Steven Seagal: Dangerously Retarded

A&E Documents the Workings of a Dangerous Retard; Seagal vs. Norris in a Battle Between Martial Artists Gone T.V. Cop

"Do I look like I'm deep in thought about an investigation involving the horrible murder of a poor innocent woman (angering me so I feel to clutch my weapon,) a case that I just know I'm about to solve. . . yeah? Ok cause that's totally what I was going for. . . Do we need more smoke? I feel there's not enough smoke. . ."

The tranquil beauty of Jefferson Parish, Louisiana is interrupted with the screams of an innocent woman, her life threatened and in danger. It is heard by the fine-tuned ears of Steven Seagal; they're geared in such a way and are so well built that they can hear an injustice taking place up to 100 miles away. Immediately he's on the move, gearing up and tearing down the road in his Sheriff wagon, peering out the windshield and feeling satisfied that this new one has no cracks in it (just yesterday he put a traffic violator through it, and needed a new one.) When he arrives at the scene his own personal team of elite officers are already there, their cars fishtailed across the road to form a natural barricade. His breaks squeal as he burns his way to a stop, and he sits there waiting, as if at any moment the rock soundtrack will kick in, so that he may get out and pull off his glasses and say something bad-ass and prophetic. But no music comes, so Seagal gets out, one hand holding a megaphone, the other hand up near his face clutching a delicacy that is shrinking in size with each bite. He's eating a donut, the crumbs falling out of his mouth as he greets his men, yelling on the megaphone, and though it distorts his voice and makes it hard for him to be understood, he still continues to use it anyway.

"Sooo mmmummumum." The amplification from the megaphone picks up every little nuance, every grind of the teeth and manipulation of fatty cheek needed to scarf down his tasty snack. "I'mmm mumumthinking we should set up mumumum ummm a permimeter mumumum here. . . man these are great, would you guys like to have one? Really, its ok, I've got a whole mumumbox of em' on the mumumpassangers seat. Don't let it be said I don't ever need a partner." He laughs, motioning to his men, three of which just stand there looking like Larry, Curly, and Moe, all in a row: Seagal had his own set of Three Stooges.

Nuk-Nuk-Nuk

"We're uh, standing right next to you sir, you don't need to use the megaphone." Curly says.

"Mumumum." Ignoring him he turns to the house. "Alright mumum we know you're in theremumum." Swallow. "Come out mumum with your hands up!"

Inside a confused kidnapper thinks he hears the sounds of some horrible beast outside, and it seems to be talking to him. He gets up and peers out the window, pulling aside the curtain.

"There!" Seagal says. "There he is!" He tosses his donut aside. "Cover me boys, I'm goin' in." He slides over the roof of his car for no reason. Similarly he rolls evasively in the dirt, for no reason, there is no real immediate threat here. In the dark you can almost trick yourself into believing he's that young Steven Seagal again, with the slick grease hair and a fresh face, but then the rotten moonlight hits him and he's just fat and old and looks tired. He slides up against the house and pulls out his gun, drawing it up towards his head. He breathes heavily from all of the sudden aerobics, but is calmed by an inner peace. He's played this situation out a thousand times, and he has always come out on top.

This time would be no different.

"I don't want to hurt you, I just want you to let the girl go." He pulls back the hammer on his gun. He takes a deep breath, turns, and kicks in the door, firing his gun five times, killing both the hostage and the victim, instantly.

"CUT!" The director yells, as he gets up from his chair. He pulls down his earmuff-headphones and shakes his head. "Where the hell is the smoke? There's not enough smoke, I asked for more smoke than this!" He looks around for anyone close enough to skewer, but no one makes eye contact, no one but Seagal. "And Seagal, what was up with the fuckin' donut? Its bad enough your fat as it is, sure you've lost a bit of weight since the public has last seen you, but a donut? Really, a donut? Do you really need to be eating on the set during filming like this?" He waits for an answer, but not very long, for he fears that that answer may be a strike to the face. "Look ok, ok, take five everybody."

Its the latest filming of A&E's Lawman, a new show that follows Seagal around Jefferson Parish on his real job as Sheriff of the county. I always thought it was real.

"Just another day on the job." He says, wiping his face with a towel.

"I thought it was suppose to be real?" I ask. He laughs.

"Oh even I know reality T.V. isn't real, at least not completely real. We film certain parts here, then add in normal patrol footage and stuff. . . Helps liven it up, get good ratings, you know things like that. The people believe its real because we say it is, again and again."

We mean it.

"So those whores on Flavor of Love aren't really whores?" My heart is breaking.

"Oh no, they're really whores, just some of their fights and confessionals aren't necessarily real. Producers have a lot of power. . . Its why I got to put up with that snot nosed puss over there. Listen. . ." He begins but is interrupted.

"Hey Steven. . ." Its an angry voice. "I got a bone to pick with you buddy." It belongs to Chuck Norris.

"Hey Chuck." Says Steven, calm, friendly.

"Hey Steven." Says Chuck again, uptight, angry. "I've got a little problem with this show of yours. . . I've known you to be jealous of my work all my life, but this just about crosses the line. This just about really gets my goat, and I think I'm gonna have to kick your ass, Steve."

"Now now, I don't want a fight, just what are you talking about?"

"This show, don't you think its a coincidence that, you like me, were involved in martial arts and have an extensive action career in the movie business, and that you, like me, are now getting your own show where you play a cop?" Chuck asks.

