every bar, and broodingly the entire drinking class of Cleveland sips and waits.  LeBron meets with more teams.  The media runs with it, hook line and sinker.  Dan Gilbert chews a bloody finger.  Mayor Jackson makes calls and throws about some political weight.

As the media announces that LeBron James is done courting and has final decided his next team, all of Cleveland assembles for a rally held by Dan Gilbert and Mayor Frank Jackson.  Everything is going according to plan.  LeBron meets with t.v. people to make his announcement.  Gilbert smiles, sitting next to Mayor Jackson at the podium.  The square is full of people. Jackson speaks:

"Beautiful people of Cleveland. . . As you probably know, King LeBron James' contract ran out with the Cleveland Cavaliers, and lately he's been shopping himself around."  Boos rose up from around the podium, producing a smile on Frank's face.  His arms stretch out like a marrionette.  

The people of Cleveland stand and listen.  LeBron sits down, in Los Angeles, preparing for his announcement.  Dan Gilbert wipes sweat from his brow.  Jackson in Cleveland continues:

"Now, now, settle down settle down.  We all know that LeBron is our hometown hero, our hometown boy.  Selflessly he took on the job of helping this great city of ours, and has done much for us.  Don't you think for a second now that, he's about to skip out on us now. . . Not after all we've been through together. . ."

The camera comes to life, LeBron begins to make his announcement.  An interviewer begins:

"So you ready LeBron?"

"Sure am."  LeBron replies.

While Jackson continues to speak to the people of Cleveland.

"But just in case he does have some inklings of going elsewhere. . . Mr. Gilbert and I have decided to give him a little incentive to stay here in Cleveland. . ."

And the people listen.  And the camera in Cali whirls away:

"Its been a real nail biter, LeBron, you get much sleep?"

"Not enough."  LeBron laughs.

LeBron laughs and over in Cleveland Jackson continues:

"We've decided that we'll. . .reaching into his pocket. . . kill one Clevelander. . . pulling out a gun. . . at a time until he BAM, one dead. . comes BAM back BAM to us. BAM BAM."

Each explosion of sulphur and blue flame equaling death, one loud blast at a time.  And the interviewer in Los Angeles:

"So LeBron, BAM, where you BAM, BAM, headed BAM next year?"

"I've dec-BAM-ided to BAM take my talents BAM to South BAM Beach Florida, BAM to play BAM for the BAM Miami BAM Heat."  Lebron says, plainly.

 And the next day, when the sun peaked up out over the tops of the buildings in Cleveland, Jackson was still shooting away, his feet ankle deep in a sea of spent casings.

"Until he BAM comes BAM back BAM to US!  BAM BAM."  He fires and fires and keeps firing when the clip is empty.  The devoted Clevelanders are still there, either too devasted to live without LeBron or too stupid to get up and get out of there.  They wait for Jackson to reload.  Dan Gilbert nods on and off.  LeBron pulls out his cell phone and makes a phone call:

It rings.  Jackson reloads his gun, his cell phone rings.

"Hello?"  LeBron says.

"Hello?"  Jackson says.

"Its LeBron, I'm sure you've. . ."

"Oh LeBron!"  Jackson laughs and puts the phone down for a second.  "Its ok everybody!  Its LeBron, prolly calling to come back!"  He puts the phone back to his mouth.  "Prolly wantin' to come back huh LeBron?  You heard about the people we been killing down here for you, huh, LeBron?  I know the last thing you would want is to hurt the people of Cleveland.  I know I know.  The King is back!  He's back!"

"Uh, no.  I'm going to Miami."

"Miami!  What?!"  He couldn't believe it.  "But were killing Clevelanders out here.  Don't you know?"

"Don't you know?"  LeBron askes.

"What?  What?"

"I don't give a fuck about Cleveland."

And then hangs up the phone.

This whole LeBron James hub-bub was just a little too much.  For one, Cleveland shouldn't have baptized LeBron in their waters and made him a homegrown boy so to speak.  They shouldn't have given him the title of not only King, but 'Our Lord and Savior,' for not even LeBron can save you Cleveland. . .  Never give an athelete such adoration: its sure to go to their head.  Especially if they're young.

And now that he's gone, why, my word, may I be the first to say 'welcome back to obscurity' Cleveland.

