Crybabies - an NBA/TBS Production

In an effort to branch out and showcase the everyday lives of NBA stars, the National Basketball Association felt it fit to select a certain number of superstars and film them and their activities.  TBS graciously offered a time slot, and soon a loving relationship was born.  The show in question, titled "Crybabies" will be coming to TBS: Very Funny, this summer!

Lets meet the cast of Crybabies, shall we?

PAUL PIERCE - CRIES UNTIL HE GETS HIS JUICE

Whaaaaaa

The quaint little one stands, illuminated by the sun coming from the playroom window.  He looks out it, sipping some "apple juice" out of a juice box.  He is smiling and thoroughly enjoying himself.  He seems nice enough.  His juice box empties--SLURP--the juice is no more.  Little Paul Pierce smiles and keeps drinking, but when no more juice comes he realizes his dilemma and begins to cry, a fierce cry that annoys anyone within a fifty foot radius.  Paul wants his juice--he wants his Goddamn juice!  He cries and cries until he gets his juice and then he is fine again, as if nothing even happened.

WHY HE'S A CRYBABY:

Despite being a Boston Celtic, which alone makes him a crybaby, Paul Pierce gets "injured" more than most players do, but he seems to have a body which heals at super human rates.  That is to say that by the time he gets his way (2 foul shots) the "injury" is gone, and so are all the tears.  His main offense came during the 2008 NBA Finals, against the Los Angeles Lakers.  During one transition during Game 1 of the Finals, Paul Pierce was "injured."  He was "injured" so bad that he had to be carried off the court by his teammates, as he grimaced and acted delirious.  Where am I Kev?  One would think he shattered a leg. . . no.  Not quite.  He came back 15 minutes later and proceeded to drain 3 threes in a row.

His bitch out had earned him a standing ovation from the Boston crowd, as they no doubt saw him as a real warrior, and not a real whiny bitch.  How did he come back from such a horrible injury so quickly?  I mean he couldn't walk before, but now after just 15 minutes he can run up and down the court and drain threes like he wasn't even hurt at all. . . How did he do it?

Simple, because baby Pierce wasn't hurt, he just needed his "juice," thats all.

GLEN "BIG BABY" DAVIS - HIS HUGGIES ARE THE MOST FULL OF SHIT

Is KG comin?

In the center of the room a drooling giant man baby sits alone.  The mild smell of shit emanates around him, a faint rotten smell that comes up when you least expect it.  His name is Glen Davis, and nobody really likes him.  He thinks and drools and thinks about how nobody likes him, so he cries.  He cries and shits his diapers, which makes everyone dislike him even more.  

WHY HE'S A CRYBABY:

He actually cried.  

On T.V.  

During a game.  

One game Kevin Garnett, his teammate (who isn't exactly the most frndly guy in the world) had some harsh words for Davis during a timeout.  Davis didn't like it much and responded by walking away and throwing a temper tantrum on the bench, complete with cursing, violent towel abuse/manipulation, and actual man baby tears. . . Man baby tears that must have tasted so sweet, mmm yes.

STEPHEN JACKSON - GANGSTA BABY

Even the playroom has its dangerous areas, and mostly because of little baby Stephen Jackson.  He's claimed his territory and walks back and forth, a gun sticking out of the back of his diaper.  He's also claimed all of his toys, and if anyone thinks about taking any of them, not only will he cry, but he'll blast you in the face a couple of times with his 9 millimeter.  He's good bud's with only one other crybaby in the room. . . 

WHY HE'S A CRYBABY:

Aside from whining on the court, off the court Stephen Jackson whines a shit load lot too.  After not getting his way at a club he got into an altercation with some of the staff and fired several shots from a gun he kept concealed on him.  He claimed it was self defense, but a jury saw it differently.  He was found guilty of reckless endangerment and was suspended 7 games from the NBA season for his retardation involving the law.  Later that year Jackson was involved in the infamous brawl with NBA Fans, an act of bitchery that only got him suspended for 30 games. . .  His behavior on the court has also earned him more ejections than I care to try and remember, but two of them are worth mentioning in that they both came during the playoffs, both occasions costing his team a victory.