"There's no playing, this is real."

"Cut the shit. You've always tried to take my fame, and now here you are stealing Walker Texas Ranger, right in front of me. And look at you. You're washed up. Look at me. I've got a wife who's forty years younger than me, I've got my own home body gym. . . While you're out here playing cops and robbers, I'm at home hitting that, all damn night. Yeah that's right, and I don't even need Viagra." Chuck pokes him with his finger. "Do you have your own personal website that welcomes each and every visitor with your prerecorded voice? Huh, no? Didin't think so."

"That doesn't mean I'm washed up. . . And your pretend little show wasn't the inspiration for mine, they came to me Chuck. . . I don't want to hurt you." His mind is already filling up with all the ways he could hurt him.

"That's a load of shit. At least admit that I was the inspiration for your show, Walker Texas Ranger was pretty bad ass. . . There wouldn't be Lawman without me."

"No I won't do it. Because it isn't true."

"So what's this about, money? The message? You were always about that whole Buddhist bullshit message Steven, but there's just one problem with that, you kill people in your movies, a lot of em, you injure them horrifically, you use weapons effectively and efficiently with the intention to hurt and maim and even kill. At least I used America. I could kick peoples asses and be bad ass because I'm American, and America has a big long history of kicking ass. And I kick ass because I'm American too. See?"

"I just want to protect the people." Steven says.

"Protect the people? What the hell is that. . . You know karate isn't about protecting people, or yourself, its about selling movies, DVD's, instruction videos and work out machines. . ."

They argue until a pushing match ensues, and I can think only to back up and get a good view of the fight everyone is secretly begging to see. Chuck Norris displays how much better shape he's in. It escalates into a total show down.

"You can't handle this, Seagal." Chuck does the splits, hops up as if he has no nuts to harm at all and smiles, throwing in a flashy crescent kick for added flare.

"You can't handle this. . ." Seagal fires his gun. Chuck staggers back, shocked by the force of the bullet, by the thought of defeat - Chuck isn't use to losing. He falls to the floor, a crowd gathers, some still not quite sure what it is they just saw. The director barrels through the crowd, a chicken with his head cut off.

"God damn it Seagal. . . What the hell did you have to kill him for?"

"What?" Seagal's arms go up. "I said I didn't want to hurt him."

As it turns out, Chuck wasn't killed, the bullet didn't even pierce the skin. It had left a bruise the size of an orange on his abdomen however.

Of course he didn't die, Total Body Gym helps you reflect bullets.

A Demonstration in Martial Arts; The Savage Beating of a 12 Year Old

After the altercation with Chuck, Seagal felt a need to let out a little more built up aggression, and thought I should know at least a little bit about what he's all about, so he gave me a little martial arts demonstration.

What followed was perhaps the most savage beating of a 12 year old I have ever seen in my entire life.

The photos:

"So, say you're on patrol, and some 12 year old jumps out, and he looks evil, he looks menacing, he looks like he's just about to kill you. First make it apparent to your would-be-attacker that you don't want to hurt them. Then reach and grab them behind the neck, like so, and see this bone right here in the neck? Well keep pressure on this bone, there's a nerve in there that will make the boys arms shoot out and stay there, as if made of stone, giving you the perfect oportunity to hit him right here with your elbow like this. . ."
The result:

"Now wait for the boy, if he gets up, kick him in the face, like so. . ."

PHOTO MISSING

"Now, who's ready for lunch?"

It was a fine showing. I am though, no fan of blood, and the kid was a real bleeder.

The Decision:

It is for his new show alone, Lawman, that iR fearfully declares Steven Seagal, dangerously retarded. He's already a lethal weapon on his own, and now you wanna give him even more lethal weapons and a badge that says he can pretty much do whatever he wants?

iR

Shit Central; Or The Story of Jeff Dunham on Comedy Central

Jeff Dunham has been a ventriloquist for as long as he can remember.

If you have the distinct pleasure of being shown pictures from his childhood, you will find that he's seen clutching a ventriloquist dummy in nearly every photo. Even more apparent is the look on his parent's faces, a sort of utter embarrassment and sadness that both of them shared equally, one which seemed to intensify and grow even more morose as the years went on. They, like any respectable parent hoped for so much more for him, for many years they wished that he would move on from his obsession, one which they labeled as only a "phase," and hoped that he would one day grow out of it and move on. But much to their chagrin, he continued his ventriloquism all throughout his schools days, and later in his adult life. One day in the first grade, he was sent home for trying to turn one of his friends into a dummy for an act he wanted to do for the other kids. The teachers found the two of them in the bathroom, Jeff's friend bent over with his pants around his ankles, Jeff behind him, wrist deep in the poor boy's anus.

After the incident his parents sought medical help, but they found nothing wrong with him, except for his retardation, which his parents suspected all along. He was declared legally retarded in the Summer of '69, making him the youngest declared legal retard. He was only seven. This made it very hard for Jeff to make any friends, he often spent most of his time alone, locked up in his room (for his safety,) playing with his dolls and practicing his act. Unlike most boys, who give up ventriloquism after a harsh beating or two, Jeff kept with the "craft" and kept to his room. Many years passed, each season leaving as soon as it came, and before long Jeff was 28, still living with his parents, who were still horribly upset about the whole thing. It was then however, that he was finally given his big break on the Johnny Carson Show.

