The Ryan Gossling Effect; Or The Death of Rationalization

The written word has been losing a long battle with other mediums since the invention of television and other institutions which require "less thought."  Yet still, magazines thrive, as many people still enjoy them while waiting for the torture of dentistry, or the vain efforts of a hairdresser. It has always been a mild distraction, to be picked up in times of utter boredom--perhaps when the cellphone is out of battery life, or the institution being visited is void of any free wifi. Sure, many magazines have folded over the years, to be forgotten forever by everyone except for a few die-hards, but Rolling Stone has been the written gospel for many a pompous music fan, and High Times has been a porno mag for stoners all across the country for just over forty years.  Quality has never been a precursor to whether or not a magazine survives, its all dumb luck and stupidity, a sort of survival in the coming waves of what is trendy and popular. People has survived under this distinction, and has for a long time been America's sort of secret, dirty obsession (beside torture, slavery, war, and robbing the poor).

In this light, People has been given the rather bullshit and unimportant task of naming The Sexiest Man Alive for many years, and during that time not a single scientist or working mind has been mentioned--only celebrities--the nonexistent and unimportant. Its obvious and understandable when one considers People only writes about celebrities, but when considering such an umbrella term as man, its just plain stupid. America's obsessions with these fools have been showcased over the years, and now it has finally turned ugly. . .

November 16, 2011

Sylvia Wormwood, aged twenty-eighty, sits at her kitchen table, with a legion of like minded followers surrounded around her in a ring of stupid. Their faces carry a shock and morbidity that would lead one to believe that they are looking at old LIFE photos of the Vietnam War, or the motorcycle hoodlum gang called Hell's Angels.  But they aren't gazing at a story of any real importance, they're looking at People's latest distinction of The Sexiest Man Alive, and quite frankly, they're beside themselves with terror and hurt.

"Bradley Cooper?"  Sylvia scoffs.  "Really?  Bradley Cooper?"  She shakes her head as one of her friends, with less than an iron stomach evacuates the room to vomit.  It sounds like her soul is being wretched out, and the smell of it proves she has quite an ugly soul indeed.

When her friend returns she finds everyone quiet, brooding.  Though the sun is coming in yellow through a front window the Vomit Girl can no longer see the sunniness she once knew in all her friends.  They seem grey. Sylvia seems black with darkness and shadow.  Vomit Girl is concerned for the very air itself seems heavy, and every face she peers into seems heavy, and her legs feel heavy, and the clouds outside the window look heavy.  Everything looks heavy.  Heavy, heavy, heavy.  So heavy she subconsciously mouths the word HEAVY.  Something big is on the horizon.

"Well, we can write letters!"  Vomit Girl blurts out, but no one seems to notice.  She looks around at all the faces with her small head, with its small eyes and tiny nose like somebody pushed it in long ago and it just stuck.  Her minute frame suddenly tries to be bigger than it is--a defense mechanism, her chest filling with air, the hands like tiny birds moving up to rest on her hips.  An air of authority.  "We can write emails!" she amends.  "We can take to the power of the internet.  Blast them with how wrong they are.  Start a real smear campaign.  With users and message boards and chat rooms and everything," she says, growing bigger with every word.

"Emails and message boards are for kids. . ."  Sylvia replies.  Vomit Girl deflates and steps back to hide behind the others.  "Or for your loving local congressman light with the wind of an upcoming reelection.  This is bigger than that."

"We can make a website!"  Another of the group adds.

"No, Eve."  Sylvia speaks quietly, as if to keep from going into a total rage.  Her painted lips curl down at the corners, hinting at that rage, and the trembling of her hands show how hard she is trying to suppress it. "No, we must show our strength, our numbers."  She rises up in front of the girls, speaking with the authority of a troop commander.  "They must see us, physically.  Not with emails or websites.  Those are intangibles. They are nothing--nothing compared to people--to the flesh.  Can a email scream?  Can a website cry?  Can a forum actually hurt?  Can any of these things exist outside of the realm of the internet?  Like real things? Hmm?  We must organize, we must show our strength, our numbers," she repeats.

"I don't know. . ." Vomit girl says.  She is worried.  She knows what Sylvia could do  when she lost her head--enough nights drunk at the club with Sylvia told her that.  "Look, I'm just as upset about this as anyone else--but let's not do anything rash.  It is just a magazine.  It is just a silly little title anyway.  I know my love for Ryan hasn't been hurt one bit by it. He probably doesn't even care."

"Maybe she's right," Sam, the only man present says softly, for not only Vomit Girl is feeling the tension building up in the room.  "I love Ryan as much as the next gal but. . ."

"But nothing."  Sylvia snaps.  "Harsh times call for harsh measures."  The look in her eyes makes Sam turn to jelly.  "Imagine how hurt Ryan is." She pauses and the group thinks about it.  "Imagine how hurt all the other Gossling fans are.  That's a whole lot of hurt.  Just a magazine?  Just a silly little title that means nothing at all?!  People* has a lot of nerve with a name like that.  They aren't for the people--clearly not.  This is so much bigger!"

*People magazine boasts a circulation of 3.75 million readers, as of 2006.

She points to Molly, the group's 'fat friend' whose tears are still rolling down her face, and have been ever since she first saw the cover, like a leaky faucet that just won't turn off.  Molly blows her nose, a lawn mower. A lawn mower and a leaky faucet, that is Molly.

"We must show our strength, our numbers."  Sylvia says as if it were her personal mantra, and in the coming days would become the official motto of our nation's first and only Vespa gang.  "And we start now."

As the day passes and the sun sinks down beyond the trees and the buildings built still higher with man's vanity, the Wormwood home undergoes tremendous change.  The Notebook had been put at the start, and though many of the group are big fans (including Sam), many don't listen. The voice of Sylvia would not be denied.  The table is cleared, and from around it the group gathers as Sylvia lays out pictures of Gossling and those abs of his they so adore.  Their preferred beverage of wine coolers is brought out, and the binge drinking begins.  Many of them are not regular drinkers, but due to the severity of the situation many feel it necessary to let out a bit of steam.  Under the fiery affects of the liquor, which many of them found to be quite hard, their voices lift, and moments of great pitch and action begin.  The furniture is destroyed with little concern and prejudice as their feelings swell under the shitty bitch booze. The windows, once cleaned obsessively are shattered for fun, the sound showering out onto the street with their laughter.  They're happy despite their anger, and many a neighbor is disturbed.