RASHEED WALLACE - BABY BALD SPOT

I can count to dis many!

In one corner of the playroom baby Rasheed Wallace and lil Stevie Jackson stand in the corner, sneaking hits from a spliff during an imaginary game of Cops and Robbers.  They like their version of the game, because in theirs there are no cops--only spliff smoking robbers.  Sometimes Stephen doesn't play by Rasheed's rules, so Rasheed cries, and refuses to share his sticky icky with him.

WHY HE'S A CRYBABY:

In 12 minutes of basketball, Rasheed Wallace does 10 minutes of complaining and whining, wondering why it is he got a foul when the he didn't even touch the guy - why is he bleeding?  I dunno, a cut just spontaneously formed on his upper lip. . . Not to mention Rasheed Wallace leads the NBA with a record 304 technical fouls, and has set a record for most technical fouls in a season with 40.  

Rasheed was also suspended 40 games for threatening a referee after a home game.  It is reported that he followed the man, and threatened him with physical violence if he "didn't shape up."   But Rasheed's criticalness of refereeing is no secret, in Game 5 of the 2008 playoffs Rasheed Wallace went off on a tirade that would make any sailor proud: "All that bullshit-ass calls they had out there.  With Mike and Kenny--you've all seen that shit, you saw them calls.  The cats are flopping all over the floor and they're calling that shit.  That shit aint basketball out there.  It's all fucking entertainment.  You all should know that shit.  It's all fucking entertainment."

Dis cat got more whine than Napa Valley.

AMAR'E STOUDEMIRE: THE SHIT-TALKER

Another baby sits by himself in the playroom.  Hes got a fire truck and dinosaur.  They are his two favorite toys and he likes to make them charge one another head on.  He also likes to make the noise the carnage would make if such a beast were ever to crash with a fully equipped fire truck.  He does it again and again.  the dinosaur always loses, and he always says "Fucking fire twuck. . . you just got lucky.  Bitch-ass fire twuck. . ."  He likes cursing out the other crybabies too, especially if he feels like they are out performing him.

WHY HE'S A CRYBABY:

After losing game 1 of the 2010 Western Conference Finals to the Los Angeles Lakers, Amar'e stated that Lamar Odom (who had a great game) had a "lucky game," and that talent was not involved in his performance whatsoever.  He further stated that he "use to handle him before big brother came along," 'him' being Andrew Bynum, 'big brother' being Pau Gasol.  What a poor sport.

And like a true bitch he followed suit, and was handled once again in game 2, yet when asked about the Lakers performance he had nothing but nice things to say. . . Perhaps he received a time out/good smacking after game 1.  But bitching is no new thing to Amar'e Stoudemire, he has a long extensive history of it, all the way back to his school yard days playing on blacktops.  And the Lakers certainly aren't his only target, after losing The Spurs, he cried to media that both Bruce Bowen and Manu Ginobli were "dirty players."

TIM DUNCAN: EVERY MOTHER'S DREAM

Hewwo?

On a chair sits a crybaby with enormous ears.  they stick out and are the size of a full grown man's ears.  They don't look like they belong on the baby, but nonetheless he finds a way to live with them.  The baby's name is Tim Duncan, and he's actually quite boring.  Especially for a baby.  He doesn't do much, so when blame is pointed in his direction he raises holy hell and pleads the fifth.  He makes a look as if he were the most innocent angel in the room, which is clearly, not always the case.

WHY HE'S A CRYBABY:

Picture in your mind for a moment, Tim Duncan of the San Antonio Spurs.  What is he doing?  Complaining.  He's got his arms extended, his shoulders up in a perpetual shrug, his eyes bugged out and his mouth wide open. . . He's pleading his case, for the millionth time.  When he gets called for a foul he acts so shocked you would think the referee just accused him of raping some white women.

During the playoffs his bitching is only intensified, as this big bastard has to content with yet another year of critics saying he hasn't got the stuff to win a champion, not without 'The Admiral' David Robinson.  My favorite move of his is when he grabs the ball as if it were the head of the referee - his knuckles are white, his fingers extended - if only it were your throat you bastard - his eyes bugged out, pleading his case as always. . . I got all ball, see all ball!

