Sylvester Stallone The Ageless Retard, A Sequel to The Worst Movie Ever Made, and A Horribe, Horrible Jenkem Trip

The tickets arrived a week before the scheduled event, giving me plenty of time to debate whether or not to go. By Wednesday I had decided to go, and spent the rest of the days leading up to the event mentally preparing for the utter retardation I knew was ahead of me. The event was a private screening of an upcoming Stallone movie, a sequel entitled Rhinestone 2.

Rhinestone was an 80's piece of retardation that made for perhaps the funniest movie not intended to be a comedy. Its a fish out of water story about country music. Stallone plays the fish-out-of-water, a New York cab driver stuck in the south and some sort of bet that he can't sing country music. The image of it all was enough for me, Stallone singing country, with Dolly Parton as his mentor, fuck buddy, and singing partner. Its Judge Dred dancing around like a redneck, its the Demolition Man singing just like a song bird, a song bird with a throat full of gravel. His singing is just as bad as you think, its so bad it makes you wonder who the retard was who heard country music, singing, and Sylvester Stallone all in the same sentence and thought it was a good idea. Asking Stallone to sing is like asking a football player to do ballet, it just aint in the blood, it aint what they're made to do.

I showed up early and said fuck it all with the red carpet, and slipped in through the side of theater and got some drinks in. It was an old theater, the kind with balconies and high ceilings with perfect acoustics. In its hay day it probably hosted a great deal of wonderful acts, maybe even Bob Hope, but now it had been reduced to showing smut films and shitty movies like the one I was about to see, Rhinestone 2. The gold decorations on its ceilings had once gleamed, but now they seemed dusty. The grand elaborate curtains had once been a fresh velvet the color of blood, but now it was molting, as if eaten by moths or rats or maybe both, and was the color of rust. I thought, so this is where careers come to die, they're all probably out there, getting their pictures on the red carpet - why would they want a photograph of themselves on the worst day of their lives? Maybe they don't know what they are in for.

But I did.

I spoke over the phone prior to the screening with a source who wishes to remain nameless. He had told me about the movie, it was much like the original Rhinestone.

Rhinestone: infinite lulz

"So Dolly Parton is gonna be in this one too?" I asked.

"No." He said. His voice sounded strained over the phone. "That's where its different, but still kinda the same. . . Instead of Dolly, its Ozzy Osborne, and instead of Stallone learning to sing country to win a bet, he's gonna have to sing heavy metal. . . So Ozzy teaches him, becomes his mentor, his fuck buddy, and singing partner. . ."

"Ozzy Osborne and Stallone? How the fuck is anyone gonna know what they're saying? They're both so old and retarded they mumble, not that it matters much I s'pose, don't think they have anything worth hearing anyway. . . "

"What you can't understand em? I hear em' plain as day."

"Guess I don't have the ear for em."

"I hear Kelly Osborne could be the love interest in the movie." He said.

"For who? Ozzy or Stallone?"

"I dunno."

"Either way this is going to be the worst movie ever. . . I've gotta see it." We said our good-byes and I hung up soon after that.

Back at the theater, they all started shuffling in slowly, filling the place up in time, until only the stars of the movie and the stragglers were not seated. Finally Stallone showed up, and everybody started kissing his ass, applauding his entrance. He got to his row, scooting by people as he did this, and then shook hands with the producers and the writers. He then said something, in his low gravel voice that I strained to hear, and felt foolish for doing so when I heard him. "Yuh-yuh-yyuuhh-yuhhh." He said. I could tell the people he said it to had no idea what he said, they stared at him blankly but try and force smiles, nodding like little birds as he smiles back and eventually sits down. The audience got to talking again, I got to staring up at the theater above me, rotting away right before my very eyes. I felt sympathetic for the building, I felt like I was rotting away too. Ozzy finally showed up, I didn't see him at first, I heard him. At first I thought it was a lost child, or perhaps some mentally handicapped guy with too much fluid in his brain, but then I heard the accent. I turned around and there he was, Ozzy Osborne, being led down to his seat next to Stallone by two ushers. He babbled the whole way "shaaashaaaant cunntttt cunntttyathatawaayy." It was a language only a mind fried by years of drug abuse could understand. The sight was too much for me, it became apparent that this would perhaps be the worst movie ever created, and I was one the first three hundred unlucky few who were about to see it. After awhile the chatter died down, the director came up and introduced the movie, the lights dimmed, and it was about to start.

HERE WE GO

People began leaving twenty minutes in, particularly after a three minute monologue by Ozzy Osborne, something about music and the devil and worship, I don't know I couldn't really make out most of it. It thoroughly confused everyone in the audience except for Osborne and Stallone, who laughed and nodded their heads. They were the only ones who could understand it all, and in turn they were the only ones enjoying themselves. They were enjoying it all so much they wouldn't even have noticed if the entire theater emptied out behind them, and it nearly did.

Five minutes later I made my way toward the doors of my freedom, taking one last look at that horrible train wreck, blown up big on and screen and right in your face. I turned and looked so long I didn't notice the usher in front of me, and ran right into him. At first he looked angry, but then he looked at me curiously and asked if "I wanted to get high?" I said "Yes" and before I knew it I was in the projection booth of the theater, with a couple of ushers and this girl who said she was the manager. The film was playing away, clicking with each frame, and the room smelled of sweat and a strange odor, as if it were coming off the film itself. The tallest usher pulled out a balloon and smiled a toothy grin. It was jenkem, fermented poo gas, and from the looks of the people around me, they were experienced users. The first usher took his huff, and immediately hit the floor, his legs nothing but cold spaghetti. The second usher took his hit, and bounced up against the wall and hung there, his head spinning. It was then my turn. The balloon, half deflated, was handed to me by the manager chick, the only one functioning enough to do so. Although the guys next to me didn't look like they were in too good a shape, I knew it was better than the alternative, which was to turn around, leave the room, and go out and watch the rest of that God Forsaken movie. (That's right, I'm saying I'd rather huff poo gas than watch Sylvester Stallone sing, anything, in any style, for any duration of time. Certainly not 90 minutes of it, with an accompaniment by a walking geriatric who mumbles because his brain has been turned into tapioca pudding from far too many years of far too many pills. A garbage disposal running with a beat in the background would be just as good as the two of them singing.) So I took a deep breath, brought the bag to my face, and my eyes took to watering from the stench. After a natural reaction, which always had my head turning to one side at the very smell of it, I brought it to my face one last time a took a good huff.