One such neighbor makes a phone call to her only friend that goes like this, she standing there in the kitchen on the old rotary phone she had kept all those years, her hair up in rolls for the next day:

"There are all sorts of strange sounds over their Maggie.  Well I don't quite know.  I can hear them laughing, but there are all these sounds of destruction.  Like what?  Broken glass.  Some sound like someone chopping wood, but mostly it was like wood splintering.  Splintering dear. Splintering.  It just aint right.  I said it just aint right.  How do I know?  I'm not all that crazy you know.  Hey now, I've been tested!  I know there's something wrong cause I can hear a movie playing loud in the background, and there's all this laughter and destruction, like it doesn't even matter.  What?  No, I don't know what movie it is, but it is awful loud.  Loud 'nuff I can hear it anyway.  I can hear sewing machines too.  A strange sewing party, if I ever heard one.  This gets any worse, I just may call the cops.  No, not cots.  Why would I call a bunch of cots?  I said cops.  I know, I know.  But hey, there's such a thing as common decency. . ."

She says her good-byes and hangs up the phone to hobble off into the dark corner of her bedroom to look terrified out the window at the goings on next door.  The cops are never called however, and as the sun rises once again to the sounds of birds already out in the trees to welcome it, the group finds themselves baptized in the warmth of sin, booze, and Ryan Gossling.

November 17, 2011

They are no longer friends of Sylvia's, but members of an elite group of die-hard fans that would do anything for their man.  A group of people who were once good, but have been made bad, and they know the score.  The Gossling Elite.  The Gossling Gang.  Only a day later, police had themselves a new menace, as this one police report shows:

NARRATIVE
On Thursday November 17, 2011 Eve Flair, (of 555 W. Fifth Street, Los Angeles, CA) was placed under arrest along with Charlotte Webber (of 1888 N Main Street, Los Angeles, CA) after being observed exhibiting loud and tumultuous behavior in a public place directed at a uniformed police officer who was present investigating a report of a crime in progress.  When asked to disperse they grew violent, smashing the windshield of a nearby motorist with a length of heavy chain.  These actions on the behalf of Webber and Flair were said to be in support of a one Ryan Gossling, whom they claimed to be the victim of a horrible travesty.

On the above time and date, I was on uniformed duty in an unmarked police cruiser assigned to the Administration Section, working from 7:00 AM - 3:30 PM.  At approximately 12:44 PM, I was operating my cruiser on E Jefferson Blvd near S Central Avenue. At that time, I overheard an ECC broadcast for a possible break in in progress at 587 W. Fifth Street. Due to my proximity, I responded.

In route to the scene I came across a group of nearly 12 women and 1 man out in the middle of the street, protesting.  They were wearing Ryan Gossling masks, and their Vespas were parked out in the street, blocking it.  Traffic built up, and I asked them to disperse as to not cause any potential dangers for other motorists.  I flashed the lights, but they just grew more belligerent.  Other motorists exited their cars to yell at the group, calling themselves the Gossling Gang, and after one insulted them, the gang descended onto the victims car and smashed windows with bricks they called Bradley Bricks.

"As ugly and thick headed as Bradley Cooper," they shouted as the windows of the driver's vehicle were destroyed and others took to the sides of the vehicle with lengths of chain.  I managed to take two into custody before the others drove off silently on their Vespas at top speed.  Back up was called, but none of the rest of the Gossling Gang were apprehended, as they could not be properly ID'd as anything other than Ryan Gossling.

When booked, Eve Flair announced herself to be Evil Evey, and Charlotte Webber announced herself to be Webber the Wino, though their identification proved otherwise. 
. . .

The police report and the suceeding media blitz around The Gossling Gang brings the group sudden overnight fame, and though their heads swell a bit from the sudden exposure, many of them are still dedicated to the plan: to have Bradley Cooper denounced as The Sexiest Man Alive so that Ryan Gossling may take up the title.  The newspapers run with titles like BARROWS GANG WHO? NEW OUTLAWS IN TOWN, and GOSSLING GANG TAKES IT TO THE PEOPLE OF PEOPLE, and FIGHTING IN THE STREETS; GOSSLING DIE HARDS TO BLAME.  They celebrate their new found fame, but little do they know that from the east, a group of butch motorcyclists, is riding to meet them, covered from head to toe in Nazi regalia to defend who they believed was still The Sexiest Man Alive, a man who had been given the title decades earlier, a man named Mel Gibson.

November 18, 2011

The sun rises in its yellow Godliness above the land, through the smog and all the rest.  The Gossing Gang is gathered at their headquarters, the former site of Sylvia's home, gutted and depraved.  Sylvia is no longer going by Sylvia, but instead GM, Gossling's Mamma, and all the other's have names too. Vomit Girl picks up her name for the night of her infamous vomiting, Eve of course goes by Evil Evey, Charlotte: Webber the Wino, Sam goes by Sassy Samuel, and there are others: Notebook, Jugs, Wendy the Whipper, Aunt Ethel, The Babymaker, and a whole slew of so many more.

The old woman next door peers from her window and looks out upon a torn up lawn, with Vespas parked haphazardly about it, the green gutted and turned to brown.  A group of sparrows tend to the worms dug up, to the roots ground up from the land.  There is fear in her eyes, but she doesn't dare make the call.  Despite her growing dependence on others and loss of sight, she still is bright enough and clear enough of vision to make out the headlines that morning, and make that grim connection that the Gossling Gang is indeed living next door.  There's no other explanation for the sudden change, for the sounds and evidence of destruction she had been witnessing over the past couple of days.

Inside the gang comes up with a wonderful idea, to boycott outside of the very offices of People magazine.  Some suggest its New York offices, but many feel that time is precious, and a run to New York would take too long.  They settle on its Los Angeles editorial bureau on 10960 Whilshire Blvd.  Their Vespas line up on the lawn at 11:50, the group dressed in full costume: Gossling masks, cowboy hats, Frenchie hats, some, no hats at all, blue and black plaid shirts with Gossling's Gang sewn on the back, tassles, colors, and in the case of Sassy Samuel, an excess amount of glitter.  At 12 on the dot they ride off, one at a time, like silent rockets in a long procession of hate, their bikes chewing up turf as they make the jostling transition from lawn to street--up and over the curb with nothing but style, Vespa's grooving down the righteous path of the super fan gone wrong.  The old neighbor next door comes out to watch them, and when they are done she runs back into her house to make yet another frightful phone call to her nearly deaf friend:

"The monster's loose!"

As they ride off Sylvia, Gossling's Momma thinks:

"We'll show those bastards."

Evil Evey thinks:

"If only I had a battery powered curling iron--I'd burn those fuckers faces right off.  Make them hideous for making such a hideous mistake."

Sassy Samuel thinks:

"I look good on this sex rocket.  Almost as good as Gossling."

Molly, Jugs thinks:

"I'm hungry."

She is always hungry.

The ride over is uneventful.  Many a motorist is shocked by this gang of Vespas riding down the yellow line like they own the street, but no one says anything.  Most just stand there, intrigued and confused with stupid looks on their faces.  The sight of it makes the gang laugh, and as they pass a few blow kisses at them mockingly: the square in the suit and tie, the mother clutching her two bright eyed children, the old woman walking home with bags in her hand straight from the market.  When they arrive at the scene, they exit their bikes, and the clan goes into action.  GM manages the group like a general manager, barking orders and positioning the group--and no one second guesses her wise judgement, except for Vomit Girl, whose keen intuition senses danger and whose heart has already lost its zeal for the entire gang, for the whole she-bang, for Sylvia and her silly name.  Looking up into the building, GM laughs, and the gang starts up a powerful chant:

"Cooper's fine, but Gossling's divine."