But its not really all your fault.

LeBron shouldn't have taken up the title himself.  But I guess he really thought he could carry you guys through the muck and give you something to be proud of.  LeBron shouldn't have dragged this whole thing out either, everybody already knows everything about every other team, certainly LeBron did, so why did he have to have all of these damn meetings?

What can yah give me suckkas?

LeBron isn't really all that surprisng.  The guys been bred to play basketball, much like a thorough bred horse (if he breaks a leg we just may have to put him out of his misery) so it isn't really that surprising when he does the stuff that he does.  I mean LeBron had a fucking beard in the fourth grade for Christ's sake.

If anything, he's done nothing but destroy his name, destroy his relationship with an entire city (thats fuckin hard to do,) and give himself that 'prima donna' prefix that no basketball player really ever wants. . .

But LeBron doesn't seem to mind.

And it is for that reason alone that iR declares LeBron James, shamelessly retarded.

After LeBron left Cleveland, Dan Gilbert was so butt hurt he put out this letter to all of Cleveland.

LeBron's pre game ritual includes tossing crushed chalk up into the air. . . because he's the Chosen One and everything he does is fucking cool... yah hear me?

LeBron actually has a film made about his life called More Than a Game.

LeBron will be on the cover of Backstabbing Liar Monthly next month.

LeBron is only 25. . . only 25.

6 ft 8 inches, 250 pounds.  I told you, he's a thorougho bred.

Signed a 90 million dollar shoe contract with Nike before he even debuted professionally.

LeBron was an All State wide receiver in high school.  Shit that explains a lot.

THE LEBRON JAMES OFFENSE:

Drive the lane, be sure to carry the ball.

Run over opposing players.  Don't worry about the foul, the Chosen One never fouls anyone.

love,

iR

Carlos Zambrano: Just Another Whiney Pitcher

Baseball use to be a game of true heroes: of regular Joes who had jobs on the side and were generally well respected by everybody.  They didn't have to worry about wandering the streets in fear of being recognized and mauled for autographs or photos or anything like that, or even worse, the wrath of some die hard fan of an opposing team just set on sticking it to em good.  They were average in nearly every way:  some were alcoholics, smokers (tending to smelly cigars during batting practice right before a game - heavy lumber on one shoulder and a heavy cigar like a wet slug sticking out of the corner of the mouth), big eaters and light sleepers (all the women you see.)  Just a couple of brutish stoned faced American boys, playing a pure American game on fields so nice, by God: it must be American.

Simple everyday men, who despite being so mortal, so God-damned plain, managed to do great and amazing things, and in doing so managed to rouse in fellow man the capabilities of flesh, in a game that made them legends.

But its not like that anymore.

There are no more legends to be had, not in the modern game.  None of the type that Kevin Costner likes to jerk himself off with -- there aint no Field of Dreams with a tall corn fringe on the edge of a ball field through which baseball greats - like actors through a curtain - appear to play the game of ball. No, not anymore.  Just a dusty diamond with a spotty field full of ragweed, lined by a rusty fence sure to give anyone who touches it a case of 'the lock jaw,' and all the players running around the field just so happen to be nincompoops.

And cheats. . .

And crybabies. . .

Like this guy: Carlos Zambrano.

Carlos (center) doing what he does best: bitchin'.

Like so many Chicago Cub pitchers, perhaps due to the teams historic inability to produce a team capable enough to win the World Series, Carlos Zambrano was touted as the next big thing for the organization when he first appeared: that rocket of an arm that would, by strength alone, pull the rotten team up out of a dreary dream state, almost as if they were drowned, and pick them up, dripping like drowned rats to plop them peacefully on a much drier promised land:  The World Series.

Yet:  this never really happened, and has yet to happen. . . and now big old Carlos Zambrano, "Big Z," is thinkin' about retiring.

Why did it never happen?

Because he's no hero, like ball players of old, he's just a crybaby, look:

After 1st baseman Derek Lee missed a sharp grounder for a lead off double, Zambrano laid into Lee, feeling as if he should have gotten it.