Instantly I passed out.

What happened next was sort of like a dream, but was much realer than that, it was almost like real life - except the only thing I could taste and smell was shit. Jenkem chalks up your mouth and works it way up your nasal cavity, you feel as if your innards have been all switched around, like your stomach was replaced with the large intestine, and your esophagus with the small intestine. Your so sick you don't know what to do, but then you start to hallucinate. Instantly I'm young again, with my brother, with Wyatt and Whitney, and we're playing by a creek with their mother, that woman with the big square thick glasses, and the ice blue eyes that never wavered and never teared. The same ice blue eyes Wyatt had. I forget her name, but then again kids are seldom very big on remembering the names of grown-ups, or even fraternizing with them for that matter. We're all young, and we're all daring one another to go in the water. Its so cold you can barely stand it, and its clear and you can see through it to the bottom where moss and algae have made their homes on jagged rocks, and you can see all the little black insects swimming in the cold frigid water. It hardly looks inviting, you start to think the damn little things are the only thing that can survive in it. Its all too much so we just end up hanging from a knotted branch that hung out over the stream, and we just look down into the water, our feet skimming its surface. Its so cold it feels like ice. We all wonder who's gonna be brave enough to jump on in, but no one ever did, all day. It all seems so real I'm six again, and the world is still fresh and exciting, and every little thing can be explored or dug up or turned over, and there's nothing to hold me back but curfew, but night fall. Until that time comes, the world is mine, and its all fresh and easy and brand new.

It was a nice feeling to have again.

And then I look down and I'm not sitting on the trunk anymore, I'm sitting on a rotten stinking tour bus with an overflowing septic tank. I'm by thirty-four other kids, and I'm the only one who's not talking. I just want to go home. They all talk or listen to music, or joke with the counselors. Like the wood shop teacher, I can see him as plain as day, like I was there reliving the whole thing over again. I can see his bald spot shining when the sun catches it, just as it did 9 years ago. His gut buldges underneath his red shirt and sticks out over his khaki's. I recognize the outfit, it's the required uniform of a People to People Delegate, the kind I had to wear when I was fourteen. He's complaining too, just like he did all those years ago. And there's Cindy Vadraskas, as stiff as ever, her gray curly hair hugging her head and dropping down over her beady eyes made even beadier by her glasses. She too is in a red shirt, but her's looks stiff from too much starch. I can smell that damned coconut hand balm she uses, she's putting it on now. She's the type of woman who finds everything dirty, and always lotions her hands, because the world is so filthy where ever she goes. She's always preserving them, like no one will notice that ugly old face with crows feet and those thighs with varicose veins that peek out when she wears shorts, all cause she's got two little young hands like perfect soft lilies. I was there for the first time again, and I still had that same feeling I had when I first experienced it. I was there on an opportunity of a life time, in the middle of Europe, on a tour bus carving through fields of sunflowers, seas of em', crashing and breaking with the wind, and all I wanted to be is home. Home was safe.

What's so wrong with wanting to be safe?

Then came fog and many distant memories. Like hopping from bed to bed in a hotel room and waking up dad, dad who was tired from the drive, tired from work, tired from everything. Cliff diving, the fall and the fear that comes up in your belly, and just as it swells up too much and has got to escape in a scream, you hit the water, splash, and its salty and cold and it comes up and slaps you in the face. You come to the surface with salt burning your eyes, salt in your nose, salt in your mouth. Fog and long card rides, broken promises, let downs. Fog and memories, some forgotten some merely stored away, for another time. They were all too much, and just as I thought I would go on dreaming forever, my eyelids peeled back and I was awake, awake but still caught up in a horrible jenkem fog. A glance at the clock had told me that I had been out for eight whole hours. My breath still reeked, my eyes were sensitive to light, and my stomach was doing the tango. I thought that at any moment I might vomit. I left the room, making sure not to wake the others from their feces induced comas, and went down into the lobby, to find it empty and totally trashed. Some parade had gone through, or maybe a squad of Bradley Tankers - the damage here was made by some great and terrible force. There was no way a movie audience could wreak such havoc, create such damage could they?

Could a horrible movie be to blame for the current state of the lobby? Could angry viewers rip down lighting fixtures and tear up tile? And what about the cracks, did I miss an earthquake? Coming out of a jenkem hallucination leaves your brain all fuzzy, your eyes have trouble focusing on things, everything's hazy around the edges, you can't tell up from down. Real becomes unreal, it becomes really hard to tell the difference. Was the movie that bad? Or was I still hallucinating? A trip into the theater, ground zero, and the damage proved to be even more horrific. Bodies lay in the aisles, some with throats slit, others with slit wrists, as if the movie was so bad suicide seemed like a good idea. Chairs were uplifted, pulled from the roots and left turned over on their sides, the movie screen was black but still had light to it, the projector had never been turned off. Amongst all the bodies there was no sign of Ozzy Osbourne or Sylvester Stallone. It appeared as if they were the only survivors, bodies everywhere, destruction that would take years to fix, and yet no police, no reporters, nobody. It was hard to tell if it was real, there was very little I could do other than hope. A jenkem user can wake up with a bloody knife and all he has to do is hope its a hallucination, that he isn't a murder, that it isn't true. Unfortunately for me, this was all true. I walked out into the street, where the chaos spilled out of the theater in the form of dead bodies and destruction, cars were burning, benches broken. All this destruction, all this death, and then men responsible seem to have gotten off scott-free.

They're probably out there somewhere, in the night, talking in their mumbled language, amusing one another with the intellectual equal they have been looking for all their lives. They've made it this far, which means they've been around long enough to leave a substantial shit stain behind to remember them by, that is if they ever die. They may just go on living, like ageless retards who are too stupid to know they should be dead. Even if Stallone does die one day, he will always be remembered for his movies, namely the Rocky and Rambo franchises. It is for this reason iR names Sylvester Stallone - ageless retard.

FURTHER RETARDATION

Stallone has a long running competition with Arnold Schwartzenegger. When they were younger it was who was the better action star, now they both compete to see who's man tits are saggier.

Stallone is one of Hollywood's symbols of machismo, of Hollywood action heroism, which means hes another John Wayne, no brains and all hate. I would give him this blog to read, but I don't think he would be able to get through it. (Congratulations, you're smarter than Stallone, you've made it this far.)