Cooper's fine, but Gossling's divine.  Cooper's fine, but Gossling's divine. Cooper's fine, but Gossling's divine.  Again and again, growing louder and more angry with each utterance.  The first pair of eyes appear in the window, and soon others follow.  They are laughing.  The anger swells up in the gang, and they start chanting louder still.  The words waft up through the streets, through the narrow bits of black between the glass walls surrounding them.  Clusters of onlookers gather, some recognizing the phenomenon, some not, some taking pictures on their cellphones to broadcast to the rest of their friends on the internet.  And still:

"Cooper's, fine, but Gossling's divine."

The sun shines down upon them all, a massive spotlight for the scene. All the world is a stage.  And the stage is filled with holes, dark spots, tears, and is run by money counting mongrels with fingers that never tire of counting their green, with heads that care not for the specifics, or what's ugly or what's wrong--business is business, it isn't a charity game--and clowns that laugh and cry but mostly cry, and somewhere someone drowns in their own blood (never use 'and' to start a sentence, never use 'and' with repetition, never, never, never).  The star of this particular act returns to her Vespa, to pull out what looks like a gun, painted red.  She raises it above her head with a yell.  She shoots it out up into the air, a trail of smoke behind it, the glowing red eye of its everything reaching higher and higher into those heavens forgotten, forlorn, and so damn tiresome.

And still:

"Cooper's fine, but Gossling's divine."

A strange thing happens.  The people watching start to cheer, like they're looking upon a Labor Day Parade.  The gang smiles under their masks, driven by the charge of the people.  GM takes up a position on some poor motorists roof.  She jumps up and down, rallying the people, urging others to join them, to come to the side of those of the righteous and  forever right.  "We are the 99%," she shouts.  Traffic begins to build up, with motorists honking and adding the din.  When still the building stands with unblinking eyes, the group grows mean; operating on the belief that such a show of strength would make the weak writers realize their folly and come out of its doors to succumb to what they felt was right:  Ryan Gossling is the sexiest man alive.  The group starts to throw rocks at the windows, though many are girls and can't throw, a few windows are shattered, bringing down a rain glass on pedestrians.  The crowd cheers--Americans with a long and well ingrained love for violence.

And still:

"Cooper's fine, but Gossling's divine."

But:

A sound comes in through the chants, a sound like the rumbling of thunder.  At first it is only faint, and some don't seem to notice, but as it comes closer it becomes more intelligible.  The Gossling Gang continues to chant, but on occasion they drop their heads from the building to look around them.  Still, the sound grows louder and louder--the thunder growing near.

At first they are just glints on the horizon.  At first only a few notice them, but then they become bigger, the noise louder.  God says "whenever you're ready. . . let go," and they did.  They tear on through the group, big motorcycles carrying a sound so thunderous the chant is washed out under the sound of pure American machinery.  They just suddenly appear, the leader in front with her face painted white and blue.  Nazi flags suddenly fill the tragically American scene, fluttering in the wind from the tremendous speed.  Some of the gang are so shocked they stop chanting, but not GM, who still stands perched atop a parked car, jumping up and down like a Gossling monkey and wailing out into the street.

Gibson's Gals emerge on the scene wielding homemade weapons and bludgeons on their mighty steeds, motorcycles that can tear through Vespas without slowing down one bit.  The crowd disperses, a woman screams in a manner to split the ears.  A war cry rings out, as the Gossling Gang is taken under in a surf that would not be denied--they stand no chance.  A Gibson fan is far more deranged the man himself; to deny the publicity and actions of a bigoted man is to throw caution to the wind and ignore what is right and good in the world, to look into the eyes of the suffering and flip them off, to rape a woman and ask her if she would like seconds, as polite as pie.  No amount of ab worship would overcome the utter ignorance of a Gibson fan, and it shows.  Before the cops arrive, several members of the Gossling Gang are on the ground, staring stupidly at amounts of blood surging out of their bodies in quantities they've never seen before, with the pure shock that allows a man with a bullet in his heart to go on for minutes after he should be clinically dead, like a PCP user with a dozen stab wounds in the stomach; the idea of perishing just doesn't connect in a mind gone haywire on too many chemicals rushing the brain at one time.

The leader of Gibson's Gals is particularly vicious, her white and blue painted face is seen contorted into expressions of joy as she smashes heads and damages Vespa's with her superhuman dyke strength.  At 6 foot 2, two hundred and eighty pounds, she is a tough adversary for men, let alone a Notebook loving freak high on the ideas of romanticism.  Romance too her was long dead, along with the idea of a man's penis, hate replacing the empty voids to almost overflowing.  It could be seen in her very eyes.

When the police arrive they immediately assess it to be a situation they cannot handle, and soon later arrive the riot squad.  When the tear gas rises above the scene, there is damage and destruction everywhere, and all of the gang is brought into custody to conjure up a new plan in light of this recent and unexpected attack.  All except for Vomit Girl, who has had enough violence and conflict to last her for the rest of her life.  She goes off to sulk in a corner of the cell all by herself, to curse the day she ever met Sylvia Wormwood and became a member of the Gossling Gang. . .

These Gossling cats, though quite admirable in spirit, are pursing a venture that means nothing at all.  To think we live in a world with real problems that these protesters have come to fight a silly title of little or no importance bothers me to an extent I don't quite wish to illustrate. Perhaps it is a sign that people care way too much for celebrities, or perhaps it is a sign that these people have no real problems at all--well-to-do white folks with plenty of cash in the bank, and an abundance of free time to focus on the frivolous.  Either way, I don't approve, and am in fact in shock, as if I were a person gazing down the firey anus of a Hell's Angels steed for the first time.

Yes, this is a spoof.  No, they don't act this violent, nor have they taken to the idea of becoming outlaws, but I thought it would be funny and silly to think of these people as violent outlaws.  As the outlaw elite.  As a variation of the Hell's Angels.  Once again I find myself in a situtation where I must explain myself, but if you knew what I was going at, I wouldn't have to.  If you were half the Hunter S. Thompson fan you claim to be, you would know exactly what I am doing and make the connection. I won't explain, because I don't feel the need to.

I'm full of liquor at the moment, so much so that I feel warm and my cheeks are burning.  I know them to be red, for enough experience as an Scottish-Irish man has told me that when I drink I turn red, or when I do any amount of exercise I turn red, almost as if my skin is so opaque the blood shines on through.  I don't wanna seem pompous.  I don't wanna seem like I have anything to say at all about the situation, because I don't.

I just think its ridiculous.  Fucking ridiculous.

