Vin Diesel Plays Dungeons and Dragons

or; Meet Melkor and Mark Sinclar Vincent

Through the dastardly vines barbed with lashing spines; in the deepest thickets of hairy jungle, four brave warriors tangle with the harsh environment, carrying on despite Mother Nature's cruelty. Driven by immortality, they cut through greenery vicious in nature and wicked by design. Melkor leads the crew of collected hopefuls, a blade in one hand, a bow draped across his torso. He's light footed through all the brush, and surveys the land with expert eyes capable of spotting a tick on a hounds back nearly a mile away. The men behind him lack the benefit of light Elvish feet, so they struggle through the bunches of burdock sprinkled about like spiny mines ready to go off and lodge in the skin; sweat through hanging vines under the mask of dense tree growth over head; curse at the sight of poison ivy, and its friend Foxtail; and generally spit out their discontent at everything around them. The harsh winds burn their eyes: this land was not made for man, but rather for beast, who cared little about burning sand winds, nor pits that made meals of men, nor skies which always seemed black and drowned all the world in misery. . .

Roll forward in time, a thousand or so years to 1974, to a land of much more comfortable living: to a dug in basement. A radio sings and the walls echo back the radio's laments. The room smells moldy, dust dances in fragments of sunlight coming from a nearby window, and from these rays, like a celestial gift from the Gods, lays a game of Dungeons and Dragons - already in full swing. Four boys sit about the table, all of them looking meek and malnourished. They speak in a vernacular of ritualistic lines and practiced code, in a language foreign to outside-above-ground dwellers. They sound like real squawkers, fitting in that they are but children, but one, the youngest one, talks above all others with a voice like that of a man already swelled from years of listening to his own ego. . .

"I can do this. . . " He booms.

"You must'n. . ." A fat mage with a nasaly voice pauses only to eat a few Fritos before continuing. "Let us down Melkor. . ."

Back now: great buildings slowly peel back their window and wall skins, slowly disassemble themselves steel bone by steel bone. . . Whole cities retreat from their cancerous growth, back over hills and rivers, shrinking to their very centers. . . Fallen civilizations once evaporated reappear, grow putrid, start fights, become angry, settle prosperously, rise slowly, and evaporate once more with the footprints of a single group of human beings. . . All of time slips back, ticking gently to the passing second hands of day and night. Slips back to Melkor and his men, back in the year 856. The crew stumbles upon a nest of giant scorpions with claws strong and big enough to split a man clean in two. Melkor raises his bow, steadying it with forearms built of steel cables. He spies his target. His comrades stalk through the nightshades. He fires.

The boy with the voice of a man rolls a twenty sided die. The arrow is released, whizzing through the air with silent certainty.

"With precision and speed, Melkor helps all those in need. . . With bow and blade, all enemies are slayed. . . For the world cannot yet begin, until it is purged of its sin!" The boys voice straines as he tries to produce a higher pitch.

The die slowly tumbles to a stop, resting on the table face up; 20. The arrow pierces the scorpion right between the eyes, precisely where he intended it.

"20!" The voice shrieks. "Critical hit!" The voice deepens, back to its mature tone. The owner of the voice lowers his eyes, ashamed for breaking character. He never heard an elf with a voice like gravel before. . . Never heard an elf with a voice that deep before.

The scorpion hisses, spewing green fluids thick and congealed the instant it comes into contact with the open air. It dies as its comrades are slain by the other three members of the group. Melkor's eyes shine with a glint of the fading sunlight, but shine even brighter with a glint of defeat. This is the boys defeat. The blistering heat waves across the skyline. Melkor wipes his brow. The boy wipes his brow. Somewhere stampeding beasts rampage across the tortured earth. The boy's mother is coming down the stairs now, heavy heels and squeaking wooden steps. A great rumbling is heard, born from the trampling feet of yet another potential danger in the lands of Dungeons and Dragons. Melkor's ears perk up, the bones in his ears having heard such a rumble before. Its recognizable, but somehow out of place, as if from some other distant time far off. . . The steps continue. Its something big and nasty, he says, and his comrades ask what? Something. . . something, he stumbles on his words. Something. . . The boy's mother reaches the bottom of the stairs.

"Something. ."

She speaks.

"Hey honey." She says.

"Treacherous. . ."

