Scott Adams is an Ass Hat

It is a hot day, the sun already boring through the one hole of your hut, waking you.  It is to be another dreary day in the world of the internets, but you remember the beheading today.  You forget just exactly who it is this time, but know you could never turn down a good beheading. Skipping breakfast to ensure a good view you tend to your outward self in the mirror, and reassure your inner self with boastful empty words, and head out the door only to find so many already streaming down the street. Joining in, the flow streams right on down toward town square, past all the homes and businesses always changing; past the chickens scattering about your feet; past the children and their sacred eyes, down, down into the belly of the beast.

"Now hear this!"  Above your head the hawkers hang from wooden poles, reeds in a river of ignorance, drifting slowly by.

"Hear ye! Hear ye!"  Smiling rotten teeth, drifting slowly on by.  "Scott Adams is an ass hat!"

You think to ask who's Scott Adams, but an old lady with a hairy lip and one milky white eye like that of a gypsy witch, spits up black death from her lungs and asks first.

"The creator of Dilbert"  the hawker replies, "to be beheaded today, and as you can see, traffic is rather congested accordingly."

"Dilbert?" the gypsy woman asks, but the hawker has already drifted on behind her.

"You know, like Office Space, only not funny" a nearby man in the stream replies.

"You're just not smart enough to get it," another fish rebuts.

A great groan erupts in waves, yet still the stream continues on down toward town square, like water drawn straight down the drain.  The guillotine glints in its cruelty far off.  From the growing buzz you can already tell you are getting closer.  The walk is long but its reward is worth it, and your belly begins to squeal its discontent at being so empty. There is not a morsel to be had, and no way to stop in such a flow of human thought, but when the blade comes in full view you're brimming with excitement and all thought of food quickly escapes you.  The world gathers around this stage of death.  The air is full of hate, thick and heavy in the lungs and stinging to the eyes.  You can almost smell it.  Looking at your feet, you can see how all the traffic has turned the soil underfoot to sludge, thickening already in the sun.  Through the hatred, warm knife through butter, they bring out Scott Adams, out to the stage, out to where he could be seen by the rows of molten angry eyes.  He stand unaffected, still content with his self assessment of genius.  His crimes against the internet being sockpuppetry, or the use of a pseudonym or alternate online identity to deceive members of an online community or otherwise spread intense douchery in an effort to praise and/or defend one's self or ideals.

For Scott Adams this meant lurking forums under the username PlannedChaos and defending Dilbert and himself from haters or anyone generally talking shit.  His favorite thing to point out was that Scott Adams (himself) was a genius, with a matching IQ to prove it, therefore making anyone who disapproved of him or his strip stupid because 'they didn't get it.'  He lurked for months under this username, defending Scott Adams selflessly, to the point where many people accused him of being his boyfriend.  Whether or not Dilbert is 'smart humor' can be debated, but how could such a thing be even considered possible when its creator is clearly the dumbest asshat in the bizz today?

How big of an asshat is he, you may ask?  Well, Scott is such an asshat he actually blogged about men's rights, its prose flowing into a misogynistic rant that would make even Mel Gibson blush.  He pondered what it would be like if women opened doors for men, and men were served first, what it would be like if the world didn't needlessly cater to women.  What if you didn't have to hit on women to get laid?  What if women had to hit on you?  What if. . . what if. . . what if. . . He asked that we think of a world where society doesn't 'discourage male behavior' and 'celebrate female behavior.'  He then went on to compare women to the mentally handicapped and children in need of candy, stating that the world gives them special privilege because 'its just easier this way for everyone.'  And like a true asshat, when the shit hit the fan he deleted his post and posted an explanation as to why: that most Dilbert readers are of 'an unusually high reading comprehension level' and that as such 'the content of the piece inspires so much emotion in some, they literally can't understand it. . . Regular readers of Dilbert blog are pretty far along the bell curve toward rational thought, and relatively immune to emotional distortion.'  So yeah, if you were offended, its because you're too dumb, and not of the reading level of those who read a CARTOON STRIP.

Stare into Bubbles' eyes, Scott, they clearly say FUCK OFF.

The sun beats down and you spit in the dust.  You don't like him insinuating you're stupid.  You don't like how he thinks he's so smart. The face up on the stage is the mask to your hate, grotesque up there before the stage.  Let it no longer live, the swine.

He has already fallen so far.  He once had his comic strip, and with it all the money he made from whoring it out, but now he runs a failing restaurant in a run-down strip mall in California.  His employees hate him, and mock him behind his back.  His head chef has confessed to media that he feels Mr. Adams has no idea what the fuck he is doing at all.  The genius of course ignored it--he was a genius--and put out such bright ideas as adding a flat-screen television to that restaurant that would play nothing but Dilbert, a dress code for employee inspired by the Dilbert character (complete with ties curling upward at the end), puns on the menu, and a banquet room for events like 'Mommy Mojito Night,' nude volleyball, and some bullshit called 'murder mysteries.'

You look out over the crowd.  Nearly time now.  The crowd grows restless and past your head flys a head of lettuce.  It hits the feet of Scott Adams and laughter erupts from the crowd.  A miss.  Other fruits and vegetables join the fray, the treacherous Adams frowning juice and seed as the stage spotted with bits of bruised fruits and rotten vegetables.  An orange hits him square in the eye and the crowd around you cheers.  The blade would bring him mercy, cease his shame and so many wish to compound it.  You throw like a girl, so you dare not join in with the others, though you would really like to.  Adams just stands there, his captors at his sides, the blade threatening up above, the bucket eagerly waiting down below.

The horns sound, the crowd eases back upon itself.  You edge in for a closer view, and can see Adams standing smug despite his situation.  Somewhere unseen in his head his mind works out some genius means of escape.  His face flashes a smile.  He attempts to run.

Slips.

Falls.

Laughter.

He is lifted.

You see their mouths moving.  You cannot hear them talk.  Adams weeps sarcastically, thinking still his genius will save him.  They lower him upon the block, fasten tight the rope to hold him down.  You try not to blink.  If you blink you can miss it--the blade moves that fast.  It hurts your eyes to keep them open for so long, they begin to flutter, and down comes the blade, a sound like wind blowing.

Thud.

And down his head goes, body left behind, the severing so fierce the head spills out of the bucket and out on to the stage. . .

Adams comes off pretty smug.  I don't even care about Dilbert, but when I see such acts of douchery I must comment.  Scott Adams commited 'sock puppetry' a bullshit internet word which basically means he went around on the internets pretending to be someone else with no affiliation with Scott Adams or Dilbert, and who had an undying love for the both of them, to the point where he felt the need to destroy anyone who felt differently.  