These people actually have online petitions.  These people have actually protested, complete with signs and chants and Ryan Gossling masks. . .  And yes, these masks are hella creepy.

Who gives a shit about People magazine?  People who do, I wish not to meet.

And for this reason iR declares the Ryan Gossling protesters to be tragically retarded.

David Stern Strugges Not to Shit Himself; or The Tragic Retardation of the NBA's New Technical Foul Rule

The NBA has gone soft.  Lots of sports analysts and equally self-righteous individuals like to debate about it.  But I'm telling you: the NBA has gone soft.  The same association that produced guys like Charles Oakley, Larry Johnson (never mind the Granny persona), and Charles Barkley now has succumbed to fluff like Chris "Birdman" Anderson: all tats and no balls.  These times they are a'changing, your old road is rapidly agin', get out of the new one if you can't lend a hand, or in this case, play in the Turkish Basketball League (see Allen Iverson).  This ripening of players came on slow, and the man behind the castration of the NBA was none other than David Stern, its current acting comissioner.  

He's an old man, as tight as ever in his old age, with his nice fine suit buttoned high to keep back his constant gagging--this rap element-- his tie up under the fat of his chin to keep it from jiggling too much when he talked. . . He often struggles to not shit himself.

It was a nice slow snip.  As if no one would notice.  

It all began with his rule that made it mandatory for all injured players and those not on the 'official' roster to wear suits when sitting on the bench with the team during games, and for all players to wear suits to NBA interviews, charities and functions, and on arrival to the court or on departure.  It even specifically targeted 'urban' clothing like doo-rags, hardwood classics jerseys, baggy jeans, t-shirts, 'bling,' sneakers and Timberland style boots. . . Yes, all players were expected to dress like the members of David Stern's weekly tea parties--strictly formal, and stiff, as if a large stick had been stuck up the ass.  It was controversial in that still to this day the NBA is the only sports organization to enforce a dress code for players when off the court/field/diamond/etc, with many organizations having instilled only dress codes for wear on the court/field/diamond/etc and in that instance for the saftey of its players.

The dress code came after the infamous brawl in 2004 between the Pistons and the Pacers that resulted in Ron Artest and other players charging the stands to beat fans who had shown their dissatisfaction at the performance and its actors in the most traditional and time honored of ways:  by hurling tings at them.  No not rotten fruit, but in this case beverages they paid entirely too much for in the first place.

May as well get your money's worth, I guess.

The rule was an attempt to repair the NBA's tainted image, piqued with the images of that night, like a shameful battle, like a Little Bighorn. Upon seeing it David Stern no doubt struggled once again, not to shit himself. He probably quivered over his glass of Montrachet 1978, his plate of confit of Moulard duck foie gras balancing precariously on his bony knees, not quite sure whether it should fall crashing to the floor or not.  Even it felt shameful to be wasted.  He then probably wiped his face with a fine linen napkin, called in his manservant to collect his plate and utensils, and then proceeded out into his yard where he shot off a couple of blasts from a relic elephant gun at any poor birds that happened to be flying overhead. He liked the gun because it was mean, and the unrelenting jolt from the rifle's butt reminded him of a time when it was much easier to coerce a women into having sex with him.  The blast always made him think of Theodore Roosevelt, and that weathered picture of him standing over a fallen elephant he had killed with the gun.  He was going to kill himself an elephant too; he let off his steam and probably went back into his office and set into motion this plan to stifle players and make a dress code.

Yeah thats probably how it went.  Probably.

Regardless, the error in this, not seen by mister David Stern is that 'the clothes don't make the man,' nor does it necessarily change his character.  Its like any Manager at a Super Market.  He goes to work in slacks and a leather belt and nice leather shoes, with a nice white shirt and a nice tie around the neck.  It makes him think he's better than say, the poor soul wearing the orange and yellow reflector vest of the 'cart retriever,' that obtrusive neon thing made to 'save your life' by making you visible but instead 'kills you slowly' by making you a walking Day-Glo d-bag of shame and embarrassment. . . But the fancy clothes still don't change the fact that he works at a super market, and they certainly don't change his character.  In fact they make him an even more pompous ass. Yes, perhaps not the best analogy, but the point is clear: clothes do not make the man.  No siree they don't.  A clown in a suit is still a clown.  I say it is so.

See what I mean?

The rule was generally well received, and besides, it gave players an opportunity to show off their wealth in the form of custom made suits reminiscent of Jay-Z and Puff Daddy.  Fine, don't want us to dress like rappers?  We'll dress like rap moguls.

David Stern felt well.  He believe he had stopped a fear in him which had kept him up most nights, and tormented his dreams when his heavy eyes finally succumbed to that fear.  A fear that more and more of his players would end up like Chris "Birdman" Anderson and that he would forever be known as the commissioner who let the NBA turn into a freak show circus.  And he had valid concerns, observe:

BEFORE (2001):

A simple country boy.  With a wide smile shaped by mothers tenderness: 'Now be sure to brush up my boy, must'nt have a dirty mouth my boy.'  A simple everyday Joe Schmoe with a nondescript simple haircut.  Muscled from simple, clean, wholesome work.  Nurtured by the caring hand of God.  Unnoticeable in his gelatinousness; everyday; commonplace, save for a few tattoos hinting at some inward hidden demon like some vanguard of a horrible storm.

AFTER (2010):

A body of nothing but tattoos like cheaply colored tasteless wallpaper, forever fashioned to the outside of a rickety house not quite a home thats cold and empty inside (nothing but a draft blowing whhhhoooo, where a heart should be). Hair done up in some sort of gross salute to an Indian war hawk, only more comical than threatening. . . A walking billboard as to what one should never aspire in life to be.  Certainly not a role model for children. . . A moving douche bag half used and forgotten, left forlornly on the bathroom floor. . . 

David Stern was feeling mighty fine now; the storm had just threatened and rolled away to torment some other, foreign land.  The image problem would work itself out real fine. . . But poor Mr. Stern was wrong - for as I said clothes do not make the man, nor do the shape his basic character. Rasheed Wallace continued his bickering and his constant criticism of every foul, whether he obviously committed them or not.  Allen Iverson continued to smoke weed and smoke weed, and then smoke even more weed.  He doesn't care.  He's Allen Iverson.  He's doesn't need to practice, just smoke weed.  And Gilbert Arenas? Well he kept concealing a gun in his locker, along with teammate Javaris Crittenton, that is of course, before the guns were found and the two were promptly arrested.

Yes, once again, David Stern struggled desperately not to shit himself.

This time when it happened, he was probably watching the tube, and he probably spilled his glass of Chateu Monton Rothschild 1982, along with his plate of hanger steak, currant mole, blue cheese and squash.  His manservant probably came in with the same sad distant look on his face as before, to take his plate and utensils.  This time he would have probably had to dealt with the atrocious stain on the carpet too.  David would then probably get his elephant gun for a nice pressure releasing shoot out with the heavens.  He might even get a few birds this time--guts and feathers.  Then of course he would probably retreat back inside to do something about this tainted image issue and gun incident.