His 20 years of experience showed, as the 28 year old shined in front of the lat night audience. For Jeff it was the start of a great deal of wonderful things he was sure were bound to come his way. Similarly for his parents, it was the beginning of a great deal of horrible things that would slowly chip away at them, until nothing remained inside of their old dying bodies, save for a wanting of death and an end to the daily embarrassment that resulted from their son being just that, their son. (Don't think that they didn't make sure he was indeed their child - after the "Bathroom Incident" in first grade, his parents posed that perhaps he was switched at birth, but the hospital took all the wind out of their sails with extensive birth records and the like.) After Carson, he was obsessed with ventriloquism. For years he had been degraded by his father, by the town, by supposed peers, who all told him ventriloquism was a waste of time, and an act carried out only by queers and pedophiles - but now the window had opened, now all the negativity had evaporated, the show had proved them wrong. Ventriloquism was his calling.

Ventriloquism was in his blood.

So with a new-found purpose in life he took to the garage, and started making his own dummies. He would spend months on them, working and reworking them, talking through them, all for so long he began to believe they really were alive. (Which is understandable, as they were his only friends at the time.) In between dummies he was slowly making a name for himself with several television appearances: Ellen in '96, Hollywood Squares, Entertainment Tonight, The Best Damn Sports Show Period, and Good Morning America.


It was in 2003 that Comedy Central approached Jeff Dunham, their interview went like this:

"Well Jeff, before we start I'd just like to say we've both seen your work, great stuff, great stuff." One exec said. "Now first of all I wanna tell you something that I wanna keep hush hush, so when I tell you this, you can't breathe a word of it to anyone, not even your wife - you married Mr. Dunham?" He asked.

"Uh, no." Jeff said.

"Of course, what was I thinking your a ventriloquist." He laughed. "Yes well, anyway, we're switching platforms here at Comedy Central. . . Yes it seems we just don't know comedy any more, we aren't the one channel everyone goes to for humor. . . No these days it seems like all we know is shit, we're the shit station of the entire country. . . That's right we will no longer be called Comedy Central, but rather Shit Central." He smiled. "But we don't want to change right away, we want it to be a gradual change, and we think you're shitty enough to be the front runner in our switch. But as I said we want this to be a gradual change, so first we're just gonna give you a 30 minute Comedy Central special, you know, introduce you to the public. . . Then once you've floated around enough, we'll amp it up, whole hour specials, comedy tours, albums, movies the whole kit-and-kaboodle, all leading up to a Jeff Dunham show, you know years from now, in maybe 2008, 2009. . . All just in time for our big switch in 2010, from Comedy Central to Shit Central."

"And all you have to do, Jeff, is sign right here." The other exec said.

So Jeff did, and what followed were the horrible tragic events of television history, including the whole Blue Collar Comedy bit and Carlos Mencia.

The era of shit was upon us, and just as Comedy Central had planned it, The Jeff Dunham show aired on October 22, 2009, just in time for Halloween. The show was a staggering hit, as retards across the country tuned in for Comedy Central's newest turd, fresh and still steaming. Its pilot episode was Comedy Central's biggest shit: 5.3 million viewers tuned in to watch the premiere episode, making it the most watched premiere in Comedy Central's history. . .

After its premiere, execs at Comedy Central could be seen riding around town in the back of limos, drinking champagne and toasting to their new era of shit.

FURTHER RETARDATION:

Jeff Dunham has sold over 4 million dvds.

Made 30 million from June 08 to June 08, making him one of the highest paid comics of that year.

A Very Special Christmas Special was the most watched telecast in Comedy Central history.

He is the top grossing stand up act in North America.

Has his own Christmas Album Don't Come Home for Christmas

Set to do a fourth stand-up special in 2010, a tour said to span 60 cities, and a product line, all of his own.

Dunham dummies are usually charackatures of his own life: For instance his dummie Walter, a lonely old crotchety man who hates the whole world is based off of what Jeff will become if he doesn't give up his silly facsination with ventriloquism.

Dunham is currently in the middle of divorcing his wife, with whom he has three girlies.

It is for these reasons, iR names Jeff Dunham, legally retarded.

iR.

For more retardation watch The Jeff Dunham Show on Shit Central.

or visit

Jeff Dunham Official Website
Shit Central

Dave and Busters, Lucky Charms, Leprechauns

On February 8th, 1974 Barbara Green gave birth to what she thought was a healthy baby boy. He only weighed three and a half pounds at birth, a tiny crying little thing who despite his low birth weight, was not born premature. By the age of ten he was three feet tall, weighing only fifty pounds. By sixteen he was three feet tall, five inches, and weighed seventy-five pounds. From then on, he never gained an inch, his arms stayed small and stubby, his legs like tooth picks in shoes that were far too big; he was a small person living in a big world. The boy of course, now a man, is named Seth Green, and he's not really a man at all, but rather a leprechaun.

And I'll tell you how I know, I got the beady little bastard to fess up to me, those tiny little doll lips quivering as he did so. . .