"Just doin' some laundry. . " She places the basket down matter-of-factly. Goodbye scorpions. The washer goes on with the rush of unseen water. Goodbye hellish land. With her work she begins to hum, a habit picked up to help past the time. And with each note, another layer of a fantasy begins melting away in the collective minds of the four boys, and before long Melkor is no longer an Elvish Ranger, but rather simple old Mark Sinclair Vincent (Vin Diesel,) a shy 7 year old boy driven from popularity due to an unusually deep voice capable of sponsoring beer commercials.

So life was for Mark Sinclair Vincent, battling fierce dragons and beasts in a far off land materialized in the thin filaments of his imagination. A world kept pocketed, where not even the harshness of reality could get to it. Battling fierce dragons, and losing it all when Mom came clunking heavily down the stairs, as if she were climbing down into his very imagination, to where he felt the most safe, and then upon arriving shattered it with the heavy blast of the clothes basket. Shattered it so easily. She even had the the nerve to address 'Melkor the Magnificent,' as honey!' 'Honey!' And in front of his comrades no less. . .

Mark Sinclair Becomes Vin Diesel: Porn Star Action Anti-Hero

His interest in acting began when the practice was thrust upon him - it was either that or jail. As it turns out, aside from Dungeons and Dragons, Vin and his friends were also into vandalism. One night they broke into the community theater with the intent to spray paint vulgarities all along its insides. They failed however in their mission of youthful deviance. They were caught and offered the opportunity to be in the play, instead of in the arms of some strange man behind bars that night. Naturally they excepted the former, and all became members of the theater that night. For Vin it was a good thing, for he found that he loved life on the stage, the acting, the prancing, the pantyhose. . . His love for the stage effectively rounded out his nerd status, giving bullies tired of beating him up for playing D&D a fresh new reason to beat him up. It was a malady which struck him for most of his life, until he turned 17 and finally gained some muscles and dropped his nerdy image. Having found himself a paradox in the Dungeons and Dragons world, Vin decided it was time to move on, and get himself a job. Due to his size he was able to get a job bouncing at a nightclub in New York City called "The Tunnel." It was there that he would change his name to Vin Diesel, namely because Mark Sinclair Vincent simply wasn't gay enough - which leads one to wonder just what "tunnel" the club's namesake refers to. . .

Now I know what you're thinking, with a name like Vin Diesel, he was destined to become a porn star, right? No: not quite, instead he became an action star, but I'm sure that was your next guess. One of his first films was a short film which he wrote, directed and a appeared in, called Multi-Facial. It was basically about how Vin was a mutt, which meant he wasn't black enough to be typecast as a black guy, and not Italian enough to be typecast as an Italian, making it rather difficult for him to get a good acting gig. So he gave up and went into porn right? No: it was this 20 minutes that got him a part in Saving Private Ryan and effectively started his whole movie career.

A movie career made up of Riddick movies, Fast and the Furious movies, and xXx movies.

Pitch Black/Chronicles of Riddick

The movie said to cement Vin Diesel in that anti-hero-bad-ass-does good role, Pitch Black was a movie that simply had no budget. Its about a criminal named Riddick who's being transferred by ship to another planet. The ship crashes on a real shit planet, allowing Vin to escape captivity, along with a select number of the crew. They soon discover not only is the planet in a perpetual dark phase, but it is also inhabited by human eating aliens.

Shitty right? Yeah, for everyone but Riddick, whos got eyes that glow like quicksilver and can see in the dark. . . What follows is a tale of morality, as this bad ass murderer with glowing eyes some how comes to the notion that he too can do good, and in doing so becomes the good guy, helping all those around him with not only his strength but his cat like eyes. Which is some Hollywood shit I can't bear to swallow, for anyone who's delt with a charlatan, or thief, or a liar, knows that these unworthy characteristics aren't shed on a whim - and for murderers, one must assume its very much the same. For that cancerous defect in them, that seed that germinates into a budding thorny flower cannot be cut as simply as a bunch of daisies. . ..

The movie was received with mixed reviews, as science fiction fans found there wasn't enough science fiction to satisfy their appetites. For horror fans there weren't enough spine tingling moments. But nonetheless its become a sort of cult classic, adored by those still stiff in the pants from images of Barbarella floating around in their brains. So naturally a franchise was born, complete with its own endless line of useless fluff bearing the Riddick name and Vin's likeness.