Yeah thats probably how it went.  Probably.

Gilbert would be suspended indefinitely from the NBA.  He would return after missing only fifty games, despite being found guilty by the courts and given two years probation and thirty days in a halfway house.

This certainly didn't help Gilbert Arena's case.  Yes he's pretending to shoot teammates during a pregame ritual with fellow Wizard teammates.  Yes, once again, David Stern struggled to not shit himself.

Once again someone had shit in the water well, and as a result everyone was going to have to pay for it.  David and his team thought long and hard for a remedy to their image problem.  They had felt a need to flex some muscle.  They needed more control yet how could they get it?

The man servants of over 30 NBA up-and-ups watched over 10 years of NBA basketball, game after game. Every team, every game--right down to the final showdown and the title.  What they found astounded them. Endless amounts of bitching and complaints on calls from every NBA player to ever touch the ball and play the game.  They felt degraded and small, belittled and second guessed in their own Goddamn league!  They had been made to look bad.  So what they did was create the new technical foul rule which creates new guidelines under which players may be given technical fouls.  Technical fouls will be given out to players for:

• Players making aggressive gestures such as air punches, anywhere on the court
• Demonstrative disagreement, such as when a player increduosly raises his hands, or smacks his own arm to demonstrate how he was fouled
• Running directly at an official to complain about a call
• Excessive inquires about a call, even in a civilized tone

All of this of course assumes that all NBA referees are one hundred percent correct about every call they make, and aren't prone to making mistakes.  It also assumes that players aren't human beings capable of feeling and that the game of basketball isn't one that ebbs and flows with the emotion of its players.  And thats why its so great; one may as well slow down the game all together and render it much like a game of Monopoly.  It comes from the belief that as an extension of the NBA, referees should be safe from any sort of ridicule of form of dissent.  Its well known that announcers and NBA coaches have been fined and in some cases even fired for criticizing the league and its officials, but now the stifling finger of David Stern has worked its way down the throats of every NBA player in the league.

Critics of the rule (pretty much every NBA player in the league) say it will work only if referees can manage to control themselves, forgetting that they too--like NBA players--are human, and therefore just as capable of such overwhelming feelings that Daniel Stern feels 'make the game look bad.'  What a bunch of bull.  Now lets consider an NBA referee for a moment.  They may be a guy who loves the game of basketball, or he may be bitter, or old, or in possession of some strange chip on his shoulder, or upset the players get paid so much and he so little, or prone to playing favorites, or just a plain ole asshole. . .  Why are they given the benefit of the doubt?  People make mistakes, ESPECIALLY referees. And how possibly could this be a good idea?  The fans wanna watch players they love, and they wanna have players they can hate.  How is such a thing possible if guys like Amar'e Stoudamire can't act like a pompous asshole every time he makes a basket?

If anything you're only making players swallow their emotions. . . they're aggression. . . And you know what? That's exactly how a guy comes to shooting up a locker room, or charging the stands to viciously beat people.  Pent up aggression.

The rule can change a game, and can be abused.  Observe:

In 10 seconds that d-bag drastically changed the game and had the head coach of the Timberwolves thrown out of the game.  Now remember, a referee may, if he's feeling particularly pricky that day throw out a player upon the first technical, as with the second one its automatic, but still the option is available to said referee.  So in theory, this ref could have thrown out Kevin Love, Corey Brewer, and Darko Milicic if he really wanted to.  Its just too much power.

A dumb rule.

A tragically retarded rule.

If the NBA has any brains they'll eradicate the rule all together, as what can one expect during the playoffs?  The games get heated, and rightfully so, are we to expect players aren't going to be allowed to be 'demonstrative,' or will the whole bullshit arbitrary rule be suddenly forgotten?  As at times it almost seems like referees are afraid to blow the whistle, for the fear that some player will complain, and then he'll have to give him a technical, or otherwise face the wrath of David Stern.

'Tis why infinitely Retarded declares the new NBA technical foul rule to be tragically retarded.

Dr. Xiu's Monster: Yao Ming

Yao Ming was crafted in a Chinese factory, and like so many products that are 'MADE IN CHINA' he breaks easily. . .

He was made by a mad scientist, just like Marry Shelley's Dr. Frankenstein, named Dr. Xiu.  The good doctor had taken a recently deceased Chinese man and brought him to his factory under the cover of night. With this specimen he not only planned to create new life, but also new life that was everything he wasn't.  His paradoxical equal.  Dr. Xiu had been ridiculed for being short all his life-even amongst his own countrymen-so he made his monster gigantic.  He removed bits of bone from the shins and the upper arms and lengthened them with bamboo shoots, until his monster stood at seven feet, six inches.

Dr. Xiu was always weak and cowardly, so he gave his monster a stern and heroic jaw line, and slapped muscle over the skinny frame with arms and legs like toothpicks. . . Yet still with all these enhancements and his genius, Dr. Xiu could not find a way to get his monster to grow facial hair that didn't look like a twelve year old's pubes.

See what I mean?

After months of preparation and long nights alone in his factory, Dr. Xiu revealed his creation to the world on September 12th, 1980, claiming to be the creatures father.  Like Frankenstein's monster, many towns people found Yao to be not only hideous, but terrifying. . . I mean we're talking Godzilla flashbacks here. . .

Distraught, Dr. Xiu took his monster into hiding with him, where he raised him and taught Yao everything he knows.  After ten years Dr. Xiu passed away of natural causes, and the monster was set loose upon the metropolis with a stricken heart.  He was as conspicuous as a dead fly in a bowl of milk.  As he walked the streets people ran from him, and for awhile, Yao Ming lived a very lonely life.  One night however, Yao made his first friend, a blind hermit who he happened upon while walking the streets.  The blind man knew not the monster he had encountered, but knew from his voice that he was a very large man.  Weary, but desperate for company, the blind hermit took Yao Ming in.  They drank tea together, and talked, and Yao was happy to have a new friend.  It was from this old man that Yao discovered basketball, for though the man had no sight, he often enjoyed listening to the game on the radio.

From listening to the games Yao pictured players streaming up and down the court, tossing the orange and putting it through the hoop; and in his head the game of basketball came alive to him.  He yearned to practice what he had heard, and to see an actual game.  He left the old hermit to begin his life, as every man (or monster) must, saying his goodbyes and a little glad to be leaving: for Yao was terrified of tiny little stuffed dogs. . . and the old hermit had shit tons of em.

SMALL DOG PLUSH TOY BADDD

He saw his first game a year later, and although the seating situation was quite uncomfortable, he found that the game going on the court was far better than anything he could of imagined in the tiny room with the radio and its constant static.  From there he learned on his own, and became a fixture on street courts around China.  Word got around of a behemoth with the ability to 'ball,' and society in its fickle nature changed its ways, and began to adore the monster with the ability to literally drop the ball in the hoop if he wanted to.  Yao was also touted as a shot blocking machine, which would have been impressive if he wasn't three feet taller than everyone else on the court.