He's a frequent "celebrity" at Dave and Busters, an arcade that markets towards adults and serves alcoholic beverages, but if you go there you won't find any adults, only old men who are still kids inside, as timid and frightened as ever. Seth goes there to pick up nerdy chicks, and be around other nerdy people who don't mind having hour long conversations about Decepticons. He also goes there because he was the inspiration for one of their commercials, and because of it, he gets treated like a king. The owner had seen Seth there one night, laughing and drinking at the bar, and Seth looked just like a kid, as he struggled to get up on all the chairs that were too high for him, all small mountains that took a rock climbers effort to scale. He would kick his feet under him once he finally reached their peaks, his feet dangling between their wooden legs if only to further illustrate how much leg room he had. Thus, the Dave and Busters commercial was born:

Seth Green, actual size.

It is at Dave and Busters that I ran into him, on that tragically retarded night. He and a group of his friends were all enjoying a Star Wars game. They hovered around machines that buzzed with the sounds of lasers and men dying. The few who were actually playing were driving land speeders through the dense forests of Endor. Seth needed a high chair to be able to sit in the seat and still see the screen, and could hardly reach the pedals, but was enjoying himself nonetheless. His joy could be seen all over his face, and all over the front of his pants, as Mr. Green still today pisses himself whenver he's really excited. (The set on the Italian Job was a real waterworks, I tell yah.) They were all hammered off of Zima, debating about the Death Star - I knew they were nerds, but this was just ridiculous. All the empty bottles on and around the machines were proof of how long they must have been here, probably for hours clinging to these dreary machines knee deep in their own self-masterbation. I had to leave the scene, it was too much at once, for they had started making fun of how lame Jar Jar Binks was, impersonating him and thoroughly making themselves lame in the process. I found refuge in the bathroom, or what little I could find anyway, as the sounds of retards outside seeped in through a crack in the door and bounced around the tiled walls in an unbearable symphony of mouth breathing, Xena war cries, and robot noises, all over the soft hum of arcade games - it was enough to make anyone with brain cells retarded, and unfortunately I still had some left. As I took a piss the door opened behind me, I listened to the sound of footsteps, but they didn't sound heavy or determined, they shuffled around and sounded like they belonged to a woman or maybe a young child. I heard another door open, under lock and key, slam shut soon after and then the dainty footsteps again, which stopped right next to me.

Finally I glanced and there standing quite shit faced, on a stool so that hemay be able to reach the urinal and keep from pissing on his shoes, the little tiny bastard himself, Seth Green.

"Sure you aint empty? Your pants are as wet as Louisiana. . . But then again I always did hear that Zima made bitches piss something fierce." I said, with emphasis on bitches.

"Land speeders, Ewok villages, light saber battles. . . Tell me that aint awesome, and I'll call you mah friend, a liar." He smiled, little leprechaun eyes glazed over by Zima. He seemed somewhere else, off ina drunken illusion of the life he so desperately wanted. He was somewhere on Tatoine with Luke Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kanobi, learning all about the Jedi's and the force. In an instant he pictured they were in that bar now, but now he was one of the band players, hotting away on a high-tech flute, knowing full well the fate that was about to meet Greedo at the hands of Han Solo.

"Well that wouldn't ever happen, because we, aren't friends." I said, the words breaking him from his trance. He frowned.

"And why not?"

"Because I don't often befriend leprechauns."

"Leprechauns." He laughed Zima, bubbly bitch drink. "That's a good one, I'm Jewish, I couldn't possibly be a leprechaun."

"That's a lie and you know it. . . You don't even look Jewish. . . Look at your career: all that success and so little talent. You'd have to be one lucky fuck to get all you have gotten, to get as far as you have, and there's no one luckier than a fucking leprechaun."

"Or Jewish." It was then he staggered off of his stool and passed out on the floor, as peaceful as a baby.

I decided to kidnap him, and so like so many other mothers and fathers who suddenly decide to abduct their children, I put him in a duffel bag, where young children and apparent leprechauns fit as snug as a brand new shoe. There were certain advantages to abducting a leprechauns, their size meant they easily fit anywhere and don't weigh very much, making them perfect for out-of-shape abductors, such as myself. I slung him over my should and walked right out of that forsaken hell-hole Dave and Busters, and nobody said a goddamn thing.

When Seth awoke he found himself tied to a chair.

"Oh hello sleepy head." I said.

"Where the hell am I?"

"Oh Mt. Wood, where we pick the bones of men clean." He thought to scream. "Shhh, shhh, but we won't be eating you, we don't eat leprechauns."

"What is this. . . dock rope? Its so thick and restraining." He struggled to break free, as if to show me.

"No, it is but mere shoe lace. . . You mustn't struggle, wouldn't want you to get all tuckered out. . . little guy." He thought for awhile, wondered where he had heard it all before, his head still bubbling with little glas clouds of Zima. It fogged up his perceptions, he couldn't seem to remember, but then he did.

"Its you!" He shouted. He started screaming for help, it was a little nasally scream that was reminisicant of an eight year old admist a great imaginary battle, or similarly the same little boy when he hurts himself.

"Its no use." I laughed. "No one can hear you up here. We're as isolated as can be. . . We like our privacy. Mr. Green."

"You. . . you gonna rape me?"

"You should be so lucky." I said. "We don't rape leprechauns."

"Well then what do you want?"

"I've just got a few questions for you. . ."

"I told you I'm not a leprechaun." He seemed to be getting angry, I laughed. Such a small little thing filled with so much anger.

"Oh yeah. . . Then who is this?" I lifted a box of Lucky Charms and pointed at the leprechaun on the front, a ginger haired little man with a goofy grin.