But Adams actually thinks media is out to get him, to misuse his words to promote their own agenda, because so many people give a shit about what the creator of Dilbert has to say about real life shit existing outside of the small world of cubicles he created in the limited space of a comic script.  Ha, what an asshole.  I know personally I could give two shit, but then again, when you go around calling yourself a genius, you're inclined to believe that the mass of man feels similarly, and therefore must have some sort of interest in what you have to say, even if all you do is draw a shit strip for a dying medium (the newspaper.)

Yes, Mr. Adams you're a genius, but apparently being a genius doesn't stop one from being retarded.

With that said, I'd like to post some emails I've received, that were in no way written by me at all, emails that have been full of praise for iR:

Dear iR,

I think your blog is fucking awesome.  I mean, really, its the best blog out there.  All those people who say it sucks are probably really dumb, or just not big readers.  But whatever right?  Because that makes us so much smarter than them because they don't give a shit about what we give a shit about.  And what we give a shit about is important, because, duh, we're geniuses.  Anyway, I just wanna say thanks for all your work, and keep it up!

Your biggest fan,

Arnold Schwartz

And another!

Dear iR,

You have a massively huge dick.  Anyone who says you have a small one is just jealous and too stupid to take into consideration such factors as weather, randiness, and overall girth.  But whatever right?  Anyway I just wanted to say that you have a massively huge dick.  Hugely huge.

Love,

Jessica Alba

All very true, no sock puppetry going down Mr. Adams, none whatsoever.

Adams is a vegetarian.

He's a licensed hypnotist.

If he reads this, lets hope he trolls it.

Yay

love,

iR

The Situation Explains The Hunt

Mike The Situation Sorrentino is an elegant man when describing the hunt, he's kind of like a hunter of exotic animals who waxes romantic about his acts, even though in reality he's a vile, wretched, soul killer. He's like the Shakespeare of sleaze, and like Shakespeare, he sometimes needs a translation. . .

On the last episode of Jersey Shore, the gang found themselves at yet another club (as usual.)  For the Situation this meant only one thing, it was time to go on the hunt:

1. I'm in the club, doing mah thing, as usual.  I see this blonde headed girl.  As usual I just sniped her.  Its just that one look from a distance and its 'you know, you comin' home with me' type of look.  And sure enough we were dancing for like five minutes, and there was no question.  So uh...

I was dancing at a club, at an elevated point, from which I could scan the entire room, and low and behold, I spotted a blonde who's head was bobbing back and forth, like a buoy amidst a dark and menacing sea.  I could tell by her rocking that she was the right girl for me, for she exhibited a lack of balance that only many many drinks or a medical condition can produce; either way, The Situation is taking her home. From the rate at which she's holding back vomit, I can tell that I won't need to soak this one in the jacuzzi first, she's the kind you take straight to bed.  I mean I even danced with her for five minutes, which means she's totally into me.

The girl decides to go home with the Situation, which he explains with all the class of a true gentlemen:

2.  She showed me how smart she was... I mean, the girl obviously went to college.

She's obviously retarded and/or wasted out of her mind.  She obviously went to community college.

The Situation brings her into the house, and into the Smush Room, but upon bringing her there, the Situation finds that he is running on empty, and in need of douche fuel:

3.  I'm not ready to perform right now.  I'm like a Ferrari, I'm high maintenance okay?

Wait here baby, in the room aptly named The Smush Room in that its the only room in which we bring skanky sluts for the sole purpose of 'smushing.'  Never mind the stains on the comforter, they were here when we moved in.  Just wait here.   Meanwhile, I plan on fueling up for The Situation's eight seconds of pleasure with something pleasing on the stomach and not entirely disgusting on one's breath: a chicken burrito with some rice and beans.  I'll try and hurry up and eat it out in the dining room while you wait, but not too fast, as The Situation wouldn't want to burn his tongue, now would he?

With his meal finished, he still finds time to amp himself up a little more before he makes some lucky lady's slut's night:

4.  Boomsky, you know I gotta make sure I'm all good.

Gotta ease that stomach of mine with a nice cigarette mmmm, delicious.

With his stomach brought back to a tolerable homeostasis, its off to the Smush Room, where the loyal woman has been waiting the whole time.  With the deed done, in a blink of the eye, there's only one thing for The Situation to do. . . Kick her out:

5.  How you feelin'?  You good?  You straight?  Alright thats good. . . Uh, yeah, so um.  I, uh.  I got uh taxi for you baby.  Its all setup, I setup everything for you.

Yes, I'd like you to think I'm being a nice guy, but seeing as how you can't take the hint, I already went through the trouble of calling a taxi for you. . . So if you don't mind, won't you see your way out?  I'm not the cuddling type.

Erik Estrada and His Extensive Ego

Retards like to stick together, in fact, I'd be mighty pressed to tell you which of the two is the bigger egomanic, Carlos Zambrano or Erik Estrada, but for the sake of this iR, we'll say its Erik Estrada.

Erik Estrada strolls through the supermarket, another everyday shopper tending to his everyday needs.  He is hassled only by the occasional employee asking him if he needs any help, to which the answer is always 'No, but do you know who I am?' and it is always answered in the negative.  This bothers Erik, because he starts to feel like a ghost --like a mediocre ghost-- with a career hidden under many more years of mediocre television, and oh how ruthless that blonde dame Hollywood can be.  Its not the workers that bother him, its that only the workers are bothering him.  There are no old women drooling over his visage, asking for a rather hefty autograph; no young teens to beat off with a stick.  He begins to itch.  It bothers him, so he does his best to scratch the itch, and the only way to do so is by getting himself noticed.  (Yes, he's that big of a pompous asshole.)  What comes next is a moment of such pure desperation that anyone who's ever seen it knows that upon seeing it, you almost wish you were never born with eyes to begin with.  Put simply, the vanity oozing from this man's pores is enough to drown the whole world, and leads one to believe that he perhaps spends hours in front of the mirror talking to himself and rehashing great moments on the screen, in life, and in bed.  For Erik, the mere notion of a single human being on Earth not recognizing him is such a terrible blow to his ego that one could easily believe it could kill him.

His phone doesn't even ring, but the preceptive braggart picks it up with all the urgency of a man expeceting his wife to give birth at any minute, and pretends that he indeed has some important business to attend to; important celebrity business that anyone who happens to hear wind of it, will certainly come to decipher just who's business it is.  He answers:

"Hello, Erik Estrada's phone.  Mr. Estrada is busy at the moment with important business, so important that it deters him from answering his own phone, but I Tom, Erik Estrada's personal --and rather grateful-- I might add, assistant am more than willing to help you in anyway possible."  And then he added, a total lie of course.  "Make it quite, I've already got another call!"  He proceeds to nod his head as if he were hearing great news, and responds intermittently with only the name of his 'boss' Erik Estrada, with enough gusto to ring out into people's ears, just like a ringing bell.  "Oh!  Delightful!  Yes!  Yes!  And what luck. . . MR. Estrada just stepped into his office.  One moment please."