Chronicles of Riddick, being a chronicling of retardation has also been made into a cartoon, for which Vin Diesel lent his voice, and is also said to be returning to the screens with a third movie, not yet titled.

yay.....

The Fast and The Furious (2001)

A fast paced nitrous boost of retardation, this shit fest is all tough guy antics, unrealistic street racing, and even more unrealistic scantily clad women. But hey, its Hollywood right? And in Hollywood, street racing is all Papa Roach and Limp Biskit songs, candy colored Honda civics, bitchy racers, and cars that blow up when you shoot them with uzis. Vin Diesel plays Dominic Toretto, a douche bag racer/team leader in trouble with the law. The movie moves quickly, which is a blessing, in that it isn't very good, pausing only for brief moments so that a character may say something prophetic sounding. Words no doubt, every street racer should live by, and keep written in a little book to be placed in the breast pocket before every race. . . The first nugget of wisdom dispatched by Ja Rule:

"It's not how you stand by your car, its how you race your car."

The second comes from Vin himself. He's cocky after winning a street race which nearly resulted in the horrific crash of a fellow racer (its Hollywood so he only fishtails and stops abruptly without a single scratch - but had it been real life the car probably would have rolled across the highway like a tumble weed, crushing the man inside. . . and Vin probably would have gone on gloating and strutting anyway.) Vin Diesel:

"It don't matter if you win by an inch or a mile, a wins a win."

Again Vin imparts the last bit of polished romance the movie has to offer, a view on life every REAL racer echoes wholeheartedly into the waking void:

"I live my life a quarter mile at a time. Nothing else matters: not the mortgage, not the store, not my team and all their bullshit. For those ten seconds or less, I'm free."

Somewhere in there, there's a story. I think.

Fast and Furious (2009)

8 years later Vin would return to the franchise, after a minute part in The Fast and The Furious: Tokyo Drift, that served as teaser for the already slated fourth film.

Like many sequels it befalls its previous incarnations and therefore has a need to top them in order to appease the audience. For Fast and Furious this means more outlandish driving and explosions, often to the point of being utterly impossible or totally ridiculous. Things happen in this movie that shouldn't really happen, things so over the top that its successors will have to jump a speeding car over a shark during the middle of a raceto top the crazy stupid shit in Fast and Furious. Aside from the excessive CGI and over active imagination, this movie is essentially the same ball of shit that was the original - their practically identical names are just a proverbial middle finger to any douche bag who actually paid good money to see this movie.

Fast Five (2011)

Fast Five will probably be the last incarnation of the series, or at least the last one with its main reoccurring cast members. By the sixth movie, the only people desperate enough to do the movie will probably be guys like David Spade and Ray Romano. . . and there won't be any budget, so they'll go driving around in beat up old station wagons. . . Now that's a movie worth seeing.

xXx (2002)

I have been lucky enough to have not seen this movie, so I can only go on what Wikipedia has to say on the matter. "xXx, pronounced "Triple X", is a 2002 action film starring Vin Diesel in the lead role as Xander Cage, a thrill seeking extreme sports enthusiast, stuntman and rebellious anarchist turned reluctant spy for the National Security Agency who is sent on a dangerous mission to infiltrate a group of potential terrorists in Eastern Europe."

Now that just about sums it all up right there. A thrill seeker, extreme sports enthusiast, stuntman, rebelious anarchist, reluctant spy on a dangerous mission. . . Cool, but does he know any show tunes?

Sam Jackson is also in it, and although he has appeared in many a fine film, he is also well known for his inability to turn one down - even the shittiest of shitfests, like this movie. I'm sure he plays the bad guy, and is the usual sort of villain he always plays, probably with a scar on his face.

Another sign of this movie's retardation is how much money it made, as movie goers have lowered the their standards over the past decade. xXx made 277 Million dollars, a good haul considering the budget for the movie was only 70 million dollars.

Still not convinced? Well then this photo should do it for you:

Yeah, that's totally Vin doing a board slide down a railing on a silver serving tray.

Aside from all the cool shit: the jumping out of convertibles with parachutes attached, the plane jumping, with jet skis, the sweet explosions, Vin wasn't invited back for the sequel. . . He was instead replaced by Ice Cube, the studio probably figuring any man of ethnicity would make for a good replacement.