What the hell my name aint Kobe!

SHAQUILLE O'NEAL: BIGGEST CRYBABY IN THE GAME

Another massive baby takes up a whole corner of his own.  He occasionally runs around pretending he's flying around like Superman.  When he's done he sits down and stares at you for minutes on end.  If you ask him what he's up to, Baby Shaw will tell you he's using his "x-ray" vision.  Everyone tends to his needs, because when he gets upset, a lot of things tend to get broken.  

WHY HE'S A CRYBABY:

The entire Shaq/Kobe thing toward the end of their falling out.  Not only did he whine and complain about Kobe Bryant but after he was gone, he often made fun of his former teammate.  On some occasions, when asked about Bryant, he acted like he did not even exist.  Kobe who?

He's been described as a big kid - he's got lots of toys and money, and like any kid with lots of toys and money Shaq is a selfish, spoiled, little brat, who just so happens to not be very little.  This can be seen on the court during any game, regardless of the team he is playing for.  He cries yet he gets away with more shit than he's ever caught for, simply because of his massive size, for upsetting Shaq is much like poking a large gorilla with a stick: it isn't going to end well.

Yet the collective minds at NBA TV and TBS are no fools, they wouldn't let a whole show rest squarely on a bunch of cry babies. . .  Oh no they have their own nanny, if you will. . . This guy:

PHIL JACKSON - THE MENTOR

The man's resume speaks for its self.  Phil Jackson is a fucking winner.  With his degree in psychology and mastery of dealing with big whiny babies and massive egos makes him perfect for the job.  Will Phil be able to turn around these crybabies, or will they forever be sniffling little bitches?

Tune into to TBS, Very Funny, this summer to find out!

iR

Get it?  Its a muppet babies spoof....

Parkour, Because Skateboarding Wasn't Painful Enough

In the concrete jungle, grown men like monkeys swing from lamp poles, releasing into mid-air twists over benches; leapfrog from building to building, sometimes bridging 20 foot gaps; gallop down rooftops on all fours and run up walls.  They are members of an elite pedigree of human savagery, they are freerunners, or tracuers (male) traceuse (female.) Their game is parkour, a sort of poor man's version of skateboarding--without the skateboard-- fused with grace, retardation, and a willingness to possibly hurt one's self for absolutely no reason. It is explained as "the physical discipline of training to overcome any obstacle within one's path by adapting one's movements to the environment," but it is more like gymnastics without all the padding, just concrete.

In other words, if you were to run down the sidewalk and things came your way--perhaps an old lady--in parkour you wouldn't do the normal thing and run around her (wait, why the fuck are you running anyway?) no, you'd jump over her, or maybe kick her in the gut and use her as a launching pad for an awesome front flip which you'd cushion the impact of by going into a roll and then upon completion you'd keep on running, toward the next obstacle. . . Like this:

Weeding out retards one death at a time.

After that video is hard to disagree: parkour is fucking awesome.  Not only can it severely hurt you but its also technically illegal.  That building you're climbing like Spiderman belongs to someone else cheese head, and it looks really bad when-a-God-damn-motherfuckin'-upstart-family-run-business-just-trying-to-get-ahead-of-the-competition has a history of retards killing themselves there, all because the gaps there "look really cool."  People aren't really gonna wanna be shopping there, yah dig?  The act is called buildering, and businesses and law enforcement don't like it very much because it is dangerous and therefore retarded to engage in, and when you complete your act (that is if you don't injure yourself, or die) your prize is your own personal parade with you in the back of a squad car, and when the parade is over, you get your own personal party, in a 10 by 10 cell room with concrete floors, iron bars, and a couple of big mean party guests.

For he's a jolly good fellow. . .

And then they fucking rape you.

For he's a jolly good fellow. . .

Can you parkour through those bars and get away?

For he's a jolly good fellloooowww. . . 

Didn't think so.

Which nobody can deny, which nobody can deny. . .