An announcement goes out over the loud speakers "SPILL ON AISLE 4, TOM?  SPILL ON AISLE 4!"  And its loud enough that Erik fears it may have been heard on the other end, but he cools himself and hands the phone out to no one in particular at all.  Erik then steps over and takes the role of himself, and immediately changes from fearful and tiny, to triumphant and gigantic.  His chest puffs out like Hercules, his teeth gleam with a pure shine as Erik believes himself still to be young, and through every fiber of his being you can easily see it.  And likewise when he's done, you can easily see how much it takes out of him.  But now he's running along at full steam:

"Yeah yeah, hey buddy.  I, Erik Estrada, have been good friends with you for a long time, ever since I, Erik Estrada, appeared on that hilariously great television show ChiPs. . . Oh you think its great too?!  Yeah I hear that."  Erik lies again.

Finally his efforts are noticed by a young twenty something and his equally young twenty something of a wife, strolling the aisle for some Rice-O-Roni.  He's suspicious, as they appear too young to have been around during his hay-day, but then quickly his ego reminds him that the name 'Erik Estrada' is fucking timeless.

And that he's still in his hay-day, Goddamit!

"Oh my God, look, its Erik Estrada."  The blonde wife says very nonchalantly.

Erik smiles, a warning signal.

"Yes, its me Erik."  He stops, putting on that offensive horse smile full of pearly white dentures.  "Yes. . . I'm afraid its me."  He says, all smug.

"Wow. . . wait, is that who that is?"  For even with a confirmation from the man himself, and even so much as an ID stapled to his forehead, people still struggle to recognize him.  Most people just don't give a shit.

"Yup!"

Erik stands up straight, putting his arms out for what he figures is coming next: a photo op for two lucky customers who just went out to get the Sunday's groceries, but were lucky enough to stumble upon a star such as he. . . Clearly, a Facebook moment. . . He gets to thinking about how they will put the photo up and how all of their friends will comment on it and like it, and they would all be so damn jealous that they got to meet him, he!  Erik Estrada!  But to his dismay, the couple just laughs in his face and walks away.  He begins to pout, for he had built himself up so high, and with a little bit of laughter the two had chopped him down, and with ease.  The slightest bit of a tear graces his cheek, but before he can start a full on tantrum, his cellphone rings for real, and it shocks him so bad he nearly drops it.

What comes out of the ear piece is even more shocking than the notion that anyone would call him (he was starting to hate his cell phone for proving his lack of popularity,) for what comes out is a job offer.  An actual real life job, paid with real life money.

His website would like to tell you different, that Erik is quite busy just being a celebrity, what with functions and dinners, and mini mall openings and all, but really, Erik does very little all day, except trying to get noticed.  His website would also like to tell you that he 'captured the hearts of millions' with his performance on ChiPs, but that's a lie too.

But anyway, I digress.

Yes, the phone call was a real job, one which paid real money, and quite naturally Mr. Estrada was quite happy about it.  In fact he ran right out of the supermarket, leaving his cart of goods forlornly left behind like some abandoned child; ran right out of the place into the waiting light of what he believed would be a more than earned (and in fact long overdue) run in the spotlight once again.  A slight miscalculation however, in that this job wouldn't do anything for his career but further cement the fact that he was a has-been, and has been so for many years.  But naturally Erik didn't see it this way.  

Sometimes ego can do much for a person, and sometimes it can do nothing but set them up for one big let down, and in Erik's case, he's been setting himself up for one big let down, for years.  He just doesn't know it yet.

The job?

Why to be a spokesperson for Butterfinger, along side two other washed up nobody's named Lou Ferigno and Charisma Carpenter, to be assembled together as a package under the title:  The Butterfinger Defense League.

Look ma, failure in triplicate!

Now I was all set to write this phoney story about the Butterfinger Defense League, and how they had to go out on an assignment to track down a stolen shipment of Grade-A Butterfingers, and how all they had to do was just get Erik Estrada to waltz on in, because nobody would notice him anyway, and how he could walk out of the place with the shipment just as easy, because with Erik its almost like people unintentionally advert their eyes (just some natural reaction) whenever he walks by, almost as if he were a burning sun or a bright light. . . (Yes, epic run on sentence.  Go me.)  But upon writing it I gave up, because in all actuality, the whole fucking thing is stupid.

I mean really stupid.

At least when it was Bart Simpson hawking out the lines and saying all that cool rebellious kid shit he said, it made sense, because at least children watched The Simpsons.  But with these three its just ridiculous. Do kids really know a thing about Erik Estrada?  Nope.  Certainly not Lou Ferigno either, nor Charisma Carpenter, so what's the point?

Whats the point of getting star power if those stars are lost in the eyes of children?  They're hardly star power anyway, these stars died out long ago, all you're offering is dusssst.  Is Butterfinger really advertising towards adults, the only people who could possibly know who these people are?  And upon realizing, do they actually expect us not to laugh? Obviously you guys don't have any of the pull the Mars candy corporation has cause they actually have really celebrities to shove sugar down children's throats: you know like Patrick Ewing and Aretha Franklin.  

All you guys can muster up is an Egoistical Nobody, a Half-Deaf Juice Head, and an Over the Hill Fitness Freak?

Why not lay down and die?

All three of yah?  And the company too?

We can dig you all a big ole grave, and can put up your gravestone, and it'll say something real pretty too, something like:

Here lies mediocrity, may we bury it in the hopes of never seeing it again.

Sounds pretty right?

Well hop on in...

Erik Estrada, you are a nobody.  Frankly no one cares that you were once in ChiPs, because ChiPs was lame and mildly gay.  And its not even like you played a bad ass cop that went on crazy car chases and dodged bullets and always managed to come out of any scrape alive. You were a fucking high way patrolman on a souped up bitch bike. The most dangerous thing you ever tackled in that show was traffic, gridlock baby, and thats it.

Its real sad that you can't get over your stardom, especially since everyone else has.

But you could never really let go of being a CHP (California Highway Patrolman, for our international readers,) now could you?  Certainly you couldn't, as these days you sometimes ride with a biker club made up of nothing but law enforcement officers called the Blue Knights International Law Enforcement Motorcycle Club. . .  And you must think its really dandy huh, riding around in a 'pack' with your 'brothers' with a big snarling monster between your legs; ready to leap out at every flick of the wrist, huh Erik?

Huh?

Just listen to that rooooaaar.

Well Erik, sadly your little occasional rendezvous with your biker buddies don't make you anymore of man, no matter how big of a Harley you can straddle, just like you going around name dropping yourself and trying horribly to get noticed doesn't make you a star.

Or make anyone really remember you.

Or respect you.

Do yourself a favor and grasp it.  Why most celebrities wish they had Erik Estrada syndrome.  Most celebrities have to whack paparazzi off with sticks and sneak out of their homes under the cover of night. . . 