Boo hoo right? Not quite.

xXx: The Return of Xander Cage (2011)

Currently Vin Diesel is in talks with the studios to come back in the third installment of xXx, where he is sure to milk the pigs for all their worth. It is likely that he will be returning, as the studio found that having a main character (Ice Cube) who is also known for spouting out explicit rap lyrics kind of scares away the white audience - at least with Vin he kinda looks white - or at least Italian.

Further Retardation

Vin Diesel really does play Dungeons and Dragons. . . a lot. He's been with the whole gang since day one. Die Hard kid, die hard.

His D&D character is named Melkor, a witch hunter. The name appears tattooed on his stomach in the movie xXx.

People can't seem to decide if he's gay or not, seriously, type in vin diesel on google, the first suggestion is 'vin diesel sexuality.'

Was accused of trying to get a 23 year old woman kicked out of a bar after she refused to go back to "the room for a little boom boom." Oh, we failed to mention Vin has a way with words? Well he does.

In 2005 a certain studio thought: "Wouldn't it be funny. . ." if they hired a certain bad ass to play in a comical family movie with kids. The studio was Disney, and the "badass" was Vin Diesel, the family movie was The Pacifier, and no, it wasn't funny.


He's into World of Warcraft, even installed it on a computer in one of his cars.

iR.

Rob Schneider the Deep Sea Pilotfish

The Early Years; or The Cookie Cutter Kingdom

Some celebrities are so big and frivolous with money that they, like sharks attract parasites that gladly feed off of their leftovers; pilotfish and human chancre sores who without the benefit of such a lovely relationship would be down the drain and off to sea - bye-bye. Adam Sandler is one such shark in the douchey waters of Hollywood, and his pilotfish live fat off of his weak heart made far too papery to turn away even the scummiest of friends.

Friends like Rob Schneider.

But don't let Rob fool yah, he's a slippery one, a chameleon of the silver screen with the ability to cover up his inabilities with prosthetics and fake mustaches. For Rob Schneider, the ability to make himself unrecognizable isn't just a part of his job, its an integral part in forgetting that he's mediocre, and always will be - and only got to where he is today because he's a half Jew who happens to know Adam Sandler.

Observe:

Shitty blurry quality because blogger.com sucks bawlz. better version here.
If you had to look at that Jew Fro and pair of Steve Buscemi bug eyes in the mirror everyday, you'd consider prosthetics too.

Rob Schneider was born in San Francisco, California, in 1963. His parents, having looked around and found nothing but beatniks, spades, and soon-to-be-hippies, decided to leave the dangers of the city for the Formica safety of suburban life. A good decision when considering that the boy would have spent his more vulnerable years in the very heart of the ballooning ideas and social change that was Frisco during the 60's. An even better decision when considering the fallout of that social change, when the balloon finally burst and there was very little to do other than pick up all the pieces scattered about like confetti. Ultimately, it was a decision which made him the weird bastard he is today. There's just something about squared off normal living that isn't normal.

It is in this suburb called Pacifica that Schneider witnessed a life that was plain and monotonous. He use to sit on the porch and watch all the fathers come in like clockwork after work, in cars like big boats, coming home expecting a hot meal to be ready and already on the table. He watched days drift on by with a fluidity that only changed when someone died, or when the old became annoying and were shipped off randomly to live in special suburbs made up of nothing but people like them, of nothing but old people. He watched it all, and he was terribly bored.

Terribly bored and it was all his parents fault for playing it safe. For sticking him in a doll house on a street full of other doll houses occupied by dolls that were all insane.

So, like many suburban kids, he took to doing his best at constantly pissing them off.

And so like many suburban kids, he pledged to never be them, and therefore did his best to act as wreckless as possible.

Straight out of high school, he went into comedy, which he assumed his parents hated - for only a humorless bastard would choose to live in the cookie cutter kingdoms of 'pleasant living Pacifica.' Unlike his parents however, Rob was apparently funny. He worked nightclubs around the Bay Area for 5 years until he won a spot on the 13th Annual Young Comedians special. Although he didn't win any awards for his stand-up comedy, he does have the distinction of being one of the few douche bag comedians NOT to come out of Mitzi Shore's The Comedy Store. A year later he was picked up by Saturday Night Live as a comedy writer, and eventually became a regular on the show. Admittedly some of his best work, but more importantly Saturday Night Live is where Schneider met Sandler.

What followed were the Parasitic Years.