Stallone has been married 3 times, and has 5 kids. His second marriage lasted a whopping 2 years.

Stallone abuses human growth hormone, as it is said to help stop the aging process (some one please tell him its not working.) In 2007 he was caught by Australia with 48 vials of synthetic human growth hormones.

Any of his movies... I suggest Over the Top.

Jose Canseco: Roids, Babies, and A Whole Lotta Lies

The first Dodger game I ever attended, I was rather young, young enough to hardly remember the details of the game, and young enough to have been so antsy and impatient and so unfamiliar with the game of baseball that my brother and father and I left after only three innings. We were in right field and playing right in front of us was the right fielder for the Oakland Athletics, a bright faced youth with the name CANSECO printed on his back. Jose Canseco - a man my father foolishly said "Would never make it in the big leagues." He may have been right, had it not been for the drugs and the wicked ego he had that made him the T.O. of his time. A time during which he was known for his 500 foot monster home runs that made it look like his bat was spring loaded, like the ball was made of cheap rubber. He was also named Rookie of the Year, won the World Series twice (Athletics 1989, Yankees 2000), named American League MVP, and an All-Star six times, and named American League Comeback Player of The Year. Yet all these accomplishments are not what he's really remembered for. Instead he's known for the many acts of retardation that have drowned out his shining accomplishments and rusted them over with a brown murky water that has been his personal life.

Namely, he has a thing for steroids.

The two of them met on a warm summer night in Miami Florida, when Jose was only 12 years old. He was chilling by the beach, admiring all the muscle men and their sun burnt bodies, like he always did. There were other boys around him, picking on him, like they always did. They liked to pick on Jose because he was smaller and couldn't play stick ball. Every time he came to the plate the broom handle they used as a bat would swing through the strike zone and hit nothing but air, every time, 1-2-3, Jose would strike out, and they would all laugh and take to making fun. They were making fun of him now, throwing stones at him, and though Jose was hurt, he didn't show them any attention, like he didn't notice them at all. After much bugging they eventually got bored with Jose, and left him to his muscle gazing.

"Oh how I wish I could be like them." He would think. "So pretty. . . and muscular, and strong. Why if I was like them, those boys wouldn't pick on me anymore, oh no. I'd be something for them to gawk at, and they'd all want to hang out with me, but oh no, I'm cursed with these pencil thin arms. . . this disgusting figure." Even at 12 Jose already had a distorted body image. He thought of himself as a scare crow, hideous enough to scare away crows, or a standing match stick you could knock over just with your breath. He was weak. His musings however were ended when his eye was caught by a shady fellow who came out from behind a palm tree near him. He had a bag in his hands. He motioned Jose over with a boney finger, and when Jose arrived he emptied the contents of the brown bag into his whale-bone palm.

"Why do you let them pick on you like that? Why do you let them pick on you like that, when you can have this. . ." The boy looked blankly up at him. "It will make you strong, it will feed your blood and give you the heart of an ox. . . Your muscles will harden as if they were made of rock, and you will stand tall and confident, it will make you everything you've wanted to be."

Everything you've wanted to be. The words hung out over the air right over Jose's head, tempting him. It all seemed too good to be true, could all of his problems be solved with this clear liquid kept in tiny bottles before him? The temptation of it possibly being true won out over the dread of it being false, or maybe even poison. He bought the elixir with stolen money and ran to his home and into the backyard, feet clumping across the lawn to where his clubhouse was kept. It was a place where he could be alone, and it is the place where he first shot up steroids. Four months later Jose could beat up those boys, and he did, and even developed into quite the stick ball player. Although he always dreamed of being a body builder down on muscle beach, fate had chosen him for a ballplayer: he was signed by the Oakland Athletics right out of high school.

The rest is history, like this little gem.

Jose Canseco, seen here May 26th, 1993. Carlos Martinez hits a long fly ball to right field, it comes down like a dead bird and hits Canesco right in the head as he tries to vainly catch it, and it bounces over the right field wall and is announced a home run. Thank God you're so hard-headed, Jose.

The ball produced a welt on his head, and a cancerous retardation started in his brain, one which went unnoticed by doctors and all the brain scans. This coupled with the steroids slowly worked on him, and what once was a promising career, slowly dwindled and was reduced to nothing but scandal and boisterous comments by Jose Canseco, things like "I brought steroids into baseball" and "When I tested positive, it was a scandle brought on by Major League Baseball, they wanted to get rid of me, because I'm the kingpin of steroids." He had spent an entire career building a bad ass image, by sleeping around all the time, beating up his wives, and power housing his way around the base pads, but in reality he was still that 12 year old boy from Cuba, who moved to Miami and fell in love with muscle bound body builders on the beach. He was still soft, even if he didn't know it. And I know this because I met Jose Canseco once, at a bar I can't remember the name of. He was sitting at a table with some friends and women who weren't his wife. He had just finished The Surreal Life, so his fame had been sparked and he was in the public eye again. People were coming up to him asking for autographs, photos, things of that nature.

I had different plans.

"You know I've been to the future?" In my drunken state I took talking shit.

"Really?" He said. Depleting brain mass had made him quite guillible, and the drinking wasn't helping much either.

"Yeah. . . 300 years into the future, and there are no ball players." His face turned to one of shock, he looked as if he may cry. "Yeah no ball players, only wanna-be's, the genes of the game, the blood of our nation's pastime was lost over all those years, after more and more ball players took to steroids, and in turn more and more of them became infertile, until the last "baseball gene" known to human beings was lost. . . Now in the future, the fields are full of fumblers, Bill Buckner's - Right Through The Legs, outfielders that get lost in the sun, catchers that don't catch, pitchers that don't pitch. . . All the genes have dwindled that far.

The collective nuts of baseball shriveled. . . In the future no one goes to see them anymore, nobody gives a shit, its a game that's far too slow in a world far too fast - people don't get it. Even if they did, there isn't talent on the field anymore, they're all like Roy Hobbs after the bullet - gone, washed up, down and out, and its all your fault Jose. . . all your fault. Seeing as how you claim to be the man who brought steroids to baseball. . . Way to gooooo buddy." He started bawling uncontrollably, pulling up his shirt to wipe his tears and leave it all salty and wrinkled and wrung out. He looked like a giant eight year old, who had just been told there was no Santa Claus, there was a dull look in his eyes. His dreams had been shattered.