But then again, you're to vain for that.

And it is for that reason alone, that iR declares Erik Estrada vainly retarded.

Erik Estrada got his start voicing a racist Mexican character called the Frito Bandito for the Frito/Lays corporation.  The idea was that all this guy did was go around stealing peoples Fritos.  Nice.

Erik Estrada was named one of The 10 Sexiest Bachelors in the World by People magazine in 1978. . . I'm sure he still holds on to that title with all his might.

Erik Estrada is actually a well known Latino actor.  He's done shit tons of movies: fourty-nine of them to be exact.

Erik Estrada has also appeared in over thirty television shows.

Erik Estrada threw out the ceremonial first pitch at a Seattle Mariners' game.

Erik Estrada was on The Surreal Life, told yah he was a douche.

Erik Estrada is a full-time deputy sheriff in Bedford County, Virginia.

Erik Estrada's official website

The Butterfinger Defense League 

Erik Estrada's Wikipedia

This about sums it up:

Oh I'm suppose to plug the show? 

love, 

iR

Fred Durst is A Giant D-Bag

This blog has been inspired by the fact that the other day I happened by Subway and had me a meatball sub.  To my surprise, Fred Durst was the poor bastard making my sandwich.  No, not really, but it sounds funny anyway.  

Gastonia, North Carolina is a beautiful county, home to long stretches of nature's beauty.  Its wealth is apparent, seen right down to the silk US flags draping as large as life from all of the towns finer establishments. Founded by Quakers and people forever bleached in pure milk, it is a place which has thrived and become quite the tourist destination.  In fact, the top attraction in Gastonia County is a fucking botanical garden, and not just any botanical garden, but one of the nations top twenty botanical gardens. . . But more importantly, Gastonia, North Carolina, with its pretty little homes with perfect cut lawns, and its people all the same shade of pale, is home to one of the biggest bad asses (sarcasm) in the world:  Fred Motherfuckin' Durst.

You may ask yourself, how does such a 'hardened' rap/metal 'talent' come from such humble and sweet beginnings?

Well, despite his upbringing, and his parents wealth, Fred Durst tried his best from day 1 to be a real hard bad ass.  And yes, he failed at it, every damn time.  For instance, young little Fred Durst, after graduating from high school, joined up in the United States Navy, namely to impress his father, and then girlfriend.  Naturally, being a soft little pussy, he soon dropped out after he realized it was actual work.  His girlfriend then left him, ashamed, and his father went on believing his son was a total wuss (and he was right.)  Distraught and horribly ashamed as well, Fred Durst went home that day and cried his little eyes out.  There are young Fred Durst raps written in forgotten handbooks about this time:

Yes sir this, yes sir that,

I aint doin' shit without my baseball cap

You don't know what you askin'

You're really fuckin' crazy

I wear my shit everywhere

Just ask mah ole' lady

After the tears were wiped away, and mother made his favorite meal, Fred Durst came to the conclusion that there was no way to act gangster in a town that was as white-washed as they come.  Its awful hard to get street-cred in a place where the only real menace is an unknown assault team of hungry gophers with an appetite for digging in all the watermelon patches.  So naturally, Fred Durst decided to move.

To Florida.

Florida?

Yes, the sun soaked beaches of Florida, which at least has some bit of crime element amongst all the old and retired.  There Fred Durst pursued a career in tattooing, figuring that perhaps he could gain some rep as a man of ink.  Alas he failed at that too, after he realized he just couldn't stand the sight of blood; and besides he was a shitty artist anyway. There are raps scribbled on wads of wrinkled paper that tell of these times:

Down in Miami, lookin for a mami

Ink up flesh so fresh its easy like origami

Salami, the air so balmy

Damn I'm a pretty sick rapper *Note to himself

The needle it goes in the skin

And we begin, free of sin

But when I open my eyes, I'm surprised

I can't stand the site of blood

So with no girlfriend, and a bitterly ashamed father, Fred Durst started to take some worth in these freestyles he happened to be writing, and after three months in Miami, he had enough songs about getting fired and prematurely ejaculating to make up an entire album.  So he formed himself a band.  No, not a rap group, no not a metal group, but a combination of the two in such an annoying way as to make the ears bleed and the mind scream in need of real stimulation.

Enter:  Sam Rivers, John Otto, and Wes Borland.

Enter:  Limp Penis Biscuit Bizkit.  

In Florida, the band did their thing and scummed around from venue to venue, slowly building their treacherous 'sound' amongst the locals.  Soon Fred met 'Fieldy' (if my name was Reginald Arvizu, I'd change it to Fieldy too. . . No wonder he got his ass kicked in high school,) from the band KoRn, and even gave him a few tattoos, namely a shitty portrait of Scott Baio:

After that, it was all smooth sailing for Fred Durst and Limp Bizkit.  They were standing at the base of a wave of shit that was just about to drown the world whole, and it all started with their debut album Three Dollar Bill, Yall$. . .  Which I guess was the bands way of saying that they were "As queer as a three dollar bill," and to further explain their rap influence and make everything even that more awkward, they added the tagline Yall$. . . Yes, with a Goddamn dollar sign.  Their first hit was the cover Faith, which was made popular mainly due to The Devil (Carson Daily,) and the show he hosted TRL: Total Request Live, a show which was ingeniously used to tell stupid sheep what music is worth listening to, and does so by arbitrarily proving that the whole world listens to it, so so should you.

Regardless of how, or why he made it, it is abundantly clear that Fred Durst was still trying to chase some sort of street cred, and in return, respect from his father for 'being a man.'  This can be seen in this horrible music video, which is played off to be some sort of impromtu Limp Bizkit concert that at the end results in Fred Durst being arrested.  Which is entirely scripted by the way, which further goes to show that Fred Durst was such a pathetic pussy that he had to stage arrests to get street-cred:

And then Limp Bizkit was asked to play Woodstock 1999.  Now, I know this may be but a paltry thing to you, but the truth is that Fred Durst killed Woodstock.  Now, thirty years prior, every band spoke of good vibes, and good energy, during a time of utter turmoil and blood shed.  That coupled with the fact that drugs were making their own valiant war against the status quo, it is quite a miracle that at Woodstock 1969, there were only three deaths, and all of them accidental.  This with half a million people squandered in on a plot of land that could hardly hold a thousand cows, let alone half a million people. . . Yet in 1999, Limp Bizkit, along with a bunch of other shit bands were asked to perform at Woodstock 1999, the thirty year anniversary, and what followed was such a shit storm, that the vendors could only place all the blame squarely on the shoulder's of Mr. Fred Durst. . . And upon viewing their performance, I can't say that this claim wasn't totally valid.  Look:

@4:54 a girl gets sexually harassed.  @6:44 a girl gets sexually harassed. . . What a piece of shit Woodstock.