The Parasitic Years; or Sex Acts for Movie Parts

Since Schneider's first appearance in Waterboy, and the handjob he gave Sandler to get in it, Rob Schneider has appeared in 10 more Sandler flics, and performed countless sexual acts, each growing more and more perverse with each movie. He is also slated to appear in one more flick not yet released (Grown Ups June 2010). Tack on a music video, and 6 movies produced by Happy Madison, and you've got nearly 80 % of his movie career - all thanks to Mr. Sandler. Sweet.

In regards to the quality of these films, well that all depends on the specifics. Is it a Rob Schneider movie? Well then yes, the movie most probably sucks balls. If he's only making a cameo, than its either hit or miss. There is an exact theory in fact, that many Hollywood studios are well aware of (except Sony,) called The Rob Schneider Threshold. The threshold of course referring to the number of minutes Rob can appear in a movie without dragging it down and all hopes of turning a profit with it.

The theory states:

"Any move, film, or short, whether live action or animated featuring Rob Schneider for more than 15 minutes collectively, or more than 5 minutes in one scene is destined to be a flop and utter shitfest."

Critics don't like him much either. In fact they most often find him offensive. For instance, his part as the Japanese minister in I Now Pronounce You chuck and Larry, was considered a throw back to the prejudice representation of Asians dubbed "Yellow Face," all he was missing was the two large front teeth like Chicklets. His Hawaiian character Ula in the film 50 First Dates has been compared to Spicoli meets Cheech and Chong - a sort of stoner with an intense love for the ocean, so great in fact that he doesn't seem to mind shark bites; though it could easily be assumed that he's too retarded to find them dangerous. . . And I'm sure Armenians are upset his portrayal of an Armenian landlord in Grandma's Boy wasn't hairy enough, and besides he wasn't even very good at speaking Armenian. Yet Schneider has all the money regardless, and with it he often uses the power of the press to really stick it to any naysayers. He spends money on ad space to publicly call critics who have given his films bad reviews douchebags - in so many words. He's done it with Roger Ebert,and we can only hope that we're (I'm) worthy of such a distinction. . . that is, if he ever reads this.


Many of you may think that he's probably right, but worry not, for I won't go on much longer, as I am already grasping at straws. Nonetheless, lets see what my notebook has written next, shall we?

Aside from the movies, Schneider has also appeared on Inside the MMA, with none other than dangerous retard himself, Bas Rutten. It seems Schneider even had the balls to poke some shots at him citing "how sucky it must be to get beat up a person who enjoys it as much as you. . ." He grinned and then did a shameless impersonation of the man, perhaps not realizing fully what he was doing; waving a long dense red flag in front of a mean and tired bull, out of action but still running clean through with that aggression. . . Or maybe Schneider dared assume the man wouldn't kill him on live television - would he?

You bet your ass I would - grab you by the head. . . maybe a headbutt, a left straight and it would be over. . . who's laughing now funny man?

So what next? you may ask. (Or not. Mostly I've been asking myself this.) Well that all depends on how far rob is willing to go to appear in the next Sandler flic. I hear for the movie Grown Ups Rob had to hire a whole menagerie of wild animals and don a bondage suit before Sandler was excited enough to even consider Rob for the part.

iR

Further Retardation

Duece Bigalow made 95 million dollars.

Impersonations include Adolf Hitler, K.D. Lang, and Elvis Presley. Hitler because its mandatory of any Jewish comedian, K.D. Lang because Rob is practically her, only with a penis, and Elvis Presley because well - anyone with hips and an upper lip can do a Presley impersonation.

Hosted the 1997 Sports Illustrated Swimsuit T.V. special - why? Still no one knows.

Realizing appearing as himself would be detrimental his career, Rob appeared on Leno (Boo - Leno - Aww I don't give a shit) in drag, as Lindsay Lohan, who apparently couldn't make it to the show because she was too busy getting wasted.

The Truth

Rob Schneider is actually a really nice guy - he donates money to kids and everything. He even has a certain keen eye which defines Hollywood as a collection of douche bags and assholes.

Rufio, Rufio, Ru-fi-Oooooooooooohhhh


Totally un related, but look, its Rufio!