"Baby want his bottle?" He nodded and went to feeling his pockets for lumps. He got out all of the supplies, and shot himself up with some steroids. It fed him, and as the syringe entered his body his eyes closed, and he cooed just like a baby, safe and warm clutched up against his mother's bosom. The fertility drugs he used, which he claimed to help "enhance performance" had turned him into a crying little pussy who'd break down all tear-eyed after a beautiful thought, or after he stubbed his toe. He had gone soft, in more ways than one.

But that was many years ago.

Now he's a writer, a reality star, and all around - bitcher. If interviewers ask him about ratting his friends out, his roid rage comes through, his veins come to the surface and his face turns beet red - he just about rips his clothing he swells so much. He's written two books, the first one was Juiced: Wild Times, Rampant Roids, Smash Hits, and How Baseball Got BIG. A wonderfully retarded tale, all about Canseco, and shooting up in random bathroom stalls, bending over so Mark McGwire can place the needle in his ass. He effectively rats out all of his friends, because Canseco is so retarded, he fails to see that steroids are against MLB rules and regulations. Breaking such rules can mean being banned from the game entirely, banned from the Hall of Fame, etc, etc. He recovered however, with his second book Vindicated: Big Names, Big Liars, and The Battle to Save Baseball. A complete 180 from his previous work, "One of Juiced's central precepts is that steroid use is not in fact a bad thing, as long as the person is being monitored by a physician, and the dosages are small. Canseco believes that steroids can not only improve the game of baseball, but also improve and lengthen our lives." Perhaps with Vindicated, he finally realized being the self-proclaimed Godfather of Steroids would be something that would hinder him getting into the Hall of Fame. . . Who would of thunk it?

He's so blindly retarded, he had found himself to be a total athlete, and even attempted MMA fighting, and fought only one fight. He was defeated in the first round in 1:17 seconds. It was a slap in the face to Canseco, his ego dwindled and his faith in steroids dwindled, but only slightly. For he believed steroids to be a good thing, when monitored and the user is checked by a physician regularly. This may be true, but this could easily be said about anything.

He's so hopelessly retarded that his entire career has been tainted by steroids, and he doesn't seem to understand why its a bad thing. He doesn't have a problem with the fact that he's never shown anyone would he can really do, with his own natural talent.

He's so sadly retarded that he's been in trouble with the law for domestic abuse with his first wife, after he crashed into her car. They got divorced soon after, but Jose didn't care, he still had his true love, steroids. He was also in trouble with the law for smuggling in woman fertility products, which he intended to use to help deal with his "steroid abuse." What he failed to realize was that these drugs were literally eating him alive, and making him more and more less of a man, one pill at a time.

He's so tragically retarded that he was once stalked by Madonna, who apparently had a thing for him, but now is scumming his way around Hollywood with the D-List: Reality Stars. Every once in awhile when he starts to fade away, he "writes" a book about his life and the dirty underbelly, which only further destroys the relationship between him and the rather queer come-over old man commissioner of baseball. By know he's just a parrot that repeats one or two phrases, and his vocabulary is just as limited now, and just as annoying. He lives in the past, because his life is practically over, he'll always been known as Baseball's Number #2 Blooper in its long history.

It is for these reasons iR declares Jose Canseco Completely Retarded.

Jose is still married to his first love, his high school sweet heart, steroids.

Jeff Goldblum:The Seventh Sense

Who is Jeff Goldblum?

What. . . is Jeff Goldblum?

This past week I set out to answer these questions, but there's very little to be found about him on the internet. Jeff Goldblum is very much like a ghost; whenever celebrities start dying off, Jeff Goldblum gets thrown into the mix, like some hopeful journalist out there thinks that if he writes of Jeff's death, it'll come true. For a while there, before its confirmed that he's still alive, Jeff walks around just like a ghost, he walks around and nobody cares, he saunters this away and that, unnoticed and given not even the slightest bit of eye contact. But then the news report comes in he's still alive, and then they say oh, he survived, he's alright he's alright, so Jeff goes on walking and he's not a ghost anymore but still nobody cares, still nobody notices him; not even a look.

Those who do notice him are almost like the kid in The Sixth Sense, they can see dead people, but to see Jeff requires a greater and more finite instrument - The Seventh Sense.

Lack of information left me with only one choice, one which I dreaded. I would have to fly out to Pennsylvania.Even now I glance back on the notes of that wretched flight... This was hardly a vacation.

Fuck I hate airplanes. Sitting next to an aging old woman who won't stop expelling mustard gas. She expels it and doesn't say a god damn thing, like she doesn't even notice the smell that burns nose hairs, they're probably gone from years of expelling. Wonder what she ate. Maybe this plane food. Little kid won't stop kicking my seat. Fuck I hate airplanes. Sisterhood of The Traveling Pants is the only on-flight movie. Fuck I hate airplanes. Some baby is screaming. Fuck I hate airplanes. Fuck I hate airplanes - can't even get shitfaced. 2 drink limit. . . 2 drink limit. . . Looking at Pennsylvania below, from 20,000 feet it aint bad, but soon I'll be ground level in that shit. . . "in the shit." 20,000 feet - maybe a gremlin will come and kill us all, or maybe just me - I deserve it for coming here. . . but gambling is legalized - they say so, they say a lot of things, lots of rambling, lots of pointless conversations, I'm surrounded by em - people who love to talk but have nothing to say. . . Fuck I hate airplanes. Its just unfair. Ear pops and crying babies as we begin a gradual decent to land - should get use to the sound, Goldblum's voice is just as annoying. Flight attendant - blond - gone - ready to spawn -

When I got off the flight there he was, Jeff Goldblum, standing as inconspicuous as ever, even though he was standing amongst a crowd of limo drivers and teary eyed relatives waiting for the sight of their kin so they could start all the crying and hugs and kisses. Even though he's an actor and Broadway star - no, no attention given to Jeff Goldblum.

I was beginning to think he really was a ghost.

"Jeff?"

"In the flesh!" He laughed. "Isn't it great! Yes, uh... umm.. yes... Wait, I'm going to uh... disappear... and uh materialize. . . and uhh. reappear over there. . . Well uh yes. . .uhhh. . . umm" He started to ramble, a thing he did to make it appear like he had a great deal of wonderful intellectual things he was trying to say, but first he had to formulate it in his mind and make it simple enough for you, the dumb simple minded listener to understand. . . The truth was his mind was a jig saw puzzle of odds and ends of different shapes and sizes so strange it took him awhile to put all the pieces together and form them into thoughts and in turn sentences. He'd have these odd moments where he'd ramble and you could see him thinking, you could see the words trying to come to him, and they'd come out like he literally had to cough them up. When he did, it was always some strange idea, or plan, or random thought that managed to work its way out of him. I stop him before he starts, and we leave and drive sixty miles to his home, I took notes the whole time.