Fences were destroyed, people were trampled, trashcans were burnt, and women were raped, yes raped.  Way to totally not understand the point of Woodstock, asshole.   There were four rapes reported during the song, one of which reportedly took place right in front of the Limp Bizkit stage (I shit you not, on this one.)  Impolitely, fuck you Fred Durst.  No really, fuck you.  

And when asked about all the rapes, you just said "I told you so," just as you did two years later when a young sixteen year old Australian singer named Jessica Michalik was trampled by a bunch of people during the song "Break Stuff," the same very song, mind you, that was responsible for the debacle in Woodstock, New York, during its 1999 rendition of the world famous concert.  Yeah, she was killed, right and good.  And all the while, all you had to say was 'I told you so,' and 'I warned security,' but obviously you're too retarded to take any credit for starting an utter fucking mob.  With a little success, Fred Durst became an even bigger asshole.  He personally started fueds with Creed, D12/Eminem, Zakk Wylde, and Slipknot (he called all Slipknot fans "fat and ugly."  Just because its true doesn't mean it still wasn't a dick move.)  On top of that, Fred lied about having sex with Christina Aguilera, and actually had sex with Britney Spears.  Besides the whole kiss and tell thing, Fred actually went into intimate details about Britney and her body on the Howard Stern Show, totally cementing the title of a complete and utter d-bag.  

Then sex tapes became popular again amongst the celebrity world, so of course, Fred Durst had to make himself one too.  The only problem was that Fred Durst of Limp Bizkit suffers from Limp Dick, so there wasn't much sex going on, mostly just flailing around in the hopes of getting hard.  Aside from that, no one really wanted to see Fred Durst naked, or to see him have sex with anything, so it is regarded as one of the more retarded sex tapes out there.  According to Fred Durst, the tape was 'stolen' off of his computer, which is of course the most ludicrous part of the story, given your track record Fred, and your willingness to divulge your ability to con girls into spreading their legs for you.

When he's not performing and pissing everyone off, or trying to get it up, Fred Durst likes to run people over. I shit you not.  In 2005, Fred Durst was charged with seven offenses, namely, battery, assault, and reckless driving.  Being a celebrity, Fred Durst, who was originally sentenced to 120 days in jail, was given a lesser sentence of twenty hours community service, and was stripped of his 'right to bear arms.'  Fuck you Fred Durst.

Outside of performing, Fred also owns his own record company, called Flawless Records (lulz,) and has directed shit tons of music videos, including all of the Limp Bizkit videos and a few KoRn videos.  Fred also directed the movie The Longshots, and The Education of Charlie Banks.  Aside from directing, Fred has also appeared in numerous television shows, and even had a small part on Revelation.

Under that hat is nothing but a sad bald man.  And he's about as bland as they come, I'll tell yah.  Its why he's got all those tattoos and pierced ears, and why he wears big poofy parka jackets and walks like a real G, because to him their all just accessories: just things to make him cool. And sadly, even with all of that, he still isn't cool.  He's just a limp dick d-bag with a mouth like a sailor and a fondness for letting it fly.  He's talked himself into more shit that a rotten politician, and is just as good at swaying the people, but only in one direction.

Fred Durst is such a d-bag his most recent wife (now ex wife) divorced his ass after only two months of marriage.

Fred Durst is such a d-bag, he actually performed for only 17 minutes during a concert, after which he went in the back and bitched.

Fred Durst is such a d-bag, he tells everyone Limp Bizkit sucks, but he doesn't really mean it.

Considering Fred various flirtations with many different types of retardation, it has actually been rather difficult trying to diagnose his retardation.  At first I believed he perhaps is a prime example of a new retardation that I perhaps as overlooked, but that would give him way too much credit.  Wouldn't want it to go to his head now would we?

Well there we go.

It is for Fred Durst's inability to see his actions as retarded, and his fondness to talk about them as if they were something to be proud of, that iR declares Fred Durst: vainly retarded.

Fred Durst doesn't work at Subway, sorry.

Limp Bizkit is actually putting out a new album, Gold Cobra, said to release in the fall.  After the intro track the first song is entitled Douche bag.  

They suck so bad they actually have to leak their own shit to try and stimulate some buzz.

Fred Durst appeared in the Fight Club, video game.

The Limp Bizkit store features I FUCKIN HATE LIMP BIZKIT shirts.  I would buy one, except the profits would go to Limp Bizkit. . .

Official Limp Biskit Website

Fred Durst's Twitter

Urban Dictionary on Limp Bizkit

The Official Anti-Limp Bizkit Page

love,

iR

The Many Faces of Tony Danza

The feeling of gloves was a welcomed one.  The sound they made, his hands taped and inside them.  Nice.  Tight.  Quick.  His walk out to the ring was slow and deliberate, and at the moment those gloves felt just like sledgehammers, and he was ready to do some damage with them.  Be cool now.  Along the way he'd hop about to get the blood flowing.  The crowd acknowledged him and cheered him and he smiled his usual trade mark smile.  Come on now, cool your jets. Down the aisle.  Up the steps and into the ring.  The smell of a boxing ring can be an incredible thing.  Its just another fight.  Come on now.  Be cool now.  Cool.  The crowd hummed as the ring announcer went to work.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, the Diner's Club of Dubuque, Iowa proudly presents tonight's main event. . ."  His voice amplified out over the speaker system, loud but only slightly louder than the crowd.  "Presenting first, the challenger, fighting out of the red corner, weighing in at 245 pounds, a local boy straight out of Dubuque, Iowa Ronald "Head Cheese" Williams!"

The crowd roared appreciation for their fellow Dubuquer, and for once Tony Danza felt that perhaps the majority of the crowd wasn't behind him, even though he was, indeed Tony Danza.

"And in the blue corner, hailing from Brooklyn, New York, weighing in at two-hundred-and-fifty pounds. . . Tony "I'm the Boss" Dannnnzzzaaa!"

The mild crowd of some hundred or so Iowans cheered as Danza juked and moved for the crowd, his strutting punctuated by occasional hooks and jabs.  He met his opponent in the ring, and although he was no longer the young man that he was when he first got into the boxing game, he was confident in his body and his skill, if not as a boxer, but as a well rounded individual with his hand in nearly everything.  Tony and Ronald touched gloves in the center of the ring.

"Remember its for charity."  Tony said, with a smile.  The bell rang and the match began.

Tony came out defensive and smiling, thinking that the match would just be a little exhibition, an opportunity to further his name and showcase a little bit of his boxing skill.  He knew if anything, it was an opportunity to definitely get laid, as chicks often go for the big buff guy involved in violent sports (see Jenna Jameson/Tito Ortiz).  Yet his opponent came in with other plans.  He wanted to win, he wanted to dominated - and he fucking hated Who's The Boss? and furthermore couldn't stand 'grown men with monkey' movies like Going Ape!  He came out swinging and hit Danza square across the jaw with a right hook.  Danza had his bell rung and went down with his head still ringing.  He heard the counting.