The whole parkour thing started with David belle, a man with military training, as well as an extensive knowledge of gymnastics.  That's right, this guy can tackle the pommel horse and kill ten terrorists at the same time.

Like this. . .

In 1997, after years of looking like a moron jumping over guard rails and climbing up walls, David Belle had amassed enough footage of his "work" to comprise it together into a highlight reel for the media.  This was the spark that lit the gas fumes of retardation perspired by an empty generation of bored ass people, and although boys and girls in Europe knew all about parkour, it wasn't known globally until David Belle and the news networks got together to showcase this strange yet somehow exciting? world of street gymnastics.  And even then, it wasn't really well known, and still isn't, not really.  Regardless, it is somehow popular enough that a very select few number of people in the parkour community can actually make a living doing parkour, but how much they actually make in regards to this endeavor is unknown.

Despite these few tracuers,  part of the parkour philosophy focuses greatly on community, and not sport competition and rivalry.  The philosophy finds these aspects to be harmful to the sport and its competitors.  Instead it works on the philosophy that one can peer pressure their friends into doing stupid, potentially dangerous things everyone knows they're incapable of doing: all you have to do is push hard enough.  Other theories include that parkour is an expression of freedom for troubled youths "bogged down" by the big city, one which breaks down physical barriers and creates a proficiency of energy and movement and life maaan.

Parkour still today remains hardly noticed.  MTV however recently made an attempt to bring parkour to a certain market, while at the same time utilizing the show to promote even more shitty music.  The show was called The Ultimate Parkour Challenge, and featured some of the best, most "well known" tracuers in the game, including on guy who did everything on his hands, an albino gorilla who could run on all fours, leap, climb walls, everything.  Despite being parkour a show, it completely disregarded the very foundations of parkour, in that it was a competition, in which the winner won an obscure amount of money.  *I believe 5k.

Nobody watched the show, and besides it wasn't all that impressive.  The competitors, though varied in style and skill, often hurt themselves.  One hit his head jumping a gap between to roofs, and had to be wheeled off in an ambulance.  Another hit the side of a train car as if he were flung out of a cannon - he attempted to jump from the top of one box car to a ladder fashioned to the side of another car 15 feet away.  He totally ate shit and iron bars of the ladder acted much like a cheese grater - his skin was the cheese, and he too, had to be wheeled off in ambulance.  Thirdly, another contestant tried to span a 12 foot fence, but didn't - just went straight into it, he was not wheeled off in an ambulance, but did need medical attention.

Damn this parkour stuff seems dangerous...

Besides, every essential component of parkour had been showcased in that one episode, with its winner taking the shows entire budget (bad call there on who ever decided the density of the purse) there was no reason to do another episode.  Good riddance.

Today parkour lives on in obscurity.  

You probably only know of it because of The Office anyway.

So You Think You're a Tracuer?

You've got a friend willing to film you, you've seen all the videos on youtube and have been practicing in your bedroom for weeks. . . But now its time to venture out and prove to the world that you are a real, true to life tracuer.  You don the official uniform of a tracuer, a t-shirt and shorts, for protection, in case you slip and fall on rocks or concrete.  You've mapped out your route, (sitting on the bench, dash off, jump catch the fence, off, hurdle, another hurdle, balance down the top of the daring 1 foot tall wall the thick one, off onto the pole, over the puddle. . .) you know the exact camera angles you want to use. . . Now its just time to do it.

Months of training have lead up to this moment. . .

Let the camera roll.

So close. . .

So you think you're a tracuer?  

You're not.  The only people who are tracuers are the ones who are good, there isn't anyone who's just mediocre at parkour, because if you're just mediocre it means that you're bound to break your ankles, that is, if you haven't already.

In Conclusion

Parkour promotes efficiency of movement, as if to save time, while at the same time stresses being "safe."  But if I really wanted to do that, wouldn't I use the stairs as they were intended to be used?  Wouldn't I just walk down them, instead of hurdling over them?  Certainly, using structures as they were intended to be used is the safest and most efficient way to use them, or ones own 'energy.'  Surely its awful hard to hurt owns self going down stairs, clumsiness and attempted murder aside, so what's all this efficiency and ease of movement bullshit?