Soon the Chinese Basketball Association took an interest in Yao, and the rest, quite frankly, is history:

Yao would go on to play for the Shanghai Sharks as a teenager.  It is here that Yao would gain even more fame, and not just as a monster, but as an athlete.  He became one of the most recognizable sports figures in China, as well as one of its richest.  He was given sponsorships with major companies, and hookers to try and fuck.  Yao would bring the Shanghai Sharks to the playoffs numerous times, eventually ending his tenure with the team and The Chinese Basketball Association by winning a championship with the team.

Due to his popularity, he caught the eye of the National Basketball Association overseas, and was drafted in 2002 by the Houston Rockets. It was said to be 'The Year of Yao,' and a documentary was even made chronicling Yao's first year, his attempt to get a grip on the language, and all the other fun stuff that comes when moving to an entirely different country.

The documentary, like Yao Ming's career in the NBA, was a total flop.

Many commentators and so-called 'sports experts,' didn't give Yao much of a chance, many saying that he would fail in the NBA, with Charles Barkley going so far as to say he would 'Kiss Kenny Smith's ass' if Yao managed to put up 19 points in any game during his rookie season. . . luckily for everyone else, Yao did manage to score twenty points, going a perfect nine-for-nine from the field against the Los Angeles Lakers during his rookie season.  Barkley really did kiss Kenny Smith's ass, but it was a stuffed donkey purchased by Smith.  (Oh soo clever.)

Awww shucks... I guess Barkley likes kissing on the mouth more:

If they don't dance, then they don't kiss, if they don't kiss, then they won't fall in love!

Yao Ming would finish his rookie season averaging 13.5 points per game, and 8.2 rebounds per game, and 1.3 racist comments directed towards him per game.

For instance Shaq once said:

"Tell Yao Ming, Ching-chong-yang-wah-ah-soh."

For instance when The Rockets played the Miami Heat, the Heat for some reason thought it would be super cool and funny to pass out 8,000 fortune cookies to fans.

In his second year Yao would take the Rockets all the way to the playoffs, only to be thwarted by the much better Los Angeles Lakers. 

He would finish his third year with a new coach: Jeff Van Gundy and a new teammate, Tracy McGrady.  The Rockets would make the playoffs only to lose to The Dallas Mavericks, who beat them in game 7 by a whopping forty points, which still remains today to be the biggest deficit any team has lost by in a game 7.

So far his career in the NBA had been shaping out nice, with playoff appearances that resulted in loss, but everyone was hopeful for next year. Surely next year will be it!  The whole fuckin' kit-and-kaboodle!

But it was at the start of his fourth year that parts began to break down.  

He missed twenty five games, out with osteomyelitis: an infection which affects the bone marrow.  Apparently his bamboo legs had cause the infection in the first place, terminating in his big toe on his left foot.  Yao had foot surgery and recovered from the infection, but was never really quite the same after it.  When he returned, Yao immediately injured himself again, this time breaking a bone in his foot. 

It would need 6 months of rest, effectively ending Yao's season right there.

The following year Yao was injured again, this time breaking his knee - if you can call it that.  The big man had gone up for a block and when he came down his knee splintered into a thousand bamboo pieces.  Up until that point the monster was up for MVP and was averaging 26 points per game. . . The injury would cause him to miss thirty four games.  

His next season, as repetitious as this sounds, Yao missed another twenty-seven games, with yet another fracture in his left foot.  This time, doctors would reinforce the bamboos with screws to prevent any further breakage.  Estimated recovery time?  4 months.

The next year?  Well he managed to play 77 games, but in the playoffs once again fractured the same damn foot and was out for the rest of the playoffs.  Not that it mattered anyway, because The Rockets were soon eliminated thereafter.

Well surely next year he'll be better right?

Wrong.

The next year he injured the same damn foot in the very first game, and was out for the entire season.

This current season, he's being limited to only 24 minutes a game, to ensure his health, and will not play any back-to-back games.

Still homie got skills:

Nobody has to make Shaq look stupid, he does it on his own.

What next for Dr. Xiu's monster?

Only time will tell.

Yao Ming is actually a real nice guy who gets a lot of shit from everyone.  Maybe its because he can't really verbally lash back out at them, though his English is always getting better.  Maybe its because he's not an over dominating type like Shaquille O'Neal.  Whatever it is, he gets a lot of shit.  If he wasn't 7' 6" he'd be neck deep in it.

But guys like Yao Ming will always be profitable in the eyes of NBA teams, because height does't really require any talent (see: Shawn Bradley.)  Its nice to have, if even just superficially, just like its nice having a big burly looking dude on your side in a fight.  He may not necessarily even know how to fight, in fact he may be a softie, but the other guys don't know that.  He looks MEAN.

And though Yao doesn't exactly look mean, he certainly is an obstacle in the post.  He's like a giant gumby, with long slender arms just perfect for blocking shots.  He makes you doubt yourself for a second.

His only real problem is that he's made of brittle.  His tall frame sits on two feet not quite meant to carry such a load, and at a reported 300 pounds, its no surprise the tiny bones in his feet snap like twigs underfoot.  Perhaps you should be in another line of business Yao, like I dunno, human ladder, uh, retriever of things off the top shelf, uh... coat rack?

Otherwise this will keep happening:

And it is for your frail bones that iR declares Yao Ming: tragically retarded.

Yao Ming was not created in a factory.  He was born like everyone else.

Yao Ming is not afraid of little plush dog toys... I totally made that up.

Yao Ming is married to a Chinese Basketball player named Ye Li, she is 6 ft 3 inches.  He won her heart after giving her his team pins from the Olympics.

Yao does a lot of charity work. 

lalalala.

love,

iR

Nikki Cox: Tragic Retardation

infinitely Retarded, now with more pictars!

Today kiddies, our fable is about beauty. Specifically how it fades.  A harsh working of nature, it is a calamity we all must face, but for some vanity cannot be so easily shed. . . as you will soon discover in a tale of tragic retardation I like to call (for the sake of time under such uncreative circumstances):  'Working Title.'

Remember Nikki Cox?  That bimbo from that Married. . . With Children rip off show called Unhappily Ever After?  The one with the red hair, the massive tits, and the inversely minuscule brain?  This chick:

Jugs McGee

Ah yes, now its coming back to you.

Yes, well we are gathered here today because these days she looks like this:

Yes.  Another victim of the surgical blade.

How haunting success can be. . . How dangerous in regards to looks, for as so clearly stated earlier, beauty like the tide will rise, and a person so accustomed to the delight of such waters will frown when in time, as it must, it begins to roll back.  Some will do anything to obtain it.  No doubt Cox got many jobs based on her looks because a) she had no talents other than looking pretty or b) men refused to see her as anything other than a sex object.  I'll quickly change the subject, for such a serious debate has no place on such a retarded blah-g.  The fact of the matter is had she other talents, she would have been able to assault the seasons and still bear fruit despite it being fall.  Besides she's not very bright either.