1. . . 2 . . .

He got up and kept fighting.


3. . . 4 . . .

He was fighting Earl Harris in his first professional fight.  He was fighting in his first match and was full of jitters.  Although he had been knocked down, he didn't feel any pain.  He was far too excited.  He got back into the match, by defending him self and even tagged Harris with a few good shots.  He followed his boxing style - he swung away and caught Harris in the jaw and knocked him out.  His first match.  His first win. . .

5. . . 6. . .

His parents were so glad after the fight that he wasn't hurt.  It didn't even matter that he won.  But this wouldn't always be the case for Tony and his short boxing career.

7. . .

Danza got to his feet, angered by his opponents nerve; nobody messes with the boss.  The crowd cheered at the notion of more violence.  The referee checked him out, and the match continued, the first round not yet over.  The fighting continued and Danza held his own, though his opponent was obviously more skilled than him.  Ronald controlled the round, taking Danza all over the ring.  By the end of the round Danza's face had begun to swell, and a cut had developed over his right eye.

The end of the round came with the ring of the bell and Tony went to his corner with spaghetti legs.  He felt woozy.  Water from a sponge went cool down his back.  He wiped his forehead.  He saw blood.

"Look now, you've got pasta sauce all over you."  Marc said.

"Well you know your dad, I've always been a messy one."  Tony smiled.

He wiped the pasta sauce from his hands with a white towel.  Discarding it he went to the pot on the stove.  It bubbled and steamed and produced a smell that filled the house.  He took a spoon and tasted it.

"How is it?"  His son Marc asked.

"How do you think it is?"  Tony asked.  "This recipe has been in my family forever.  It was shipped over from Italy!  I know you're quite the chef but this recipe here isn't taught in even the finest of culinary schools.  Not even the one you went to.  This. . . is tradition!"

"Well what do you think about putting out a Father/Son recipe book?  You and me dad, what do you say?"

"A father/son recipe book. . ."  Tony thought.  "A Tony Danza. . . and son cook book. . . A Tony Danza cookbook. . ."  It had been months without any public exposure, he felt it eating at him.

"So?"  His son asked.

"I love the idea Marc!"

"Mark."

"Mark my words, you keep this up and you are going to lose this fight Tony!"  He trainer barked at him in the corner.  "I know its just for charity, but I hardly need the bad rep.  I don't want anyone, anyone, you hear me, thinking Charlie Pinnela don't know how to train a fighter, cause I know how to train a fighter!  Now get in there and defend yourself!  Work the jab you hear me?!  Huh?"

The bell rang and the next round began.  Although his trainer had provided valid advice, Tony still struggled to protect himself in the ring.  Each hit struck him cleanly, some drumming on his ribs and turning his innards to jelly, some tending to the cut over his right eye, tearing it open a little wider reach time.  The crowd roared with a bloodlust.  Some women looked away.  Some were bored.  A man in the third row thought about fingering his girlfriend.  Violence excited him.  He was a true full blooded American.

With eight seconds left, Danza hit the mat once again.  Time seemed to slow for Danza.  He felt the mat beneath him, felt the blood dripping from his forehead.  His lungs heaved out rust.  The bell rang, saving him.

The bell rang, class had begun.  At his podium Tony Danza gazed down into a book, glasses perched on the end of his nose.  Three camera men filmed from different angles. Class had begun.

"Well class. . ."  He closed the book.  "Today we begin reading a new book.  It is by Mrs. Harper Lee, and is called To Kill a Mockingbird."  It was one of only three books Tony had ever read in his life.  "To Kill a Mocking Bird, yes. . ."  Tony said.  It was the filming of a new A&E reality series called "Teach" about Tony Danza teaching a tenth grade English class in Philadelphia.  "Yes, To Kill a Mockingbird."  He was trying to think of what to say next.  He remembered his goal coming into this thing, one he had told the media countless times: to be a good teacher.

"Mr. Danza. . ."  A boy raised his hand.

"Yes, Malcolm?"

"To Kill a Mockingbird, isn't that a movie?"

"I swear kid, this aint no movie."  His trainer said.  "You're looking like a fool out there.  Weren't you once a boxer?  Well act like one!  You're acting like a movie star caught up in the spotlight."  The sponge ran cold with water.  Danza sat in his corner, wet with perspiration.  His mangled face like hamburger meat -- its a good thing his television career is all but over.  Vaseline smeared above both eye brows in an attempt to stop the bleeding.  Danza coughed, his breathing heavy.

"You hear me?"  His trained asked.  "I swear this performance is worse than your attempt at a singing career!"

(Hell is being stuck in a dentists office, waiting impending doom, the intermittent buzz of the dentists drill as he works on another patient cutting through the sound of Tony Danza singing "The House I live In" playing over the office's stereo system.)

Tony Danza thinks he's Franky Sinatra

"I swear if you keep this crap up you aren't even going to make it to the fourth round.  You're gonna get beat, and after that you'll catch another beating -- from me for making me look so damn bad.  Now get your God damn hands up and shake out the damn cobwebs. "

Tony tried to shake out the cobwebs, but he couldn't.  It was all Who's the Boss lines and distant memories.  The bell rang and Tony slowly got up, his fists fashioned to his waist.  He staggered and fell over his own two feet.  The crowd laughed. . .

"Hi Tony Danza here, and you're watching the Tony Danza Show, live right here in New York."  He was roller blading down the street wearing protective gear (of course) filming for his daily live show.  "As you can see I'm getting a little exercise today, as this week on the Tony Danza Show we are going active!  Today we've got a great sh--"

And then it happened.

The Boss ate shit.  Tripped right over a pole while looking at the camera.

Tony got up and staggered his way to the center of the ring.  His opponent waited for him, eager to take a couple more swings at The Danza and knock him out.  The third round began, the two circling one another: Ronald Williams full of energy, Danza slow and tired.  Ronald began to toy with Danza, throwing punches half-heartedly and with a grin, as if Tony were his kid brother.  The crowd swooned.  Ton's mind still swam with thoughts, Hudson Street and Broadway, the stage and the sets, the highs and the lows.  The ring seemed to grow smaller and smaller, and to him the lights were like diamonds in the rafters, high untouchable things, but oh so pretty to look at.

To Tony, he was tap dancing again.  To everyone else, he was a fool who was about to be knocked the fuck out.

The explosive combination came soon after the tap dancing fancies - Ronald peppered him with a left followed by a right and like the whack that finally topples the tree, so was that right hand, which sent Danza to the mat, a fallen tree.  At the point of contact, there wasn't a single butt in the seats, everyone was standing to see Tony Danza get knocked out, in a brutal moment of sudden violence.