"Uh. . . " He didn't quite know what to say. "Lucky, the Leprechaun?"

"Its your Grandfather Seth. . ." I said.

"Thats ridiculous." He laughed.

"Is it?" I asked, he laughed again, but this time it seemed nervous.

"There's no way he's me grandpappy, he's a cartoon for. . ." He stopped himself, cupping his tiny mouth with a tiny hand. I smiled, as the tears came to his face, tiny tributarites steaming from his tiny eyes. "Aye I be talking like on already. . . I suppose the jig is up lad-dee. The General Mills people caught me grandpappy in '63, put him into sugar slavery."

"Nice story nice story." I wasn't intrested. "You know what this means right, I've caught you."

"Your three wishes, yes, go ahead." He hung his head. I didn't even have to think about it.

"For my first wish, I would like a life-time supply of beer."

"As you wish."

"For my second wish, I would like Shane Victorino to suddenly drop dead."

"How humane of you, as you wish."

"For my third wish, I would like to never ever see you again Seth. . . I wish to banish you to a land where a tragic retard like you can get all the respect you truly deserve. . . I wish to banish you to the Star Wars Universe."

"Really?!!" His ears perked up.

"Yes, but as Jar Jar Binks." I smiled.

After that day, Shane Victorino was suddenly hit by a car and killed instantly. The doctors said he felt no pain. Soon after the Phillies lost the World Series to the Yankees, but it didn't really mater to me, for I had a fridge that never emptied of beer: whenever I drank one and came back, there would be another one. . . It was a limitless supply of the world's greatest drink. Soon after Seth granted my wishes he vanished before my eyes, and is no doubt somehwere in the Star Wars universe, stumbling his way around and being generally hated by everyone he comes across.

As it should be.

It is for these reasons that iR names Jar Jar Binks the Gungan formerly known as Seth Green, tragically retared.

iR.

The Human Billboard, Lessons on Selling Out, Repetitive Retardation

The Human Billboard doing what he does best.

The first day Rob Dyrdek showed up, he was dressed head to toe in DC, a walking billboard. I wondered what it was about this pogo stick from Ohio that made a company want to choose him to be the face of their entire business. But then I remembered the skating. Oh yeah, the skating. But that's how it is with a lot of skaters, if it weren't for skate boarding they'd just be total jack asses. He arrived in the mid-afternoon, and although they sky was blue and setting up for a beautiful day, I felt a certain dread, as if it were going to rain, at any moment. I assumed it was his doing. He wasn't alone either. He had a camera crew with him, the same guys who gave The Jackass crew their fame (hmm I see a theme developing,) and although he was friendly, I wasn't fond of the cameras.

"Cameras?" I asked.

"Yeah I film everything now. . . I find that I'm just such a volatile force of creativity that everything I touch just turns to gold. . . "

"Like King Midas." I said. "From the myth."

"King who? From the what?" He shook his head, the confusion was water in his ears and he was desperately trying to shake it out. "As I was saying, I'm a genius." He echoed Kanye. "And I just couldn't live with myself - just couldn't sleep at night - you know, if I ever missed any of it, because then I wouldn't have a chance to exploit it. . . And that my good friend, is what life is all about, exploitation." He smiled. "I'm an inspiration, and you should feel lucky to be around me."

It was good to see that fame wasn't getting to him.

"So why I'm here is I was thinkin' maybe I could write your blog, and then you could go to a skate park and try and skate, and we'll film it all. . . Its for my new show idea, "Switching Places with Rob Dyrdek."" He framed the title in the air with his hands, his eyes already glowing with some imaginary light bulb billboard that said just that "Switching Places with Rob Dyrdek," it was a billboard only he could see. "I was thinking about how great it is to be me, and then got to figuring that everybody wants to be me. . . So I came up with this show, where me and a contestant switch places, I do what they do, and then they try and do what I do."

"And what is that? Singing all the time, selling out, walking around generally disrespecting stuff and being to wealthy for one's own good? . . . I'd like to try that - I just generally disrespect stuff, all the other perks of being you might be fun."

"No, no." He threw his arms out, it was a defensive move he learned from rap videos. "They skate, the people in the show I mean, they skate, because I skate. . . I'm a skater."

"Oh is that what you do?" I asked.

"Weren't you listening?" The arms came down, it was a swinging motion he learned from rap videos.

"I was, I was, it just sounds retarded, Rob."

"Retarded? Wh-what?" He was shocked, he adjusted his already skewed baseball cap, it was a move he learned from rap videos. "Retarded? Do you have 21 Guiness Book Records? Do you have 2 hit shows? Your own line of personalized skate shoes, clothing, and apparel? Do you have your own movie, that you wrote, directed, and appeared in? Have you done commercials? Have you been in video games? Do you have your own line of kids toys? . . . How many clip shows have you even done?"

"Clip shows?" I asked.

"Hah." He laughed, sandpaper. "What we in the business call clip shows - recap shows, you know where you just go over all the memorable moments of the season in one nice and simple episode all of its own? You know, so you can put out another show in the season without having to come up with any new material or having to put in any real effort. You can seel yourself, your image, sell more commercial space, appease an episode contract you can't fulfill with new material, and you don't even have to use your noggin. . . Now that's smart!"

"And you actually do this?" I feigned ignorance.