Why not come clean?

Why not just say, parkour is a sport for retards who like to do crazy things that could possibly injure them or kill them. . . If you like to do it because you like to do it, then fine, more power to yah, but when you try and come up with some bullshit philosophy as to why you like climbing up buildings and jumping off them, then you're just being blind to you're own retardation.  Furthermore, you're sport is entirely dangerous, yet the preferred attire is similar to one one would wear when playing tennis, short shorts and a tee.

And it is for this main reason that iR declares parkour, blindly retarded.


Futher Retardation


Parkour requires no equipment, just a damaged brain.

The official uniform of a tracuer is a t-shirt and shorts, and comfortable running shoes. . . No other protection is given.

Professional tracuers make a living doing television advertisements and news reports.

Some tracuers actually perform their feats barefooted.

The moves of parkour are based mostly around animals, for instance the Equilibre de chat, translated to Cat balance, is literally the balance a traucer has when on all fours. . . Saut de chat  translates to cat pass/jump, or monkey vault.

Parkour rarely if ever, gets you laid.

Parkout.Net is the home of the parkour campaign to preserve parkour's philosophy against sport competition and rivalary.

A Case of Herpes: Much Like Tila Tequila

Aint nothing in the world that can't be fixed by a fresh bowl of meth amphetamine.  It can make you forgive that time in your life when you fell in love with the surgeon's blade; it can help you look at yourself without really looking.  It makes it easy not to realize everything in your life is phony, including your prized silicone breasts.  It also helps if you're fucking retarded, as is Miss Tila Tequila.

When waking in the morning her first duty is to put on her face, because as stated before, nothing about her is natural.  This process takes anywhere from forty-five minutes to an hour, depending on the look she happens to be going for that day.  Today's look:  Trashy Slut.  With her look intact she heads to her computer, to write for her "celebrity gossip blog."  She often addresses her fans as her Tila Army, and when logging on for the first time she usually thinks of the glory days of Myspace, when she could easily keep count of her ranks simply by looking at her friends list.

These days things weren't so great.

AFter tapping into her muse - meth amphetamine, she gets to adding her latest bit of celebrity gossip, a dreary bit of vocal diarrhea made worse in that its written down, a rotten bit of text that hurts your brain the moment you try and read it:

WHOOO!!

I'VE BEEN SO BUSY LATELY!  EVERYBODY IS ALREADY TALKING ABOUT MISS TILA!  WATCH OUT PIGGIE PEREZ! LOL!

Things had gone awry somewhere.  A failed singing career, a failed stint on television, a failed modeling career, and now the last attempt for some bit of obscure fame rested squarely on her shoulders under the job title:  Celebrity Blogger.

LOL!  YOU SHOULD HAVE SEEN LINDSAY LAST NIGHT!!  WE ALL SAW HER YOU KNOW WHAT!  LOLOL AND TILA WOULD DEFINITELY GET ON THAT!  TOO BAD SHE'S A JUNKIE THOUGH!   HAHA SHE KEPT LOOKING LIKE SHE WAS GOING TO THROW UP AND WAS STUMBLING AROUND EVERYWHERE!  I'M DIRTY BUT NOT LIKE THAT!  LOL!

Nothing but reaching out for the limelight, a quest to be constantly noticed, even if that means being noticed as a complete moron.  More hits from the muse.  Blue smoke and the smell of something rotten.

AND A CERTAIN FRIEND OF MINE, WHO'S VEYR WELL CONNECTED (obviously, he knows you Tila) SAYS THAT A CERTAIN FEMALE CELEBRITY KNOWN FOR HAVING A CERTAIN ABNORMALLY LARGE BODY PART, LOL!  IS ACTUALLY CHEAP AND RETURNS ALL OF HER CLOTHES AFTER JUST WEARING THEM ONCE!  I THOUGHT SHE HAD ASS...ETS.  LOL!

Nothing but a shitty blog writer picking on celebrities with whom she holds some sort of retarded grudge.  Her gossip stories are all from "friends" (probably imaginary ones) that have about as much redibility as an iR blog.  Fallen and as low as Perez Hilton.  The scum of the fucking earth.