He seems to drive the quickest through the warehouse districts and construction zones - a certain disdain for the working man peeks its way through sometimes when he talks. He talks he talks he talks he talks. He does a lot of talking. His house is the biggest most ostentatious one on the block. He's eying me as I write this. Through the gate and up his drive way. Sloping lawns on both sides. Gardeners tend to them, they ignore Goldblum - they must not have the seventh sense. He's yammering again - something about aliens and independence day - Will Smith and the like. Up to the doors of his rotten house, I step through and my face goes blank. Its cold... suffocating. Who is this ugly bat staring at me?

"Ahh honey hello!" He went to kiss her but she moved forward and never looked at him. "Josh. . . this is my wife."

"Who are you?" She asked, like she didn't even hear him.

"A guest of Goldblum's. . . surely you heard. . ."

"Oh another one of you loonies. . ." She sighed. "I never know what to do with your kind. Well do what you must, look around, just leave me alone." She said, and then walked off, disappearing somewhere into the bowels of the house.

I looked to him for an answer, he started stumbling his words and laughing nervously.

"Well uhh. . . umm. . . you see I'm not home much. We uhhh don't get. . . along." And that was that, he showed me around his house, pointing at this and that, with particular devotion spent to an old ugly oil painting of his father he kept over the mantel piece. He suggested I write it down, describe it in detail, and then he went on a long story about the man, long and slow, and frustrating. At times I thought to slap him, to just tell him to "Get on with it already!" but I let him talk. I let him talk because I'm use to having to listen to people go on about stupid boring things - sometimes there's nothing you can do to stop them, you've just got to wait it out, like a rain shower of quarter sized rain droplets that shows up uninvited on a clear day and you've got no cover. Their words are the rain droplets and they just shower over you, they baptize you in everything that is them, in everything that bothers you about them, and there's nothing you can do to get a way - you could walk away but the cloud would just follow you - no sir, you just got to wait it out.

So I waited it out and it rained retardation till dinner rolled around. We sat at the dining room table, one which could seat 30 people easily, and Goldblum took to immediately bragging about the suaires he would hold in this room. "Uhh. . . girls. . . uhh. . . whiskey, balloons, balloons, uhhh elephant rides. . . I'm going to uh. . . disappear, right, and then uhh materialize, right, by reapearring over there." He always had a way of repeating himself - it was almost like he wished it were true, its almost like he wanted to be transparent, to be able to disappear, and although he never vanished right before my eyes, he may as well have been invisible, judging by the way people ignored him so. "Uhh. . . uhh. . ." I took to waiting it out again, Goldblum took to raining again, with more stories and "hilarious anecdotes" not even he found all that funny. An hour went by and no food came, there was no smell of it, no sounds in the kitchen, no trace of a meal anywhere.

"Uhhh. . . . Hello?" He called out. No answer. "Hello?" No answer. "Uhhh Hello?" No answer. "Hmm well uhhh it seems I've been away so long, uhhh everyone seems to have forgotten that dinner. . . uh, uh, is at eight." He went to investigate dinner, but there was no one around, no chef on duty, he couldn't even find his wife. "Uhhh. . . it seems we've. . . been forgotten." He apologized, he seemed downright embarrassed. He tried to cheer me up with some of his music, something which he claimed was expression at its finest:

I was cheered up, but I'm sure for none of the reasons he intended.


The next day, breakfast was much the same - there was none. It was quite clear that he was even a ghost in his own home. The maid ignored him, but eyed me like she thought at any moment I would snatch up some retarded Goldblum artifact and make a run for it, which is quite ludicrous - I hate running. His wife was nowhere to be found. His home was an empty shell that echoed when you would talk - it didn't seem lived in.

"So uhh. . . maybe you should interview me. . . thats the whole point of all of, uh, this. . . right?"

"Don't you think its strange all these people not acknowledging you? Fame and fortune aside, your a human being, aren't yah? Don't all people deserve at least that - a little acknowledgment, every once in awhile?" I asked. The question made him laugh.

"Uhh. . . no . . . no. . . uh you see its like crystals. . . crystals, they're uh, amazing uh examples of. . . of. . . of the wonder of nature. . . and-"

"No." I cut him off. I was hardly in the mood for another stream of retardation disguised as something intellectual. "I mean, they don't even look at you, they don't say a thing. . . They don't say a thing and you just go on, unphased, like its the normalest thing. . . Even your wife didn't say anything when we came in, she looked at me like I wasn't welcomed, like I wasn't suppose to be here, man. Your maid gave me the same look - and the food - its been twice now that we've sat at this table and nothing came out - the kitchen didn't even have all the sounds of food being made. They didn't forget us. Its like you're a ghost, and walking around with you is making me feel like a ghost too, and I just don't like it. . . not one bit."

"A. . . ghost? A uh uh, uh disembodied spiritial being? An, uh, apparition?" His eyes darted back and forth, he was trying to process the word, to define it. "A Ghost. . . uh."

"You know all them months ago, when everybody was devastated with news of MJ passing, and then Faccet, well, you were grouped in with em too. You were reported dead for 4 whole hours, Jeff. . . But it was retracted, it was said you were ok, that you survived, just like you had all those other times, when the news came out false. . ."

"Survived. . ." He was reliving the event.

"But they were wrong this time Jeff. This time you didn't survive." He had turned milk-white, a wilting daisy. "Sometimes, ghost are just people who don't know they're dead, ones who just go on living. . ." I paused and eased the words out of my mouth. ". . . just like you."

"Just like. . . me. . ." He looked down and saw what I had already seen - his white shirt stained crimson. Blood poured out of his abdomen like the wound was fresh, made new. "So. . . that. . . that uh, prostitute, she really did. . . kill me." His eyes had glossed over, he looked more like a ghost than ever. "I remember her shooting. . . uh, the bullet. . . the white flame. . . dead. . . dead. . ." His eyes dropped. "But, uh, how?"