I mean she married this guy:

Bobcat Goldthwaith

Talk about no self esteem. . . She did however divorce him six years later and promptly married this douche:

Jay Mohr in douche mode.

And meanwhile, she was beginning to look more and more like the Creature from the Black Lagoon, her lips resembling those of some disgusting fish creature.  Paparazzi didn't help either, as they at times caught photographs of her looking a lot like those ugly people in that Twilight Zone episode "Beauty is in The Eye of The Beholder." That episode where they make it out to seem like this poor woman is ugly and trying desperately, through operation, to to look beautiful like all those around her, but at the end when they unwrap all the gauze from her face she is a classic beauty with flowing blonde hair and jewel like eyes but she screams, and the nurses scream and she's still ugly, because to them she looks so hideous.

Seriously, wtf?

Don't think for a second that I am being cruel or superficial, but there is very much to be said in that episode, ideas expressed no doubt more poignantly than I ever could.  My point is she's only thirty two years of age.  Such a young face so afraid of age lines that at twenty-four perceived age was conjured where there was none.  It brings to the skin a blemish of the soul, a dysfunction of the mind, the confusion of the heart kept concealed under emotion --  made visible by the naked eye with the help of plastic and foreign collagen.  Tis a strange scene that is becoming more and more popular.

Women walking around like monsters.

And thats all I have to say about that.

Happy Halloween

The Tragic Retardation of A&E's Teach

We be spendin' most our lives livin' in a gangsta's paradise

Aristotle. . . Paulo Freire. . . Confucius. . . Michele Pfeiffer. . .  All of them teachers, all of them with their contributions to generations of young minds fertile yet not yet planted with the seeds of wisdom.  Some had to overcome a government wanting poor people to stay illiterate and in turn powerless. . . Others had to listen to rap music and wear leather jackets to reach students dabbling in gang life and endangering their lives. . .  But none of them have ever had to face the hardships that face Mr. Tony Danza, yes, Tony 'Who's The Boss' Danza.  Not only is he going to teach a classroom of high school students English, but he's going to do it with a bunch of television cameras and no teaching experience whatsoever (yeah he has a college degree, but he's never taught before.)

I present to you, A&E's Teach, with Tony Danza:

Pompous asshole am I right?

Its not a role, its reality. . . Well unfortunately, the only person who doesn't know this is Tony Danza himself.  He sincerely walks into the room like he would any role, and assumes that due to past 'successes' that teaching wouldn't be any different; the door to the classroom would swing open and the spotlight would shine down upon him, his audience some thirty odd youngsters ready to absorb every word that came out of his mouth, to praise his genius, to provide applause with astounding test results.

Yes a crowd of all your usual high school stereotypes: the sports jock who excels in sports but is too busy thinking about scoring on and off the field to bother paying any attention in class, the annoying nerdy kid who takes nothing but A.P. classes for the extra GPA with a tongue about a mile long and a fondness for licking the teachers ass; the weird lesbian chick with spiked greasy hair and a rainbow colored necklace, the stuck up cheerleader chick who knows she's pretty and therefore will forever be retarded. . .  All of them exhibiting that same glare in the eyes, like those of a man looking but not looking, their eyes connected to a brain that is not entirely thinking.  Just buzzing away if you listen close enough.

buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

And despite his efforts to come into the ring, so to speak, and knock out yet another opponent, here in the teaching arena he has failed, miserably. Surprise surprise.  Things are woozy.  The ref is counting ten.  Has he counted to ten yet?  It seems so long ago, that I once was standing and cocky and full of shit.  Funny how a stiff right can really sober a man up. Yeah.  Maybe because teaching actually requires effort, you fucking jack ass.

The episode I happened to watch went something like this:

Tony reads aloud Of Mice and Men, and proceeds to tell the class that its a book about a retarded guy and a guy who takes care of him.  That it is a love story.  These two love each other.  Immediately students are repelled by the book.

The students complain they don't get the book.

Tony decides to give a quiz the next day, regardless of his students apprehension. 

The next day the quiz is given.  Tony is as happy as a pig in shit.  His first quiz!  His first quiz!

Tony grades them.  Half of the class fails.

The next day Tony walks into the class and starts dogging on the kids.  Blaming them for it all, even making one girl cry in the middle of class. To Tony, the kids aren't reading.  To the kids, Tony isn't teaching, and quite frankly, the Principal feels the same way:

"You are multi-talented, you can do everything, you dance, you sing, you play instruments. . . And I would never think that I could just stand beside you and just put on tap shoes and do what you do. . . Well I expect that same respect for the art of education."  

Oh shit burn.  It goes on:

"Its serious work, and you don't get the tag of teacher, you know. . . you don't get the tag of teacher, until your students are learning. . . You got that?"

Ahaha oh fuck.  This show is amazing!  Its not everyday you get to see a high and mighty worm get cut down by someone he thinks is beneath him.  Nope, not everyday.  

I don't know what's worse, that A&E and Tony Danza collectively thought that they could teach these kids, or that the parents of these children actually signed off on this shit.  I mean, we all know the state of public education in America is fucking bullshit these days, but there's no reason to actually prove it on a reality television show.

I swear, this is just the sort of thing a foreign dictator would use as evidence of the deficiency of America and its education system.

Yeah, if we get bombed, I'm saying its all Tony Danza's fault.

Teaching is fucking difficult.  Its a profession which reaps very few rewards, very little money, and shit tons of anxiety and stress.  Many a good soul has gone into the profession with the hopes of doing good, only to pack up their shit a year later with a heavy heart and defeated eyes.  With this knowledge one can only assume Tony Danza to be a complete and utter asshole to think that he could just waltz into a classroom, with cameras no less, and change the lives of all those around him.

Kiss my fucking ass.

Its not a movie we're talking about here, Tony, we're talking about real life.  Real students, real futures in jeopardy, and some how A&E and Tony Danza has turned it into a circus sideshow with ratings and everything.

And I thought my high school education was a joke, this shit is just fuckin' tragic.

And it is for this reason that iR declares A&E, and Tony Danza's Teach, tragically retarded.

Teach: Tony Danza appeared October 1st, 2010.

Tony also helped with the football team, the band, the debate team, and even fingered a couple of cheerleaders.  Way to go teach!

He even organized a fundraiser for school.  AWWW.

love,

iR

MTV's Made: Become Something You're Not

Becky Stevenson was always the model student; her grades far exceeded her social skills, and in class she was always silent unless called upon.  Generally regarded as disgusting by her peers, she had no friends and thusly walked the sullied halls of Washing High School a specter, a pale ghost with pigtails, glasses, and a way of hunching in her shoulders that made her look even smaller and more fragile.  She had accepted her fate, and as such thought often of the future, during which time all her efforts in school would pay off, and she would be rich and famous and laughing in all the faces of those who had so wrongly written her off as insignificant.