The referee counted to ten, and Ronald was declared the winner.  The fight had ended how every Tony Danza fight had ever ended, in knockout.  The loss brought his boxing record to nine and four.  After the match, after the room had cleared out and everyone had gone home, Danza was left to stand all alone on the street corner, his eyes tilted toward the sky but his soul as low as ever.

Who's the boss?

Clearly not Tony Danza.

At least he can always go back to his blog, the Daily Danza.

Has "Keep on Trucking" tattooed on his upper right arm.

Has his own rendition of "Keep on Trucking,"  "Keep on Punching," tattooed on his right shoulder, complete with boxing gloves.

Tony really was a professional boxer, from 1976 to 1979, during which time assembled a record of 9 wins, 3 losses.

Divorced his second wife, with whom he has two daughters.

Tony really does have a cook book out with his son called Don't Fill Up on the Antipasto, and you really can buy it on Amazon, used, for one cent.

In 2007, Tony really did start a music career.  He put out an album called The House I Live In, it has reportedly sold 5 copies, all of them going to Tony Danza.

In 2005, Danza crashed his go-kart during a go-kart race with Rusty Wallace.  A few month later Tony would ride again only to skid into a wall.

Tony Danza really is teaching an English class for a reality show on A&E, which may be the most retarded idea since the Pet rock.

Tony Danza really does have a blog, called Daily Danza, and its dedicated to his favorite thing in the world.  Himself.

Look at this douchey tattoo:

Lawl:

love,

iR

Tim Allen: Disney Legend: Vainly Retarded

Tim Allen's mugshot, seen here looking like an extra from an epsiode of Starsky and Hutch.

"Thank you, uh thank you. . . really." (Not really)

Tim Allen stands at the podium, accepting his Disney Legend award, outside The Michael D. Eisenhower Building, in beautiful Burbank, California. His hands clutch the podium, as he uses it to keep his balance. Apparently the five gin and tonics he had before the ceremony, were a bad idea.

"It truly an honor to be here, to be presented with this fine award in front of the Disney Board. . . Executives, historians, committee members, I thank you. " He began to reach in his pocket, as if to get out a pre-written speech he had prepared prior to the show, but he second guessed it and smiled. He was going to 'wing it.' "You know it was because of Disney and its sister company ABC that I got my big break in the tv and movie business. It was much like a fresh start for me, I was once a very bad man. I got caught with a pound of elict drugs, with intent to sell at a local airport, close to the town I grew up in. I was facing a life sentence, but I gave up some dealers, ratted some people out, and was only given three years in prison.

Where I was raped...

Repeatedly.

Somehow I survived, I left with an alcohol problem where my ego should have been. I was in fact drunk during most of my time filming Home Improvement. . . And as you know I had that little DUI problem in 94'. . ."

Home Improvement-Grunt.

"And I, no doubt had my fair share of drunken tirades on the Santa Clause set, but it was the power of Disney and ABC respectively, that helped me become the man I am today. And that is why, I love you all. . . You guys were the only ones who would give a chauvinistic alcoholic ex-dealer like myself, a decent, fair shot. . . Hell Diseny will let any drug-abusing pedophile come work for them and that all powerful Mouse, with his white linen gloves ever choking the life out of entire generations of young people. . . Depravity is practically required for employment.

But I stand here today, and assure you, that I no longer drink, I won't have another drop, and its all because of you Disney. . ."

He raised his award, and then proceeded to stagger over, falling off the stage and killing himself in a freak accident. Disney, embarassed and vengeful, vowed never to speak of the event, or the man, known as Tim Allen.

But thats not how it happened.

Unfortunately Tim Allen was named a Disney Legend, in 1999, but he did not appear at the ceremony drunk, nor did he fall to his death. He received his award, and all was good.

The award is said to represent three things, and is brought to life through the work of a sculptor who worked metal into a piece of art, the center piece of the award.

The Spiral: for "imagination, the power of an idea," in Tim Allen's case, creating an epically retarded shop hound, who roars out his manly prowess in grunts and barks, like a horny defeated street dog.

The Hand: for "the gifts of skill, discipline and craftsmanship," in Tim Allen's case, the stale comedy that he honed while at The Comedy Store, and that dazed drunkard acting style he practically made his own.

The Wand and The Star: for the "magic: the spark that is ignited when imagination and skill combine to create a new dream," in Tim Allen's case, the well timed grunt of Home Improvement, the innocent yet menancing look of The Santa Clause, and the epic retardation of his stand up work.

Tim Allen, even his signature reeks: alcoholic, arrogant, leave me alone fan I'm better than you.

In eleven years, Tim Allen had successfully gone from drug dealer, to prison inmate, to stand up comedian, to sitcom star, to finally, a Disney Legend. He rose from humble beginnings, in Denver, Colorado. Born Timothy Allen Dick, on June 13, 1953, his parents had no idea how fitting their son's last name really was, not of course until he grew up. Timothy too, accepted his name, he always knew he was a real dick, and went all throughout high school with the surname. But when his comedy career started taking off, he had to change it to Tim Allen, when promoters felt strange putting up DICK in bold black letters on their marquees. His stand up career was rather successful, he often appeared at The Comedy Store (connecting him with Pauly Shore: Legally Retarded) joining the likes of Billy Crystal, Andrew Dice Clay, Chevy Chase, Eddie Murphy, Robin Williams, etc . . etc. . . It was on-stage that Tim Allen developed his hot rod enthusiast character, with a head full of grease fumes and the humor of a young child. He possessed genius equivalent to Einstien, when it came to cars, but the retardation of a Neanderthal when it came to his wife and kids.

Enter: Home Improvement.

The show based around a show, called Tool Time, hosted by Tim "The Tool Man" Taylor, a fitting name, in that Tim is in fact a complete tool. The show is for other complete tools, and is co-hosted by his friend, and punching bag, Al Borland. Al is the geekier smarter one of the duo, and for this he is constantly picked on by Tim "The Complete Tool" Taylor, furthering the psychological implications that Tim Allen has a small brain, and knows it, a "Brains Complex," if you will, and feels the need to effectively destroy anything he doesn't understand with his brute strength, ala John Wayne.

The other voice of reason in the show is Wilson, his brains don't event warrant him any real face time, not on 'Tim Allen's show.' His face is constantly hidden behind the worn planks of a wooden fence. He chimes in with life lessons and quotes on philosophers, while Tim futzes with a leaf blower, and erotically caresses a wrench. Everything Wilson says however, is never truly understood by Tim, who simply responds to his words with a timely grunt.

His work with Home Improvement, would get him 1 Emmy Nomination, and 5 Golden Globe Nominations. He would end up winning the Golden Globe for Best Actor in a Television Series, in 1995.

Home Improvement: Syndicated Retardation from 1991 to 1999.