"You died, Jeff. But it all got mixed up. You didn't believe it, no one did. . . The newspapers have claimed you to be dead so many times before, and they were always wrong, you always just went on living - you survived the accident or weren't really in harms way at all. This time you really did die, but no one believed it, not even you, so you kept on living - a ghost. So people thought you survived but you didn't Jeff." He looked so cold. "You know what you must do. . . you must cross over Jeff. . ." (corny)

"I don't know. . . uh, if I believe you."

"I didn't believe it at first either Jeff. . . I thought everyone was ignoring you because you're lacking of talent and always seem to act like an ass. I figured it was because you're a Broadway star, and nobody really cares about Broadway, and that you haven't done anything prominent since those iMac commercials, which you did so long ago and are so forgettable. But it wasn't all that Jeff, you really are a ghost. . . I started to see it last night. . . "

"How can you see me?" He asked.

I paused, and looked up at him very intendly.

"The seventh sense." Pause. "They can't see you because they don't have it. . . I do. And that is why you must go. . . I'm sick of seeing you."

"I know. . ." He solemnly said. The room erupted with light, a blinding light from the "Heavens." "Pop?" Jeff looked into the light, and saw that old man he showed me the painting of. "I'm coming." He turned to me.

"Thanks." He said.

"No Jeff, thank you."



IN MEMORY OF JEFF GOLDBLUM. . . 10/22/52 - 6/22/09

iR

Lady Gaga, Robot.

Lady Gaga was created by Harris Fitzpatrick in 2005 in the middle of a dry-spell Interscope Records doesn't really like to talk about. She was a robot created to help boost the record sales that have slowly sputtered out for the company, and have never really recovered since the advent of the internet. Her CPU is loaded up with videos and information of/on David Bowie, Paris Hilton, Elton John, and Andy Warhol in a combination so deadly it produces bouts of retardation that only Lady Gaga can achieve - she is the "6 Million Dollar Man" of Pop-Retardation. She is better, faster, stronger. And she is a man: the truth is Lady Gaga really does have a penis. Its a robotic attachment Fitzpatrick created himself. Gaga can retract it at will, and only recently has it been discovered, after a malfunction in recent months caused it to retract itself during a performance and was spied by a loyal fan with a camera phone. In an effort to hide Gaga's real identity, Interscope has gone through great lengths to protect their investment. Her past has all been made up, all photos of her have been doctored or were taken from family albums thrown away due their ugly subject matter.

The Mister Gepetto of Gaga Retardation, Harris Fitzpatrick.

Aside from the recent hermie rumors, The Gaga Robot has been quite successful for Fitzpatrick and Interscope respectively. She has written songs for The Pussycat Dolls and Akon, and her album The Fame sold 2.3 million copies, further proving the retardation epidemic that is slowly rotting away the entire human species. Her "brain" is hardwired so proficiently that she works like a wooden puppet, responding to the whims of those who own her, and she has been programmed to think only of becoming a pop icon. Image is everything for Gaga, and she's so well trained she believes "no news is bad news." Even the worst reviews, the biggest slams and insults, she turns on their heads, and takes revelry in just having word get out - at the name Lady Gaga just coming from people's lips. Yet there is one ultimate problem with Lady Gaga, artificial intelligence - she has none. It is what results in her strange fashion sense of cardboard boxes, dead kermit the frog dolls, plastic bubbles, and what causes her to cite Peggy Bundy from Married. . . With Children, Dot from Spaceballs, and Donatella Versace as her "fashion icons" and "inspiration." To go with her strange fashion she has all the self-righteousness, and ignorance to keep her from danger. She has been programmed with a guard she keeps up at all times to protect herself, and a blindness that allows her to not see the retardation right in front of her. It often results in comments like this:

"When I make love, they say Gaga."

"This is just how I am . . . You'll never see me in flip-flops and a t-shirt." In regards to her style.

"Its the future of pop music." When discussing her douchey techno sound.

"Look at me: I might as well be a gay man." After Christina Aguilera questioned her sex.

"Nobody can copy me, I can't be copied."

She's like that 16 year old girl who's all slut and no brains, one who gets told the truth about her stupidity daily, but just shrugs it off and says stupid things like "She's just jealous." Gaga is so set on her goals that nothing can phase her, even the straight up truth. Put simply, she's an attention whore, who just screams look at me, look at me, and when a person doesn't like her, it isn't Gaga's fault, its the other person's, they "don't understand." It is this blind retardation that has gotten her where she is today, as the New York scene kept telling her off and she wouldn't listen, and now after many years of suffering on the bottom with the "dirt" and the "grime"(something which Gaga loves to mention in every interview,) Gaga is everywhere, Gaga is on top.

You should see how I play guitar. . .

She appeared on the Ellen DeGeneres show wearing what looked like a giant gyroscope around her head so large it hit Ellen the dancing dyke right in the face when they went for an awkward man on man hug. "Its an orbit," she explained. "Its my Gaga Barrier." She played her hit song Poker Face and showcased her strange and entirely retarded way of playing the piano - she walked up to the ivory keys and then stood on the piano bench, bending over with ass in the air, dick hanging between her legs, her caged face up against the microphone. Over night the show had made her an icon for the gay community, and a permanent fixture in the "pop scene."

Yet it wouldn't all be smooth sailing for Gaga and her creators.

In the summer of 2008, the company suffered their first major hitch. She was playing at Madison Square Garden, to a packed house, when bubbles showered down during one of her performances - all part of the show - the soapy liquid engulfing her whole. Unfortunately it seeped through her latex skin, and worked its way through her mechanical body, slowly shutting down her systems. Yet still she was putting on a great show, throngs of retards were going crazy. She just may make it. . .

And then it happened, right in the middle of Poker Face. . .

Her eye exploded, shooting springs out of her eye socket, her neck tried to turn but the gear was stuck, her head jerked to one side as smoke poured out of her, Lady Gaga was breaking down. People in the crowd were terrified, young teens started bawling - their Lady Gaga was no more. Her gay community collectively swooned and fell to the ground flicking their wrists -their Lady Gaga was no more. The executives at Interscope simply stood and stared at their multi-million dollar state-of-the-line robot corroding right in front of them - their Lady Gaga was no more. . . It was frightening to the executives, never before has she ever broken down, at least not on stage. There were occasions when she'd power down and get forgotten outside in the rain, or the time she was out on a yacht with some execs, and she was performing random acts of retardation in a cardboard dress and fell over the rail and just sank to the bottom of the Pacific. That was Lady Gaga's No. 1 through 4. But this new model was more advanced - more retarded, and now all that work was wasted, and even worse the whole world now knew their secret.