"Oh yeah, I've practically done a whole season's worth of clip shows, 8 , 9, 10 episodes at least! Plus it feels great. . . no greater promotion than shameless self-promooooowowowtion." He sang the last part, like an R&B singer, and laughed again, sandpaper.

"I don't think it works with blogs Rob, or even literature for that matter."

"Why the hell not? You can do a blog recap blog, of all your other blogs, of just the good moments. . . It would be genius, and since it was my idea, I think I should help you with it."

After much debating, Rob finally convinced me, we were going to do a recap blog, sell out style. . . It went like this:

"Hey J. Wood, remember the time you had your kid sister cousins from Germany stay with you and your family for the weekend, and you told them a bed time story?"

"Yeah I do. . ."

"And how did that turn out for you?" He looked at me for an answer. He threw his arms up in the air, a move he learned from - oh you get the point. "Well lets just go to the 'clip' then, shall we?"

And suddenly its that time, my young cousins in their bed trying to sleep but failing due to the warm unfamiliar Californian weather. . . I forget what year it was.

"Can you tell us a story?" They asked one night, so innocently I couldn't say no.

"Sure sure. . ." I sighed heavily, searching my brain for a story, and then it came. "Once upon a time, there was a half-man half-bull named Brock Lesnar."

"A minotaur!" One of them shouted out.

"No no, he's just a normal man, now let me finish the story." She frowned and let me continue. "He was born a particularly soggy summer afternoon, on July 12th, and aside from the rain it was a particularly strange day. . . It was to be the day when a cow gave birth to a human being, the first recording of its kind. All the boys were hanging around, shooting the shit, drinking beers, when they heard quite the ruckus come from the barn. It was old Betsy, the crowned gold cow of the farm, crowing like she was about to give birth. Sure enough, out came Brock Lesnar, half human-half bull. He was the result of a lonely night on the farm, when some tired farm hand yearned for the touch of a woman but found himself to be surrounded only by cows. . . During his days as a kid he'd shoot up steroids - the kind they use on horses to help fix races, and was fed nothing but proteins - 3 raw eggs in the morning, and 3 more at night. When he was 16, he'd run around town scooping up chickens and biting their heads off. He'd eat them," I demonstrated his ravenous feeding as I said this, for added effect. "While the torso still flapped around molting feathers - the hunt for him was like some sort of primal urge he could not control. When he grew up he wrestled, and even was in the UFC, where he'd tend to your face like a man tends to a pillow." I illustrated the pounding for them, my two poor cousins staring back at me with wide fearful eyes. "And he's swelled up by all the steroids, and by his ego, and by the limelight, which further swells him up, so he just stands in the ring and looks giant from all the swelling. He looks down at you and he's got fists like sledgehammers; two large 4XL gloves that fly out at you with a vengeance and try and crack up your face like so much concrete. . ."

I stared at them, nothing but half covered eyes and white knuckles, white knuckles up around their heads where they had pulled the sheet up over themselves for protection, even though they knew it may as well been tissue paper at the hands of a dangerous retard like Brock Lesnar.

Suddenly back to the present.

"Who would of thought that you would be such a nice guy that you would read terrifying bedtime stories to your two little cousins." Rob said sarcastically, staring into one of the cameras - his safety net.

"Yeah they didn't sleep much after that. I had to convince them that Brock Lesnar only beats up other athletes, and not women and children - which we all know is a lie."

"True dat." He said. "Now. . . I've been around some big people, but never any big women, Bobby Light don't get down like that, I'm more of the 'dirty girl' kinda guy. . . But your boy Tom Arnold seems to love em."

"Yeah he does." I affirmed.

"But we all know sometimes it can be a hazard, like in this next 'clip.' Check it out. . . "

"Can you stop sayin' clip?" I asked vainly.

Suddenly its 1990.

They lived in bliss as the years just seemed to float on by, Tom Arnold got his own show and he and Roasanne opened a restaurant, "Rosanne and Tom's Big Food Diner," a roach house for ugly obese people in Illinois. Yet the marriage started to deteriorate after Rosanne trapped Tom Arnold in her massive vagina, for three whole days, much like Jonah had been swallowed whole by the giant fish in The Old Testament. During his captivity, he sang songs to keep himself busy, finding amusement in the echoes that rang off her vaginal walls, and kept himself fed with the carcass remains of other men she had trapped in her vagina, and totally forgot about. By candle-light he wrote his memoirs, and vowed after getting out to become a star all on his own, and to divorce Rosanne as soon as possible. It was as if he had found himself in a sudden clarity, as if the beer-goggles which seemed attached to his face were suddenly taken off, and now he had seen the error in his ways - and all it took was three days in a deep hot dark cave that smelled of rotten fish.

Suddenly, back to the present.

"How did Tom get out of her vagina anyway?"

"He escaped with a grappling hook he made from the spines of other ex-boyfriends of Rosanne, who, as it turns out were not as craft and smart as Tom Arnold was. . ." I said.

"He certainly has gone to hell and back." Rob said, pausing for laughter that wasn't there. . . Speaking of hell, didn't you do an iR about the Devil's other son?"

"Yeah. . . Billy Mays."

"And how did that go?"

"I don't think this is working Rob. . ." I said finally.

"Why not, clip shows are a staple in the t.v. industry these days."