But then one day MTV's Made crew came to her school, as part of a campaign which combed the schools for potential television personalities without any of the hassles of actually having to pay them.  They came and ended up telling her who she was wasn't really good enough, that a happy future would only come if she somehow conformed to a certain stereotype of a happy, successful person with shit tons of friends who will probably turn out to be a bunch of phonies anyway.

They held auditions in the auditorium, and lots of d-bags came to state their case and level of douche baggery, though at the end of the day none of them had been picked.  MTV was about to pack up its shit and go plague another high school when little Becky Stevenson walked on stage.  She was clutching her notebook in front of her, almost as if she were using it as a chest plate for protection from the mighty and scornful eyes of MTV.  If they said no, she knew it could very well kill her, that was if she didn't already think she was dead.

Before she could squeak out any sort of a statement MTV swooped in for the rescue, and was full of hey's and hello's and how are you's and they took her into the principals office and he signed off on papers, and she signed off on papers, and her parents came and signed off on papers, and before you knew it, the quietest girl in the world was about to be asked to partake in a television show.

"Now now, Becky, I'm sure you're familiar with the show."  One of the producers said, a real slick d-bag who in some circles was known as a swinger and embezzler of ladies brassieres.  "We come in and help turn kids like you into kids like them..."  He pointed out the window at a group of stuck-up bitches, who above anything else were firm believers in their superiority in every way, to everyone else.

"What?"  She said politely.  "What show?  I was just going to. . ."

"Oh she's nervous."  He smiled.  "Don't worry, we're gonna make you into one of them, the popular kids."

"I don't wanna be them."

"Oh of course you do."

So without many more hassles, after many mentions of signed contracts and the bindings that come with them, MTV eventually got its way and Becky was thrust into the shitty world of MTV reality television.  Since Becky had no other persona she wished to be MADE into, MTV provided her with one:  Cheerleader.

They gave her a MADE coach, to help her along with the process, a lady simply named 'Adam:'

U-G-L-Y you aint go no alibi
You're ugly, yeah yeah, You're ugly

And oh how 'Adam'  worked young Becky, with mile long sprints around the neighborhood, stretching routines which not only tested her body but her mind mentally, slave hours in the gym running on treadmills that led to nowhere, and even laps in the pool (just so Adam could see Becky all wet and in a bathing suit.)  Routines were driven home with hammer like aggression, and under the creepy and rather oppressive glare of MADE Coach Adam, Becky came to some what resemble a cheerleader.

This was good, because poor Becky was gonna have to compete in a cheer leading competition, with girls who had been indoctrinated in the sport as soon as they were old enough to walk.

Youch.  How embarassing.

But first, she had to be made to look like a cheerleader.

Glasses were tossed aside, the victims of a much cooler way of seeing that didn't include head gear, but rather just contacts that could be placed on the eyeball wahhla!;  pig tails were unpinned, let loose to squeal about her back and shoulders, hair was chopped and conditioned and run through with all the finest chemicals known to the stylist world.  Eyebrows were plucked and shaped into menacing arching furs above the eyes.  Make-up was aptly applied in colors deep blue and rose.

  

Later the body would be daubed with hot wax and hair would be ripped from its pores about the legs and armpits.

With the image complete, all that was left to do was to go out on the stage and make a fool of herself.  Yes, but it isn't put this way, its always a phony uplifting moment, where the MADE coach gives a speech and tells their trainee that they can do it!  by God they can do it! Becky went out with a squad of ninja cheerleaders, and did a routine that included a beheading and lots of awesome flips. . . It was truly the story of Yojimbo, only with skinny teenagers and pom poms.

Artist's Portrayal

With the competition over, there was only one thing left to do, and that was to wait.  The judges tallied their scores as the crowd hummed with dispersed quips about nothing at all.  Backstage was tense, teenage girls waiting for that moment when they would squeal in victory or cry in defeat, either way the announcements were sure to turn the back into a slaughter house of squealing littles piggies.

Becky and The Ninjas didn't win third place.

Nor did they win second. . .

When the winner was finally announced, the crowd burst forth from their chairs to shower the winners with their adoration.  Hands went wild, children bounced in chairs, and the proud parents beamed bright enough it was obvious to every parent around them that their offspring were the ones who now held the first place trophy, and not theres.  And after the trophy was raise Adam the Made coach charged from out of the back, racing past the winners and down the aisle, never to be seen from again.

Becky left the stadium with her parents on both sides of her, the faint sound of crying muffled by a coat she wore high up around her face.  She didn't want to be on television anymore.  She didn't want to be seen by anyone.  Although she didn't win the competition (or even place,) she still felt like a cheerleader, and knew that she had transformed into a different being.  With teary eyes she thought of next year, and hoped to join the school cheer leading squad, and was excited by all the new things that would come with it.  She knew that eventually, one day, that she might become so blessed as to be one of them; popular and content and capable of practically anything. . .

Quickly forgetting who she once was, and what content she had before.

MTV's Made teaches kids that who they are simply isn't good enough, which is perhaps the last thing any teenage kid stuck in The Great Suck (high school) should ever, ever hear. The retardation of the teens is evident, but alas it is not their fault my dear colleagues!  No, tis a calamity that results from societal pressures, human nature, and having a brain only seventeen years old.  The real retardation comes from MTV.  For instead of giving these kids any real advice, or instead fortifying the talents that they already have, the things that already make them unique and therefore fuckin' cool, they tell em the exact opposite and furthermore help them become whatever stereotype they foolishly wished to be.

And in between all the commercials bombard viewers with acne medicines competing with one another, sometimes one right after one another, and weight loss commercials and technical school commercials.

Talk about some real shit.

I mention MTV's Made because their 200th episode is approaching, a real big deal, or so MTV would like you to think.  What's hard for me to believe is that this show is still around, and that nobody has really said anything about it.  Am I the only one that finds this show a little off-putting?  I mean all the awkward kisses and date invitations from losers on the show are a bit much to watch.

The only lulz from this show is when the kid is trying to be the complete opposite of what he really is like:

Like this kid, Mikey Ramos, who loves dancing, commenting on how well dressed all the girls are at school (even though he's the self-proclaimed diva of the whole school,), oh, and he also loves wearing a Dracula cape. . . And what does he want to be MADE into you ask?  Well a baseball player, which isn't really all that funny until you factor in the fact that like Mikey Ramos has an INTENSE fear of getting hit with the ball.

Or this kid, Brandon, who's obviously over weight.  He loves junk food and junk food.  What does he want to be MADE into?  A fucking tri-athelete.  I SHIT YOU NOT.

And now I'm hungry.

Anyway, yada yada yada iR declares MTV's Made: tragically retarded.

love,

iR