Bas Rutten: Dangerous Retard

Bas Rutten is 205 pounds of dangerous retardation. He's a human Swiss army knife with an array of tools all designed to hurt other men. He can dull meat and tear tendons. He can make a man tap in seconds - he can also ignore it and squeeze the life out of him, right to his very last breath. He's a 2nd degree black belt in Tae Kwon Do, and a 5th degree black belt in Kyokushki Karate, but most importantly he's King of the Cuckoo's Nest, the proverbial craziest nut in the whole coop - and not just because he can kill any naysayers - he's really deserving of the title. Too many fights, too many brain jolting shots to the noggin finished where poor parenting and a troublesome childhood left off; he's totally bat shit crazy. . . Listen:

BONG BONG BONG!

The average person with fight experience limited to school yard bullies and the occasional punk have zero chance against a guy like this. He's been in enough fights to not be afraid of getting hit, and lacks that certain desire to not want to hit someone, the fist is the all-mighty answer. Someone say an off the cuff remark? DANGA-DA-DANGA-DA-DANG! Someone look at you wrong? BING BANG BANG BONG! Perhaps you're in a club, a guy spills his drink on you. . . I hate that. BANG BANG BANG YOU ARE DEAD. To him the idea of "talking this one out," doesn't even register - its 'gay fag language' for 'sissys and ladies.' He lacks that certain receptor in the brain, like a hammerhead shark he simply roams around, looking for anything he can maim or kill and everything in his eyes looks weak and ready to be eaten.

His charisma and bloodthirst reminds me of another dangerous retard, a similar hammerhead, one Mr. Brock Lesnar. Like Lesnar, Bas Rutten also has tattoos, but his are less for intimidation. Bas Rutten actually believes his tattoos have special powers that can make him fight better, and extend his life, no joke. His right palm features a chi symbol meaning life. After receiving the tattoo, he never lost a fight, which he claims was the workings of the tattoo. His left palm says xiao, meaning long life, and Rutten continued to live after the tattoo, so he naturally assumed it was his new ink that was keeping him alive. He has tats on his knees and elbows to keep him calm, a buddhist on his left arm said to protect people like him; people born the Year of the Snake. . . And when he was born 44 years ago, God peeled back his skull and tattooed a wolverine onto his brain so he'd know how to act when he grew up.

Like a snarling beast.

Like Lesnar, Rutten was an MMA fighter, with a career record of 28 - 4 - 1 with 12 knockouts. He even finished his career going 22-0 with out losing a fight. Now that his career is over however, he lends his voice, and retardation to K1 fights and Japanese MMA fights, with some of the worst commentating ever. It can best be compared to a drunken twelve year old with a knowledge of fighting, mildly tending to the details of the action before veering off the course and saying strange and outlandish things - things he seemingly says for his very own enjoyment. For instance during a showdown between two competitors, he once said: "Talk about a stare down. . . I hear voices in my head, and they. . . don't. . . like youuuuu!"

Its obvious what needs to happen.

Hammer head vs. Hammer head.

Rutten will gladly come out of retirement, bloodlust never really leaves an animal like him.

Whattaya say UFC?

The fight would probably go something like this:
Brock and Rutten meet in the center of the ring, for a stare down of snot and sweat and stifled homosexual tendencies. Michael Buffer announces the upcoming blood bath. Celebrities and big wigs around the ring chat and joke and make movie deals - they pay big money to see Rottweilers tear each others throats out. The ring swells with anticipation, the wild beasts held back by invisible leashes to be let loose only after the resonance of the bell ringing. Tense. Still. Brock smirks, Rutten smirks, everyone watching smirks, even the ref smirks but hides it of course, to be professional. They are all thinking the same thing, and it excites them a little, no matter how much they may try and deny it- somebody is bound to die, and its bound to be bloody.

Ever seen a bull charge a bulldozer head on? Watch. . .

They take to their corners and the bell rings. The beasts are let loose. Brock's mind is vivid with images of college wrestling, jock straps and man junk but it blurs red with steroids and rage. He pictures cows being slaughtered and cut up into steaks for him to eat, to build muscle and in turn help him mangle men in the ring. Rutten's head is alive with memories of when he was 16, when he'd go out onto the bluffs and kill lizards and beetles with a sharpened projectile he'd shoot between his teeth. . . The crowd of vultures is buzzing, but the fighters hear nothing but the sounds of cows being slaughtered, of beetles and lizards dying -zap-zap-zap-, until the first punch is thrown. . .

Mild action, fists and kicks and blood and sweat.