This latest outburst, which only happened a couple of weeks ago, gave Carlos Zambrano and indefinite suspension from the team, and when he does come back, he'll be saddle bagged with relief pitching duty. . . But all of this is no new thing to Zambrano, he's had a history of flying off the handle.  He's done it all, from tossing a ball into left field after he received an unjust call, to slapping his teammates, destroying bats, talking shit about his own fans, and uplifting Gatorade dispensers.  He's even gone so far as to use every umpire's favorite motion, that simple movement that displays not only absolute power but bitter disgust: that -YOU'RE OUTTA HERE- motion all umpires use when they throw out a player.  After disagreeing with an umpire and getting throw out of the game, Zambrano felt it fit to show everyone just how much power, and bitter disgust he had too, because he then proceeded to use that same motion: YOU'RE OUTTA HERE and attempted to throw out the umpire, and stared at him with so much authority you would think the roles were reversed.

Needless to say, he didn't succeed.

He didn't succeed and has given his organization a whole lot to think about.  His retardation is no doubt shameful, and bad for the city and the team, yet management faces a calamity: the damn bastard still has 2 years left on his contract, and with a no-trade clause to boot.  Its a real pickle'n'that well, you see, that means they can't get rid of the ole' lard ass, not'n'less they feel like waiting for his contract to run out.  And you can damn well guarantee that when the cows do come home, he'll ride the pine and pitch a few innings of baseball, and still get paid the big buck, still get paid as much as any heavy handed hide hurler.  This will make him, no doubt, the highest paid reliever in the game, and that my friends, is so retarded I dare not venture to think about it.

Despite Zambrano's bitchiness, it is not a unique quality for the modern day Major League Baseball pitcher to posses, for once again, the heroes of the past have faded out into obscurity, sullied by the great shit stain that is modern baseball.  There have been many pitchers who have fallen under such a title, of 'utter overpaid douchebag' like:

John Rocker, who famously described New York City as a real shit hole that resembles 'Beirut,' and is home to 'AIDS infested queers,' jailbirds, women who produce many offspring at young ages, and worst of all the foreigners!  'The biggest thing I don't like about New York are the foreigners.  You can walk an entire block in Times Square and not hear anybody speaking English.  Asians and Koreans and Vietnamese and Indians and Russians and Spanish people and everything up there.  How the hell did they get in this country?"  Oh yeah, and he's done much in securing his image as a racist retard. . . These days he's trying to start a "Speak English" campaign, yelling racist remarks at other hotel patrons, or literally spitting on foreign products. . . oh and he's a cheater too, in 2007 his name was found on a client list that sold human growth hormones.

Odalis Perez, who when isn't giving up six runs a game and stinking up the place, often enjoys temper tantrums that are so stereotypical you would think he spent all his days watching kids pout.  He includes all the usual outbursts, short of torrents of tears, and loves most to stomp around the field and destroy things.

Kevin Brown, who's bitchiness can be chalked up as 'roid rage,' as the guy had more fuel pumping through his veins than a race car on race day.  This guy had an anger problem that was further compounded by a racing heart and testicles that were shriveling by the very second.  Oh and when he's not on the field, he's just as big of a loose handle, as in 2006 he allegedly pulled a gun on his neighbor after he accused him of dumping dead foliage in his yard.

Roger Clemens, who's such a great guy he cheats in the game of baseball and cheats in the game of love.  The ultimate Diva, during his career Roger complained about a whole lot of things, the most pathetic of which was the fact that he had to carry his own luggage through airports.  He's also criticised Fenway Park, calling it a 'subpar facility,' and has had more than his fair share of bouts of racism, including this little gem:  "None of the dry cleaners were open, they are all at the game, Japan and Korea."  (Clemens on the World Baseball Classic.)  To top it all off when his career was waining Roger announced retirement, then retracted it, then announced retirement, then retracted it, only to finally retire and have everyone call him a little whiney-ass-diva.

And then there's always Wild Thing:

But he wasn't much of a baby as he was just a bad ass.

Oh man, God know's its really tough getting paid buttloads of money to throw a baseball.

Oh man, and some people will say, well you know, money doesn't by you happiness.

Oh man, and I'll respond by saying, well you know, surely lots of money and a job that is basically a game should bring you hapiness, and if you can't even do that, you just suck at life.