"Yeah, the t.v. industry Rob, it doesn't work the same with stories and written words. . . Why what if Hemmingway did it, or Faulkner, or Carroll? What if they wrote a book that was really just made up of all other books? Everything would get so mushed up that people would confuse the stories, Alice would no longer be a lost blonde hair girl, but a ball player, or maybe a fireman that burns books. Or maybe there was no Alice at all. Dorian Grey wouldn't be vain, he'd be homely a sickly and longing for his Dear Lonore. . . The raven wouldn't be a raven at all, but maybe a seagull out of The Old Man and The Sea, and nobody would be the wiser of it being any different. . ." I frowned a heavy frown.

"I don't think I get it."

"Yeah I don't think you do Rob, I don't think you do. . . You just can't recycle shit over and over again, and expect everyone to enjoy it. You can't expect everyone to love you just because you're everywhere. . . You've spread yourself thin Rob, real thin. Your retardation plagues many fields, it isn't just skating anymore. You're a reality star now, and guess what that makes you retarded."

"I still don't get it."

"I know Rob, I know. . . And you're so retarded you repeat your retardation over and over again, like some broken record. . . And its true, you really are an inspiration Rob."

"Really?" He was excited by the thought of it.

"You've inspired a whole new type of retardation. . . Repetitive Retardation, you're repetitively retarded Rob, repetitively retarded Rob, repetitively retarded Rob."

repetitive retardation n. - retardation in an individual that is constantly repeated, without ever straying from the formula. Said victims are repetitively retarded.

"Hah you said that three times."

"Good Rob. . ." I waited. "I said, repetitive retarded." It was the code work. Out from the cupboards, from other rooms came men dressed like a swat team, guns in tote. They fired these guns, at Mr. Dyrdek and his camera crew, and killed the whole lot of em.

The end. fuck. shit. ass.

iR.

Surrounded by Imbeciles Other Than the Imbeciles in My Everyday Life; or, A Writing Convention Headed by Vampire Novelists

The beast is awakened from her slumber by an inner turmoil, a need to write. Sliming her way out of bed, quietly, as to not disturb her husband, she evades the cold with a house coat and slips her feet into some cosy house shoes. She finds relief at her keyboard, where she types out all her porn fantasies brimming with luring vampires lurking in the dark, mysterious and dangerous and beautiful all in one. She likes these nights, when she's all by herself, for there is no one to interrupt her. As she types she becomes more and more emphatic with each keystroke, as a fire burns somewhere inside of her, a fire she quenches with Ding-Dongs. She types and she eats, and eats some more. Her work is the basis of True Blood, and she's becoming quite well known for her novels; trashy little things they sell at supermarkets all around the country, trashy little things scooped up and adored by people with similar vampire fetishes. She's a round woman, with small eyes set in a doughy face. She wears glasses and has that southern smile. Her name is Charlaine Harris. She looks like this:

Across the country, the lizard is typing away too. She's working away at her next book in the Twilight series. She too has a love for vampires, but hers is less erotic, and more romantic. She's glimpsing through Pride and Prejudice, because old romantic novels are where she gets all of her ideas. She loves reading Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights, and Charlotte Bronte's Jane Eyre, and of course Pride and Prejudice, rounding out her horrible taste in literature. She's a New York woman, a city woman, and wears make up and is slim and has lots of money, but she's sad and she's lonely. Her name is Stephenie Meyer. She looks like this:

At a cemetery in Dublin, a corpse is turning over in its grave. When the corpse was not a corpse, but rather a human being, it was a man with a long face and piercing eyes. He had a beard and slick greased over hair. He was a writer, who wrote Dracula, and who probably dreads that he ever wrote the damn thing in the first place. His name was Bram Stoker. Before all the worms and things got to him, he looked like this:

In a disclosed location up on a little hill foolishly described as a mountain, there is someone else writing. But he isn't writing about vampires, he's writing about the vampire novelists themselves, and how treacherous the whole fad has become. He's wearing a red flannel bath robe and is drinking a cold beer. His writing goes like this:

I don't know why I decided to go to the Vampire's Writing Convention, but I suppose it was mostly for laughs. There weren't many writers there though, mostly just fans there to see the two headliners: Charlaine Harris and Stephenie Meyer. Stephenie Meyer of course is the writer of that undying retardation Twilight, and its subsequent books. Charlaine Harris wasn't well known, until True Blood kicked off on HBO, and now she's a household name among vampire fanatics. Walking around I felt as if I stuck out, and thats probably because I most certainly did. I'm sure the pyschic vampires read my thoughts, and were on to me. They knew I'm not a true believer. Where's his vampire fangs? They probably wondered. Or, No frilly cape? No Twilight shirt? No eyeshadow? He's no vampire. . . He doesn't belong. . . I should watch him. It is then that I noticed that I was surrounded, I had unknowingly (how foolish of me) walked into a den of retardation. There were the teenagers, the Twilight fans, who had fallen in love and been taught romance from a dead man. They were all skinny little things, in Twilight gear, and they all had that same giddy nervous laugh every time they saw their leading man, and he was everywhere. There were the middle aged women, the True Blood fans, who had given up on love and romance (from years of never receiving it) and wanted only lust, to go to bed with some fiendish vampire. They were fat like their favorite writer, many of them clutched her book in hopes of getting a precious autograph. There were vampire fans of all ages, ethnicities, fans of all different types of retardation. Everyone was gathering in the great auditorium, where the guest speakers were already arranging themselves.