At the end of the round Brock goes to his corner to take instruction from his crew while he eats the heads off of live chickens. Rutten in his corner admires himself in a mirror provided by his corner team. He sings Little Bunny Foo Foo. Joe Roegan has already jizzed his pants. You Dana White, are already counting the money. . . That fresh green blood money. . . Smell it. . . Peel off the bills like rose pedals.

She loves me. . . She loves me. . . She loves me. . .The bell rings, they take to the center of the ring again, Brock's chest matted with bloody red feathers, Rutten smiling about the damage he's already imagining in his head. The moment is brief but they are like sprinters at the starting line, coiled tense like springs, waiting for the gun to go off. . . Waiting for the gun to go off. . . Waiting for. . .The bell rings! The sprinters are off! Punches and kicks galore! Its a real pony show! Rutten with the palm strikes. And here comes number 2 on the outside! The Chicken Eating Mother Fucker! Lesnar with a thunderous take down! The Swank Swede far behind! They're rounding the bend! Its The Chicken Eating Mother Fucker! He's turning his face into hamburger meat! This one aint even close folks! Around that bend and down the home stretch! They're off like Israeli rockets! Jostling for postion! More hamburger meat folks! He just won't go down! The Swank Swede! He staggers! -ding- Saved by the bell!

As for the rest. . . well you'll have to see when it comes out on Pay Per View.

iR

The Savage Assault of Ben Savage

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

I was there.

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

And listen:

I'll tell it to you now.

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

Was it Johnny Knoxville?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Listen:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perhaps.

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

Maybe.

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

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

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

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

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

Look:

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

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

Tater tots.

French fries.

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

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

iR

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

Kiddie Leashes: Infinitely Retarded

*Sometimes life runs parallels. So don't get confused, its three tiers twisted together like a fuckin' Twizzler.

After the 'incident at McDonald's' involving one Ashton Kutcher throwing a temper tantrum after finding out that the soda machines were out of his favorite sugar drink, fruit punch, Demi Moore took to fashioning Ashton with his very own kiddie leash. It was the very same one she used now, pulling Ashton from the Caribbean surf one tug and grunt at a time, so that they may go and have themselves a nice nap.

(Life is problematic enough without having to watch your kids, for there's nothing worse than offspring with the feet of a road runner and the curiosity of a cat. . . If only they were tethered to me and couldn't get away. . . Why the little bastard has it coming - being so full of life and all - don't he know he took it from me? Just sucked it up like so much water till there wasn't a drop left and all that remained was a drought of wrinkled features and dried skin? It seems my only natural reaction, to reach up a snuff him like a filthy little pigeon. . . to cage him till his wings serve no purpose other than to prove that he was once free. . . ) Gloria thought wicked thoughts of her child as he tried his best to escape from his kiddie leash. He kicked just like a dog caught on the scent of another beasts odor, for he wanted desperately to be free, free from his captor, who to him, was no longer Mom but rather Attila the Hun. . . Elsewhere thought a pitchman:

"Shit, I'm fucked."

He stood in front of an entire crew of similar leather faced business men, pitching a new break-through in the Kiddie leash industry. It was a product that he thought of all on his own.

"Alright guys, I'm real excited about this one. " Douche LeDouche said. He sweated profusely, feeling as if those 10 pairs of eyes watching him were really just 10 different fires, warming up to burn him alive. "Its a new prototype, a little something I've been toying around with here in the office. . . Its, uh, kind of revolutionary in a way, but also somewhat retro. Its a sort of throw back kind of thing." He covered his mouth and laughed nervously, the joyous sounds spewing in between his fingers and into the brains of all the bitter men around him. It may has well been Jello; it was childish.

"Get on with it, Mr. LeDouche!" An angry bigwig said.

In the Caribbean Demi wiped Ashton down, taking particular interest in the corners of his mouth. She adjusted his skewed swim trunks and squeezed his cheeks. Gloria smoked another cigarette and loathed she hadn't started earlier - before the damn tike was around - when all this smoking would do her some good. Douche LeDouche sweat from the forehead and around the ears.