Seriously Big Z, I'd like to live you life just one day.  Put up a horrible pitching performance in front of a crowd that isn't use to winning anyway, and then throw a big old temper tantrum (most 35 year olds can't get away with this,) and then go home to your big old house, just so I can shit in your five thousand dollar diamond encrusted jacuzzi.

Oh and I would do it...

The retardation here is astounding its so vast.  If anything the whole baseball thing is just further proof that shit is getting worse, all the time.  How is it that these guys have to cheat, and still suck more than Babe Ruth, a man who'd walk up to the plate with a t-bone steak in his back pocket, and a head full of liquor? 

Because the game is evolving.

Yeah all you rich assholes like George Steinbrenner who basically OWN all of baseball have really turned a sport that once was wholesome and turned it into a giant ball of whiney bitch retardation.  You've spoiled players with money and now they've come to believe they're something special: and they haven't even done anything special yet. . . You're paying them to shit down the throats of every player who played the game legitimately.

And it is for these reasons, and the lack of remorse you show for your outbursts, that iR declares Carlos Zambrano, shamelessly retarded.

love,
iR

Paparazzi: Shamelessly Retarded

From coast to coast, through the empty lands in between, a human tide rolls despite the wind, the season, despite the very year, rolls on pigheadedly with weapons that can gleam like diamonds with the press of a button and have the power to capture souls -- or so the Indians thought. These men, this human tide, differ from others in the 'soul capturing' business, in that they have no morality nor any real interest in the subject they stalk, which they do mercilessly, day and night, rain or shine. Collectively, they are know for their parasitic ways, and equally their lack of remorse, and when alone, each person making up its ripples, its crests and frothy tides acts much like a filthy worm, too ignorant to know right from wrong.

They are known simply as:

The Paparazzi.

Individually they are known by many more names, many of them expletive, for even pigeons find these guys a nuisance.

They are supposed photographers, who stalk celebrities with a ferocity unmatched by even the most devoted of men. But do not let the term 'photographer' fool you, these men are no artists, and similarly aren't anywhere as talented, for surely neither art nor talent has anything to do with getting a cooch shot of Britney Spears: its more a matter of being in the right place at the right time. By 'right place' I mean any club deemed fashionable enough for Hollywood trash, and by 'right time' I mean any time after 2 am, when intoxication would most likely be toward those toxic -I'm-Gonna-Puke-Levels.

In regards to technique, its less 'aim and shoot' and more 'spray and pray,' let loose on the sucker, let the lamp flicker and light up the place like muzzle fire. If lucky, you'll get a good shot of your victim - a death wielding blow, one capable of destroying their image and reputation like so much glass . . A good shot, a fresh kill, to be fed into the gears of another machine, to be ground up and churned out with hack writing and pure bullshit, one sheet at a time - collected and bound with cheap staples, and doled out to supermarkets for swine old ladies to gaze at; to swoop up; to soil with sweaty pruned fingers; to leave left out on the table; to line the bird's cage with. . .

Pure fuel for the furnace.

These paparazzi have their own social strata, as lopsided as any other. At the top, at the very peak lay the big shot paparazzi, who are commissioned for photos for big international stars, namely Angelina Jolie. These paparazzi live in nicer homes, up in Beverly Hills, with big white gates to keep all the riff raff out, and rightfully so, for often nice cars and obstinate wealth is kept within their iron doors. Beneath them exists a group of mid-level scum, who dislike those above them, and the feeling is indeed mutual. They are the hounds who's sole preoccupation is to follow tail with their uncanny sense of smell. They've most often got leeches in their ears, Bluetooths and cellphones that slowly suck out their brains like soggy oatmeal. These are the types who take to the clubs, and snatch shots of snatch for 260 bucks a pop, who wait tirelessly anywhere and everywhere, like some undying weed that just springs up at a moments notice. They live in moderate homes, with nice squared off lawns, and well paved driveways; still quite well-to-do, but not quite upper crust. Beneath them exists an even greater scum, who's work consists of mostly blurry shots of actors nobody cares about anymore (i.e. Tara Reid,) or something everyone's already seen a million times before and is therefore no longer "gossip worthy" (i.e. Tara Reid drunk in public.) They are generally disdained by the rest of the paparazzi world, who see them as "amateurs," and the ones responsible for giving them a bad name. They live in rented apartments, or bunk with friends, some even live in their cars, which hardly function as transportation anymore, but rather as a trashcan on wheels with plenty of room for fast food wrappers and beer cans.