Lady Gaga, deleted scene from I, Robot.

The execs were frantic, screaming into cell phones as the audience evacuated in complete hysteria - retards who had just witnessed their God, their John Lennon turn to smoke and flame and burned wax flesh, nothing more than an ugly robot with plastic eyelashes and glue and wire and a whirling computer processor. The curtain went down just as she burst into orange-blue flames, which filled the arena with plumes of thick white smoke.

"Ga-ga-Gaga. . . ooo-oooo-ooouuuttt." She said in a mechanical voice - the heat had destroyed her pitch modulators. She crumpled to the floor in a heap, all metal and frayed wires - Lady Gaga No. 5 had finally ceased computer functions. A somber day indeed.

When Fitzpatrick arrived, he wept like a parent who had just lost their child, but he caressed her like he had just lost a lover. It was sick and depressing, a scene as bizarre and retarded as Lady Gaga's entire career.

"When can rebuild her." He said. "We can! I've made mistakes before, but now we can make her perfect, we can make her invincible. If only I could . . ."

"Forget it." An exec cut him off. "Its over, we'll have to make a new, more retarded model. . ." He spied the Gaga model, an action figure melted in a microwave. "I'm thinkin' maybe a platinum blond with big ole' titties and an ass like Beyonce. . . Not like this one, her ambiguous sex did much for the gay community, but it didn't help in rounding up enough young kids, young kids. . . " He paused for a moment. "Yeah and maybe we should update her with a new slut program so she can please the boys in between shows. . . And I don't mean with that dick you've fashioned her with, Fitzpatrick."

"You can't, you can't." Fitzpatrick pleaded.

"We just did. . . Now all we need to do is get the press in our corner, fudge a few facts, call it all publicity stunt. . . We'll be fine, just fine. God knows all the pop fans will soak up whatever we tell them, believe whatever we want them to believe - the American Dream my friends, the American Dream." He lit a cigar and walked off proud of himself.

Interscope Records left him there, Fitzpatrick and his lone robot in a now empty and lifeless Madison Square Garden. Lady Gaga No 6. was created months later, and began touring once again, her fans so retarded they didn't seem to notice any difference, nor did they question her strange disappearance. Things were good and the Interscope Records people were as happy as they could be, but little did they know that Fitzpatrick had ideas of his own. . . He created another Lady Gaga, LG No. 7 secretly, and fixed her up with rocket launcher arms and .30 caliber machine guns where her tits should be. . . He sold it to the government, which is now working on creating the next weapon of the future - Lady Gaga. They are building an army as we speak, and are somewhere upwards of 20,000 units at the moment, all bleach blond, with blank eyes and painted lightening bolts on their faces. Little did John Connor know that the Judgment Day wouldn't come with Liquid T-1 Thousands and all sorts of strange robotic killing machines, it would come when half a million Lady Gaga's would stomp the Earth, with a gun in one hand, and a microphone in the other. And that when the world came to an end, all that would be left was Lady Gaga, left to stare at all the destruction man had brought to his planet and fellow creatures, left to watch life start up again millions of years down the line, there forever, a never dying reminder of retardation.

sha-sha-shaaaaa.

Lady Gaga - Robot - completely retarded.

iR

A Week With a Giant Douche: David Duchovny

I think I used the word 'douche' like 200 times. . .
iR

Its tough being a celebrity these days, they're all dropping like flies. John Hughes, Michael Jackson, Farrah Fawcett, its a trend which has all of Hollywood getting check-ups and eating organic. All of Hollywood, that is, except for David Duchovny. He doesn't need to worry about becoming the next celebrity with a toe tag, because Duchovny would have to first become a celebrity. At the moment he's just scumming around Los Angeles, a sort of high profile pedophile with a "sex addiction" that can never be satisfied. He'll come up to you and tell you he's Agent Mulder, and that he has word that you have alien tracking devices up your ass, and that he'll have to check for them with his "dipstick." Its his best and most used pick-up line.

And sometimes it works.

When I saw him last, he was a mess. He was 2 hours late for our arranged interview and he smelled of cheap sex - that haunting scent strippers bathe themselves in, a sort of flowery odor that fails to cover up their natural stench of cigarettes and chlorine . He swerved his convertible and nearly hit me, as he docked his car up next to the curve and rambled on about "Douche of the Year. . . Douche of the Year. . . Great press. . . great press."

"You got some glitter on your cheek." I said. It was a reminder of his previous night at The Spearmint Rhino.

"Indeed." He flicked it off. "Listen I can't talk, just found out I'm in the running for Douche of the Year. . . Douche of the Year!" He was excited, flailing about like a madman, but then he saw something behind me which made him freeze. "Oooh look at the ass on that fine little feeeeline." A cat had walked by, all black and white. It stretched out and yawned, looked at the both of us uninterested and sauntered off toward more adventures dodging cars and chasing mice.

"The cat?"

"Yeah. . . You saw the way she was looking at me right. . .? Oooh I'd love to just. . ." He motioned the sex act with his hands. "But anyway, gotta go, gotta go. . . Here take this."

He gave me a ticket to the event, a golden ticket to the douche bag hall of fame and sped off, leaving long paint brush strokes of black on the pavement. Burn rubber. It was yet another slight glimpse into David Duchovny, a has-been floored by the idea of being named Douche of the Year. He was all about copulations and cunnilingus and sex acts that were beyond his control. You couldn't even keep a normal conversation with the guy without him bringing up his wanton behavior with the chick he banged who looked like Scully, or the one legged girl he didn't really like, or that one middle aged man or the next door neighbor, or the next door neighbor's dog. He would sometimes count them on his fingers, doubling back when he'd get to 10, 20, 30 . . . One day he counted out nearly 65 different victims of his addiction, and not all were human, some were inanimate objects, some were household pets.

One of Duchovney's victims: "Oh yeeeaah, what a tight pot."

The second time we crossed paths it was by happenstance. I was walking through the park, I came upon a tree, and there he was, David The Douche Duchovny. He had some chick bent over a bench and was going at it, right there in the park.

"Call me Jason." He barked. "Yeah call me Jason. . . " His voice cut through the dead air. "Call me Red Ranger, yeah. . . Red Ranger. . . Yeah, yeah. . . I'll show you my power sword. . . " I couldn't believe my ears. "Yeah its morphin' time baby. . . Dragonzord!"