"Well, I was thinking of Michael Vick the other day." He swallowed, pure limestone. "And I got to thinking about dog fights, a natural sort of progression when considering Mr. Vick's history, you see. I thought of them dogs. . . Those viscous things, praised for their blood-lust, and much like most dogs, forgiven for behaviors deemed inappropriate; a priveledge that is also given to children. . . And so, gentlemen. . ." He smiled again, half in fear and half in total pig headed confidence. "May I introduce to you - " . . . He pulled a blank sheet of canvas paper from its giant pad . . . " - The Muzzle!" . . . Revealing a diagram that looked like this:

Yes that's right. . . THE MUZZLE! Child too wacky and hopped up sugar to watch all the damn time? Too busy trying to pick up boyfriends? Is your son also a biter? Well with HASBRO's new product, The MUZZLE, you'll be able to pick up Johny Hot-Pants without having to watch your child - or having to worry about him releasing the pent up aggression that is often associated with being ignored, in the form of a savage bite that takes someone's ear off! If it's good enough for Dr. Hannibal Lecter, surely it's good enough for your child!

Gloria spat, indifferent. Demi tended to Ashton, preparing him for bed. Mr LeDouche took to sweating some more. Gloria's child started wearing himself out. He ran in place, tethered to the immovable object that was his mother. LeDouche stood in front of an audience of silent onlookers. His neck seemed to be swelling, or rather his collar seemed to be shrinking (Maybe all that damn sweat - I never was one for public speaking. . . I always got nervous, I always would sweat, I always turned red. I'm probably red now.) Right about now he was looking like a bright apple.

"Alright. . . Park it." Gloria said, looping the handle of the kiddie leash around a concrete pole painted a dull yellow. "Momma needs some whiskey to get her through the day. . ." The door to the convenient mart opened with the ring of a bell, and shut with a soft hiss. LeDouche still stood in front of his clients, already preparing to be fired. Gloria's child kicked nervously outside the market, even snarled at a stranger, growling a guttural mutt language that in its native tongue, means "fuck off. . ." Demi Moore peeled back the sheets of the bed preparing it for Ashton.

"I fuckin' love it!" Shouted on of LeDouche's potential career killers.

"A pint of whiskey." Asked Gloria.

"Come now, beddy-by time Ashtie!" Advised Demi.

"Really?" LeDouche nearly choked on the words the relief was so great.

"Abso-fucking-lutely." The man said. "Greatest idea since the introduction of the backpack buddy. Genius boy-o, genius. How they gonna say the kiddie leash is restrictive and treats kids like animals now? We're saving lives boy-o, saving lives. . ."

The backpack buddy, in case you were wondering as to its look. . . Yeah a friendly beast with its arms and legs wrapped around you, its "junk" poking you in the back. . . Many heroin users say the addiction is much like a backpack buddy; you've always got something on your back and although you're happy, everyone around you is pointing and laughing their asses off.

Gloria left the store with the same ring and hiss, opening her bottle for a quick swig. She took the leash from its pole and began to walk the boy. He took straight off, tugging away at the leash, his mother behind tending to the rope and her newly acquired pint. LeDouche and his men packed up their things and made their way through the office, ready to go home and fuck their wives - today was a good day. (Ok, lets go, a head nod was all he needed.) Demi Moore tucked Ashton into bed, kissing his cheek before slipping under the covers herself.

"Aww you little fucker, you'll take my arm off." Gloria said.

"You think it'll sell?" LeDouche asked.

"Nightie night." Demi said, eyes already closed.

Gloria's child wormed his way around the corner of a building, his body at a 45 degree with the ground. Gloria didn't notice, she was too busy drinking, but her son noticed them right away, and took off like a rocket down the sidewalk. He shot off so fast the leash slipped through Gloria's fingers, and followed behind the boy like a long tail. LeDouche and his cronies had exited the office, there was a certain calm in the air - a certain joy that no doubt emanated from this new idea. Success was at their fingertips, and yet there seemed to be a strangeness in the air. . . The kid drew closer, one sidewalk square at a time. LeDouche felt uneasy. Closer. Demi dreamed of bunny rabbits and lilac. Closer still. Ashton dreamed of basketballs. Closer. . . He pounced.

Douche LeDouche turned his head just in time. Demi rolled over in bed. Gloria screamed. Douche LeDouche screamed. Gloria's son didn't scream, he growled and dined on LeDouche's ear - ripped it clean off his head.

"Yeah. . . I think it'll sell. . ." The blood poured from his ear as the boy was pried from his head.

In the Caribbean Ashton woke suddenly from his bed.

"Just a nightmare, thats all." Demi said.

And put him back to sleep.

iR