But then there's always an instance when every paparazzi is looking for that 'money shot,' that six figure photo that practically every magazine is looking for. What makes for a 'money shot?' Well it seems mostly photos of babies, or photos taken of celebrities seconds before/after death, wedding photos, you know the usual vulture type shit.

People for instance paid 4.1 million dollars for this shit:


Even more appalling OK! Magazine thought it necessary to drop 3 million dollars on photos of a retard marrying an old witch:

The underlying reasons as to why this is not only frightening, but also retarded, should be apparent, for there would be no way for any magazine trying to keep from going under to spend that kind of dough on a photo alone, unless they had the revenue to back it up. People has a expected revenue of 1.5 billion dollars, a circulation of 3.75 million - its teenage variation Teen People hasn't done too bad either. . . OK! Magazine is the UK's top selling trash magazine, and also has branches in the United States, Turkey, and Azerbajian, so one must assume they aren't struggling either.

A lot money floating around, yah dig?

And like snow it all comes down from the top, sprinkling down from the magazines to the editorial staff and the writers, to the secretaries manning the phones, the janitors flogging the toilets, down through the building and out to the lonely paparazzi, left to feed like vultures on whatever remained of the pot.

So who does this leave to blame?

Well paparazzi are driven, like most bad things, by money, but their photographs are only valuable because magazines and tabloids make them valuable. And why are they made valuable? Because of you of course. Without customers, there wouldn't be any hub bub over Angelina's swollen belly, nor when it deflated and a baby came out: for it is indeed logical for a woman to be able, with the help of a man to produce offspring. Yet this in no way forgives paparazzi for some of their deceitful and intrepid ways. Regardless of the first amendment, these men and women operate on the fringe of business and morality, often throwing morality out the window for the sake of a quick buck.

Celebrities are douche bags, tis the very theme of this site, and paparazzi for their willing devotion to tap the blood lines and feed the growing retardation of entire races of human beings, makes paparazzi, in the eyes of iR, shamelesly retarded.

FURTHER RETARDATION:

Celebritah Scuffles with Paparrazi:

ALEC BALDWIN - In March 1996 he allegedly gave a photographer a black eye after he swarmed he and his wife and their new born daughter.

GEORGE CLOONEY - Organized a boycott of Paramount Pictures for their use of paparazzi footage

JOHNNY DEPP - Chased off paparazzi outside a restaurant, reportedly having "flipped out."

SEAN PENN - Spent 1 month in L.A. county Jail for assaulting a photographer whose presence annoyed him and then wife, Madonna.

ROBERT DeNIRO - In 1995, was accused of pinning a photographer to a car outside of a Manhattan Bar, requesting the footage he had acquired.

WOODY HARELSON - Went to court for allegedly assaulting two cameramen during Ted Danson's Wedding, set in beautiful Napa Valley. Confessing he was merely trying to protect his daughter from being photographed, Woody nonetheless still lost the case and had to pay 80,000 in lawyer's fees.

KEANU REEVES: Was claimed to have hit paparazzi with his car after leaving a friends house.

SIENNA MILLER: Won an injunction preventing paparazzi from following her or gathering outside of her home.

AMY WINEHOUSE: Won an injunction preventing paparazzi from following her or gathering outside of her home.

LILY ALLEN: Won an injunction preventing paparazzi from following her or gathering outside of her home.

iR

The Savage Assault of Ben Savage

A strange party in the dust bowl that is Bakersfield, California, where dreams come to die. Its a town of a certain breed, too retarded to realize their lands bare no fruit; to legalize gambling like Vegas and realize desert people are generally deranged. Although its not quite a desert, its far from the lights of Hollywood, the genius of Silicone Valley, and even farther from liberal San Francisco. On this night of nights, its home to a strange party, one of like minded individuals over the hump and out of sight, the forgotten forlorn stragglers left after a dream fizzled out in their hands with the clink of ice and soothing burn of yet another drink.

I was there.

I saw it all. Every brutal second of it. It was like a funeral procession.

And listen:

I'll tell it to you now.