It was a frightening scene for anyone to suddenly stumble upon. Women and children could be around, some poor youth would be ruined by the sight of it. "Mommy is that man hurting that woman? . . . Why is she calling him Red Ranger?" Yet this didn't concern Duchovny, oh no, he's a sex addict. He was probably just walking through the park, and just had the sudden urge to fuck and live out some sick Power Ranger sex fantasy, so he took the first opportunity he got and grabbed up some random girl, and went to work. He was always doing things like that. It was Duchovny being Duchovny, that is to say he was acting like a giant douche. I left as quickly as possible, the horrible image ingrained in my head and my eyes suffering from temporary blindness.

Later at lunch the next day, I found out from Duchovny that the woman was his ex-wife Tea Leoni, and the whole act was planned, that in fact "We do it every week." He talked over a plate of french fries about how he had on and off fuck fests with Tea, about his show Californication, where he "could just bang any chick [he] wanted," and he talked about House of D, and how he didn't get that people didn't like the movie, even though he was the driving force behind the whole project, as he wrote, directed, and starred in House of D.

Call me Red Ranger.

"That's exactly why they hated it. . . House of D? What does the D stand for Douchery?" I found myself carving the word DOUCHEBAG into the table with my knife. I hadn't even noticed it, like his words put me into a sort of trance, a condition doctors have called the Duchovny Effect. (Put simply, constant contact with one David Duchovny creates a temporary blockage in the brain. The blockage is created naturally by the body, to protect the brain from any further damage resulting from the parasites the emanate from Duchovny's diseased mouth. Victims hear Duchovney's words, but mostly they don't register. The only remedy is to cease contact with said douche.)

"What?" He asked.

"Nothing."

The next day was the big day, the crowning of The Douche Bag of the Year. I figured Duchvony was a shoe in, for he is such a douche that it triggers his retardation. Every waking moment of his life, every precise and calculated action, the creepy wink he gives chicks, the hip thrusts and gestures he always makes, the vanity that comes out of every pore in his body, they're all products of his douchery. He was nervous, but I told him he would be fine "You're such a big douche they may just change the name. . . Imagine girls will no longer douche, they will Duchvony!" He liked the sound of it.

He ended up winning the award, he beat out vinegar douches by only 3 votes, and we went out to celebrate. We went to a fine restaurant, and sat with the giant golden douche trophy standing tall in the middle of the table, glinting like a lighthouse flashing warnings out to all those around us of the retardation that is David Duchovny. Many women there all had eyes like a sea captain, for they could see the light and refused to come any closer than they had to, despite Duchovny's advances.

"Hasn't this just been the greatest time?!" He sipped his wine and smiled. "I mean the Douche of the Year?! Douche of the YEAR! ME! I mean at first I didn't believe you when you told me I was a giant douche, but I think you're right, I really am a giant douche." They very sound of his voice was beginning to anger me. I could feel my body boiling over, and it was going to build up with hatred until it all finally comes up and out over my lips and into the air, in streams of hate like bile so putrid not even Duchovny would be able to wash the stench off.

"Next year, I'm tellin you, a new X-Files movie and I'm back on track."

Easy now. . . easy. . .

"Yep that's the whole kit-and-caboodle right there. Gonna go back to rehab and do my best to deal with this horrible disease. . ." He stopped mid-sentence. His head followed a waitress as she passed by, and here comes that douchey Duchovny smile, yep, yep. A week with Duchovny and you already know his every action, his every move. You can read him just as easily as Where the Wild Things Are. "No more bullshit. . . you know?"

Let him have his moment. . . his extremely retarded moment.

"You know man?" He was eager for approval.

Fuck it, die pot fucker.

"Yeah I know man. . . I know that you are such a douche, that you don't even know that being a douche is a bad thing. You take pride in being Douche of The Year, a title which is usually given to actual douches, and not people who just act like a douche. Watching you hit on chicks this whole week has not only made you out to look desperate - for there is a difference between being a sex addict (which is bullshit anyway) and just being desperate - but also has produced much lulz for me and provided us all with staggering evidence of your retardation.

You strike out more than Barry Bonds did after he stopped using steroids during all the drug-use allegations.

The worst scene in movie history. Duchovny, dancing like a robot douche, Orlando Jones trying to be cool, Sean Williams being his usual dumb ass self. Wheres that cannibalistic Hills Have Eyes clan when you really need em?

You're such a freak practically every character you've ever played has been a freak. Mulder was addicted to porn, and X-Files itself revolved around a love story between you and Scully that was so retarded it still has websites dedicated to it. . . Many of them are now fossils and the left over remnants of a retardation that spanned over 9 years. It is a fossil you are trying so desperately to dig up and dust off and give another go. Californication was nothing more than a cruel joke, a journey into a dream world reminiscent of the one you've created for yourself, where you think your God's gift to women, and above that better than everyone else. And then there was House of D, your attempt at dazzling the world with your talent, a movie which bombed and had undertones of an obsession with incest. . .

Just what the fuck is wrong with you, anyway?"

He stared off into the distance, his face was plain and expressionless, a face he often used when he was "acting." I thought perhaps he did not hear me, but the plastic face began to crack up, in creases on the forehead bunched up by a trembling brow. His lips curled, his eyes began to fill up with salty tears, he sagged as a small cry built up within him and came out of him as his eyes began to shed tears like tossed dimes. He cried so heavily I felt a bit sorry for him, no wait, never mind.

"I'm, I'm a loser man." He began sobbing. . . The douche was leaking. "When I was married I had to roofie my wife to get her to sleep with me. . . I'm a horrible lover, and I can't act. When I was seven I was at the zoo on a field trip, I fell in the Panda bear cage and I was afraid, and he raped me. . ." Sniffle, sniffle. "No one could explain it, or at least no one cared to. For two years after that everyone in school would make fun of me, the event became known as the Great Panda Bear Rape of 1974. . . It ruined me.

It ruined me." He broke down some more, he was nothing more than a little child now, all distraught over an entire lifetime of douchery - douchery which he now finally noticed for the first time in his life. I left him there to weep, and he stayed there till closing. He went to rehab later that month, where he was accused of being on heroin, but there was no drug to blame for his douchery, it was but a result of his epic retardation. As far as I know he's still in rehab, and will be there for many many years to come. Time will only tell what is up next for Duchovny, and I wish him the best.

. . .

Not really.