Charlaine Harris went first, while Stephenie sat on idly by, content that she was far prettier. Charlaine went on about how homely she is (which she really is), about her preference for werewolves and vampires and things of the occult. She looked just like a big ripe tomato up there, her red sweater bulging at the seams. She went on:

"I'm constantly asked, "Where do you GET your inspiration?" as if I had a magic spell to conjure it up, or as if I could go to the store and buy some. Inspiration comes to me because I am a writer. Its an integral part of being a writer. The creative flow of ideas which constitutes inspiration can be sparked by anything, can appear out of nothing, can be tweaked by a news article, a quip on a sitcom, an overheard snatch of conversation. The inspiration comes in using these things as ingredients for creating something new, something your own. Most inspiration arises from the basic question, "What if?""

I scoffed, she forgot retardation.

She continued on, but I didn't hear much of it. I was distracted instead, by what a thought was a tenacious gnat behind me. It turned out to be a woman wearing plastic fangs. She seemed harmless enough though.

"Can I fang you?" She said.

Puzzled I didn't quite know what to say, so I simply turned and pretended I hadn't heard her. I knew though that I needed to get out of there, and soon. The girl next to be pawed a Twilight book, its cover a reproduction of the movie poster. She showed it to me with bright wide eyes, carefully, as if she was showing me a prized jewel or fine china that may at any moment break. She feared my gaze might break it, so she thrust it back into her bosom, where it was safe.

Charlaine stopped speaking. She smiled at the applause from her adoring fans and slimed away from the podium and sat down with a squish. She pulled a snack out from a fold in her back fat and started eating it. The southern drawl had ceased, and now it was time for the city woman. She was stern and cold as ice. Charlaine had been a ray of sunshine, warm and buttery, but this woman was like the chill of night. She waited till she was sure that all eyes were on her before she even moved. She got up and the room came alive with screams from young teens who had bottled up all their emotions until almost exploding, just for her arrival. Their screams drowned out the room, splashed up against the walls and flooded around my feet. I was knee deep in teen angst. I feared it may stain my jeans, and forever be a reminder of the day I stood amongst 1500 or so vampire fanatics with plastic fangs and retarded fancies. She stood at the podium stern and still, patiently waiting for the screaming to die down. When it did she spoke.

"Thank you." The room dropped 10 degrees. "I've come to adore vampires, as you all have, and I'm pleased to say there will be a new book!" Cheers. "Yes yes, full of werewolves and witches - all sorts of vampires of course, and time travel. . . and portals - maybe even a magician or two." All the girls steamed up and got to yelling like teapots again. She went on, I'm sure, about all the senseless lore and all the silly different types of vampires - but I don't know for sure, for it is then that the Quaaludes finally kicked in. I had taken them earlier. I got them from a hippie type named Blueberry. He went on and on about Northern California, he called it the Garden of Eden - with large redwoods and fine smelly herb. He spoke of selling hash outside of pharmacies - dolling it out in gobs just like jam. Thats how much he had.

I drifted for awhile, in cotton candy dreams, in a peaceful state I didn't think I could be woken from. I was wrong. When my eyes opened I had a blonde haired "vampire" staring me in the face. The boy must have only been 10 or 11.

"Don't eat me." He smiled, content believing that I actually thought he was a vampire. He raised his arms and hissed at me, exposing a pair of fake fangs. Too tired to put up with him, I made a cross with my hands and like any good vampire, he made himself scarce.

I shook my head. I had to leave. These vampires occultists were even recruiting children, innocent young children. I left, but not defeated. I had a plan.

But that is where the writing stops, the man didn't seem to finish. He's typing away now, but he's content, because he knows what is about to happen. Somewhere in their homes, Charlaine and Stephenie are typing away too, Charlaine in the middle of a juicy story about a vampire and his love for phalic objects, Stephenie knee-deep in copying Pride and Prejudice word for word, only changing the characters and their names. They were all content, but none more than the man on the hill. He stopped writing he smiled.

Somewhere far off two homes were bursting into flames.

He knew he had done his deed; ridden the world of two more tragic retards.

It is from the look in that little boys face that iR names vampires and all that is associated with it: tragically retarded.

FURTHER RETARDATION:

Charlaine Harris writes novels with horrible book art: things like airbrushed women dressed in leather, clutching rottweilers with burning coal eyes - the dogs of hell.

Twilight was the biggest selling book in 2008.

Twilight the movie, made 328 million dollars worldwide.

Stephenie Meyer can't go a year without re-reading Jane Austen's books.

Meyer was named author of the year in 2008.

Vampire rules constantly change: Dracula couldn't stay out in sunlight, and also didn't care much for garlic or crosses. . . Vampires in Twilight are impervious to all those things. Vampires in True Blood can travel large distances in a short amount of time, and have a blood lust equaled only by a sexual lust, which is just as strong. . . Sometimes they are villainous, sometimes they are heroes, sometimes they are vampires who were created genetically, sometimes they just are what they are for the sake of being.

Vampires can be straight up blood drinkers, they can be beings which feed on your life force, on your soul. They can have psychic powers, they can accomplish great feats of strength, basically they can do whatever the writer wants them to, a nice thing to have when you have written yourself in a corner.

Just take one look at any vampire fan and tell me it aint retarded. I'll call you a bloody liar. Ha... get it? Bloody.

iR.