When I arrived I believed myself to be hallucinating - finally flipped your wig this time boy-o. There were people already dancing and taking in the merriment of drinking with fine friends at a social gathering. But these were no normal people, they all seemed to be T.V. stars who were once hot shit; third rate actors from movies you could hardly remember the names of; comedians who were once funny but somehow faded into the void; porn stars that were only recognizable to obscure heavy masterbators; odds and ends of the entertainment world, sprinkled out carelessly like matchsticks all about the room and in every corner. Had it been the 90's I probably would have found myself in a sweet little loft somewhere in the hills, but no, this was 2010, and all these people were now over with or clinging desperately to some sort of fame, and partying in fucking Bakersfield, California. Fucking Bakersfield, where whole neighborhood blocks are made up of circus performers, where LARPing is considered "a fun thing to do," where not even the hookers have the heart to play along and act like they are interested. . . I wondered whom it was who attracted these people like cockroaches - would they scatter if I turned on the lights?

Was it Johnny Knoxville?

No. . . No signs of meth and heroin addicts around. . . No burned furniture, no Bam Magera and his infinitely retarded friends running around from room to room, cackling like banshees and causing drug and alcohol fueled havoc. There was no destruction, no upturned furniture outside on the patio, nothing torn from its foundation, and none of the surprised frightened faces of onlookers resulting from such acts. Nope, it couldn't be Knoxville. But who then? The decor of the room suggested a certain sort of taste, yet it all seemed too formulaic. It seemed phony, as if the head of party wasn't even the owner of the home, but rather a renter, and the building itself often found itself in style and decor magazines. . . But who the fuck would wan't to live in Bakersfield? . . . Someone wanting to hide, but who? Knoxville is too retarded to realize he should be ashamed of himself. . . But who? I was beginning to absorb the dread of the place, and got to feeling that the very dust of this rotten town was made from the bones of men, when my answer came, from the second floor.

It was muffled by cookie cutter middle class walls, and though it was distorted by insulation, it still had a slight twinge of drunkeness which fell heavily on M's and O's.

"You know whoooo I ammmm?" It came, with feet stomping down the stairs: -THUMP-THUMP-THUMP- "I ammm the oooone and ooonly. . . ." Muffled, -THUMP- THUMP- THUMP- THUMP. He came around the corner, into the kitchen, where Snooki from the Jersey Shore just so happened to be hosting her own little dance party. The following video was then recorded:

But what happens? What changed this video from a 3 minute dance fest into an abrupt public message? . . . Ben Savage finally noticed the camera:

"Is your mom going to see this?" And then the camera suddenly cuts to Snookie with the camera in her face, a voice in the background saying "There we go."

But what happened in between the cut? I know, I was there. . .

Listen:

"Is your mom going to see this?" He walked toward her and she shut off the camera. "What the fuck were you thinking? Just who do you think you are?" It seemed that Corey Matthews in fact grew up to be a horrible mean mean man, with an ego inversely as large as the shortness of his temper. "Do you know who I am?" He started to shake her. "Do you know who the fuck I am?! I'm Ben FUCKIN' Savage - which means not only am I hot SHIT and FUCKING famous but I am the one running this little party going on around you." He he waved his arms around to illustrate, they made circles over dead beats drinking and forgotten stars mingling with forgotten personalities, and me in the corner, totally flipping my wig. . . I had never seen Corey Matthews curse before, especially with such gusto. . . I expected Mr. Feeni to come out at any minute, to escort him out of the room so that he may be berated in private. "And in turn, that makes me the owner of this FUCKING home, making it my sanctuary, my nest free from the public eye. . . And I'd like to think that I should be able to throw a FUCKING party with my friends without having to put up with cameras. . . But oh no I guess I was wrong." He was becoming more and more angry - each curse word cutting through the air with certain insolence. They seemed foreign. Out of place.

"I'm sorry, I just- I just. . ." Snookie said, frightened.

"You just what?" He boomed, the percussion of which had seemed to interrupt the party. Now i was no longer alone, transfixed in a shocked gaze. Snookie floundered as if pinned to the counter by his gaze, and there was no way for her to escape it, boxed in like a caged animal. "Just thought you'd prolong those five minutes of fame that got you here. . . You're lucky I even let you stay - my parties are for a certain class of people - people that don't include orange skinned Oompa Loompa Jersey trash like you."