His television career spilled over into movies, as famous retards are never satisfied with plaguing just one American medium. He has done over 27 movies throughout his career, the most renowned and retarded of which are The Santa Clause (series), Wild Hogs, and Wild Hogs 2 (coming soon.) For his work in Santa Clause, he got himself many private copulations with co-star Eric Lloyd (born in G-Dale, California) who at the time was only 8 years old. His work with Wild Hogs would earn him a massive chain-whipping, served up personally by a group of Hell's Angeles, who were upset that the movie effectively destroyed their image of motorcycles, motorcycle gangs or clubs, and the freedom of the great American open road.

Throught his career Tim Allen's retardation has had but one underlying theme: his machismo, which leaves us all to question how manly this "Tool Man," really is. This along with the success of his Home Improvement glory days, and his subsequent movie career, has given Infinitely Retarded the right to humbly name Tim Allen, vainly retarded.

vain retardation n. - a rare form of retardation, where said retard actually takes pride in their retardation, regarding it with a strange respect and adoration. Said retards are "vainly retarded."

He joins Billy Mays as the two current resident vain retards, here at Infinitely Retarded. Yet allen's retardation differs in that his vanity is based on his machismo, and constant need to prove that he is, indeed, a man.

TIM ALLEN

vainly retarded

FURTHER RETARDATION:

I actually saw Tim Allen in real life, at the Glendale Galleria. The douche was standing there, on his cell phone, lost in the mall, talking and trying to look like he wasn't trying to get noticed. He talked loudly on his cell phone, standing tall and perhaps even flexing his muscles for the ladies. He clutched a Mac bag, you've seen them, very distinguishable, as if to say "Oh yes, I'm cool, I'm trendy, I shop Mac."

"You know I met Tim Allen once."

"Oh really?"

"YEAH WHAT A DOOOOUCHE!"

Billy Mays: Vainly Retarded

July 20, 1958, the normal cries of pain and anguish that resonate around the fiery pits of Hell are replaced with those of a baby boy. The 2nd son of the Devil himself, is born today, and is named lovingly, Billy Mays. Unlike his brother Damian, who wished to follow in their father's footsteps, Billy Mays instead had a dream, a dream to become a salesman, one with a voice so obtrusive and recognizable it could be associated with his name wherever he went. At the age of 18, after graduating from the local high school in Hell, he packed up his things, said good-bye to his father, kissing him on the cheek, and left promptly for the mortal world. He was drawn towards Atlantic City, and the sin that existed just beneath the surface of being just another small resort town. He hustled there for days, trying all the shops for a job, but was always getting turned down. It wasn't until he was finally given a chance by an old man with a shotty invention that his career started to take any shape. He was given the task of selling the Wash-i-Matic, a portable cleaning device and invention that no one had ever heard of before.

His pitch would go something like:

"Going to pick up a hot date, but spilled vodka all over yourself on the drive over? The Wash-i-Matic will have you smelling alcohol free in no time. . ."

He would stand out on the Boardwalks, in heat so great you could see it, evaporating moisture up off the ground, everyone passing by him in a hurry, in a sweat, in very few clothes at all. . .

"Miss that critical cum stain before heading to church? The Wash-i-Matic will have your clothes Glodly clean before you can say 'confession.'"

His style developed gradually over time, learning from his colleagues as he paid his dues and worked on his inflection. He was praised for his ability to relate to the customer, to say all the things that they wanted to hear. He got his first break when he was confronted by the CEO and creator of OxiClean, who had seen his work and had developed a rather intense crush over him, one which lead him to follow him all over the country. The tapes rolled, and OxiClean, the "miracle cleanser" sold like no other product in the history of As Seen on Tv, and soon, Billy Mays was filthy rich. His success lead him to many other gigs, as he became a legend of the infomercial scene, selling products like:

• OxiClean
• Orange Glo
• AwesomeAuger
• Zorbeez
• Jupiter Jack
• Kaboom
• Mighty Putty
• and many many more. . .

However, the business became too much for him, and soon Billy Mays got caught up in his own celebrity. He started abusing pills and banging extras from his many infomercails. He contracted Hepatitis B, fathered 3 children, and was charged with, but was acquitted of, the molestation of a seven year old girl outside of a Chuck-E-Cheese, in Nashville, Tennessee. Even still, he had the respect of his father, who found his line of work just as horrible and torturous to the human race as his own, and seemed to be still growing in popularity. . . And with good reason, Billy's shouting could sell a weed puller to an Eskimo stranded on an iceberg.

Today he owns his own company, named after himself, and even has a show on The Discovery Channel called Pitch Men, with Anthony Sullivan. Sullivan is another infomercial whore, who seems to lack the vanity that leads Billy to dye his hair and mustache an unnatural pure jet black, as well as the drug habit that still affect Mays today. . . The show is rather successful in showing the vanity of Billy Mays, who in one episode gets rather upset over the phone when the person with whom he is talking accuses him of being nothing more than a seller of snake oil. If there is one thing that Billy Mays stands by, it is his integrity: in his own delusional mind he sincerely believes every product he sells to be a worthy addition to the American market, and a catalyst in helping the economy. The very same economy that has allowed him an 8 acre home, complete with a swimming pool and a personal home-theater, along with horse stables home to 6 horses, and a small 3-par golf course. He owns a private jet, which is capable of taking him all over the world, as well as a whole fleet of luxury cars, and SUV's.

The real sad part is, that much like some actors, who have their own catch-phrases, so does Billy. . . And much like some of those actors, who must have at one time used these movie catch-phrases in their everday life, so does Billy. Arnold Schwarzenegger for instance, would say "I'll be back" much to the amusment of whom ever he was saying it to, before leaving the room to get his weed, or the date rape drug he often used to much success. But for Billy, his are much lamer, and he often leashes them out willingly, constantly feeding his own ego and the image he has created for himself, whether or not the time calls for it. . .

"Billy mays here. . ."

"Call now and you can get. . . "

"But wait, theres more. . ."

"Just pay shipping and handling. . . "

"As our special gift to you. . ."

"But if you order now. . ."

The man is uniquely an American phenomenon, his ability to sell useless crap to people who don't need it, is above all others. He stands the mogul of an entire empire of pointless products, the King of Mediocrity, the vile dog with his tongue up the ass of free enterprise. He turns others ideas into goldmines, and lives fat off of the revenue. If you look closely into his eyes, you can still see the passion of Lucifer within him, and at times during his infomercials you can see his devilish smile, a facade of friendliness, hiding the true ugliness and self-loathing underneath.

He overall greed, his vanity, his obviously dyed beard and hair, his constant yelling, and the idiotic products he sells have landed him a spot on Infinitely Retarded. Billy Mays is vainly retarded.

vain retardation: a rare form of retardation, where said retard actually takes pride in their retardation, regarding it with a strange respect and adoration. Said retards are "vainly retarded."