It was one of the most creative insults I had heard in a long time.

Snookies mouth popped open, to be called an Oompa Loompa not only implied that her tan was fake, but also that she was portly, perhaps even down right fat. The former eating disorder reared its ugly head again; surged through her body and up her spine in lightening bolts - worming up into her face making it scrunch up, and into her eyes producing a torrent of tears. They rolled down her face trailing black clown make up streams of salt and bitterness.

"Yeah thats right." Ben continued. "Just another Hoover vacuum come to get a little of ole Ben. Come to suck a little life and a little recognition out of me. Just another vulture."

He then went on about ethics among celebrities - using the destinction in Snookie's case rather loosely - and about how paparazzi are scum, and in turn it is frowned upon to whip out a camera and start filming away amongst other celebrity friends. He spoke calmly but you could tell there was a certain anger boiling away somewhere underneath the surface. At any moment it looked as if he would pop, cartoonishly shooting out steam from his ears. He went on about the priveledge of being allowed into such parties, but I missed most of it. I had to piss and clear my head. Was it all a hallucination brought on from all the drink? A mild fantasy sprining up from insanity like bubbles amongst a fog of terror filled confusion?

Perhaps.

But as I left the bathroom, the spectres were still all there, as clear as day, as ugly as sin. Ben was ending his tirade, Snookie had stopped crying and although the tension had waned in the room, it still clung to the floorboards. It seemed hard to walk, maybe it was all the drink.

Maybe.

"Good - now why don't you film yourself and not me. Mmmkay?" He lifted her camera. It went on. "There we go."

"You see the fist pump everywhere. . ." She said but lost her spirit. The entire video had been ruined, for what started out as an attempt of shameless self promotion became yet another reminder of her adequacy. The joy had evaporated, she had once again been defeated - and by Ben Savage of all people. He was always somewhat of a hero to her, for he was the only one who would always be there for her, when no one else would. . . Yes, under the warm glow of the T.V. she found comfort in his show and wondered what it would be like to be so normal. He's no hero anymore, not to her anyway. She lowered her camera like her own personal axe as her eyes glared with a certain hatred towards him. "Well I never liked Boy Meets World anyway." She lied, and then stormed off through the house - all heels -clackclackclackclackclack-. She went off to gather the courage to come back and really tell the bastard off. Her retreated defeated left Mr. Savage the victor, and in his victory he took to gloating about it to everyone around him. He even toasted to the bitch, as her sobs echoed out through the hallway. It was wicked, I thought.

Someone should say something. I made my first movement in what seemed like hours, but I was hindered by my feet which felt like bricks, and -clackclackclackclack- Snookie was coming back for round two. She barreled through the doorway, her hair poof ruffled, her eyes red from crying. . . She may have been a hair under five feet, but she had puffed herself up so big and tall she felt she could tower above the world, and even Ben seemed frightened.

"You - you - you-" She swelled with so much anger the words choked her up as her feeble mind tried desperately to conjure up an effective enough insult. "You bastard. . . you ugly little. . ."

And then it happened. It was but a snapshot of ugliness, a brief moment, but one which carried the same weight of an all out brawl. It may as well have been a massacre.

Look:

Yes this is indeed a genuine photograph (lawl I feel like a paranormal photographer) - no photoshop went into making this photo. It is one hundred purr-cent gen-u-innne reality right dur. Always the gentlemen, Mr. Savage smiled for a photograph, even when assaulting a bitch.

Now I knew for sure that I was crazy, either that or punching Snookie in the face had become the newest trend in Hollywood. He cold cocked her one, the sound like raw meat succumbing to some great force. She then hit the floor, a sack of potatoes. Moldy potatoes. Moldy crying potatoes with cooch exposed.

Tater tots.

French fries.

I left the room and collapsed outside, tears mixing with the dirt. It was the only rainfall Bakersfield ever seems to get - the tears of tired and worn out men. I didn't cry for Snookie. I didn't cry for Ben.

I cried because sometimes you see something and are reminded of yourself. . .

iR

*Note: In reality Ben doesn't even drink. He's such a pussy he doesn't even touch the stuff. So I guess this was all a waste of your time.