WELL THIS UPDATE SURE IS GETTING LONG!  I HAVE TO LEARN NOT TO SAY SO MUCH!  I'M GETTING SO LIGHT HEADED!

MUCH LUV MY TILA ARMY!

XOXOXO MISS TILA!

The light coming through the shade meets with Tila's face, the prolonged exposure causing it to melt like wax. She shifts into the comfort of the cool shade and takes another hit of meth amphetamine.

Too much sun Tila, too much sun!

She slips off to sleep, to dream up Tila dreams, of bondage teddy bears and cotton candy.  As she sleeps the real world goes on, and in the real world she's not respected by anyone with a brain.  Her celebrity blogs only further serve herself and her love of herself as most of the material is about her, its merely dispersed with the sprinklings of total ramblings from a complete and utter retard.  In the real world, she's a has been that never really was.  At 18 she got her first job as a model for Playboy magazine - she had that Vietnamese hooker look that's been popular ever since the early 70's.  Her entire career was catapulted from mediocrity to toal retardation when she found a happy home for herself on Myspace.  She became somewhat of a 'Myspace celebrity' a fact that isn't all the surprising when considering the fact that the majority of Myspace users have been clinically proven to be retarded.  She essentially became famous for being famous, much like a similar plastic Barbie doll by the name of Paris Hilton.  With her newfound fame she took up a shitty music career I have had the luxury of not hearing a single note of.  Her singles "I Love U" and "Stripper Friends"  both failed to chart, and after many legal battles with the company who produced her only album:  "Sex: Tila Tequila," the album was shit canned and then released and then shit canned and then released only to have absolutely no one give a shit.  As recent as last month, (April 2010) Tila released another single that no one really ever listened to called "I Fucked the DJ," and is said to be coming out with another album entitled Welcome to the Darkside, slated to appear sometime in 2010.

Her T.V. career started on the reality show Surviving Nuget, a show which comprised of many scared and retarded contestants (Tila being one of them,) and one crazy-out-of-his-mind celebrity named Ted Nuget.  After losing the show, what followed was a given for any "celebrity" slipping into the waking void: a Vh1 reality dating show.  Being a highly diluted and egotistical person, it was a perfect match for Tila, as Vh1 pooled 32 of the country's most retarded individuals and put them to work vowing for her affection.  Tila loved the attention naturally.  The show differed from other reality dating shows in that Tila claims to be bisexual, so the contestants were both male and female.  The show pissed off a lot of Chrisitans and Asians, who became big targets for Tila and her rambling blogs, but shome how, despite all the slack and bullshit and lack of interesting material, the show lasted a whole two seasons.  At the end of the second season, Tila picked a girl named Kristy Morgan to be her "shot at love," but Kristy turned her down. . . Well aint that a bitch.

Tila's career in television isn't just limited to reality television, she's also completely willing to appear as herself on shows that are openly mocking her.  MadTV, The Clevaland Show, and Robot Chicken have all written her in in rather unsavory roles as herself, and she's so starved for attention she didn't mind appearing in any of them.

And then of course, she disappeared for awhile.  Not that she was ever really around.

Tila was only around in wrinkled magazines under troubled youths' mattresses.  Tila was only around on broken down iPods once owned by junkies who either died in the streets or ended up crazy or in the slammer.  Tila was only around in the remnants of her own personal blog, a ranting bit of madness coupled with shots of Asian beaver (for paying customers, of course.)  She was a faint whisper told from the mouth of a person with horribly bad breath.

Disappeared and petty.

This blog game just gotta make me.

And it is for these reasons, and her inability to ever die or go away, that iR declares Tila Tequila, repetitively retarded.

Further Retardation

Is pregnant with a boy.

Is planning on adopting a child from Haiti.

Has her own record label called Tila Tequila Records.

Has her own management firm called Little Miss Trendsetter Management LLC.

She became a model in California because of her "violent adolescence," in Texas.

Claims her nickname Tila Tequila came about when she started experimenting with alcohol at the age of 13.

Ha sher own book Hooking up with Tila Tequila:  A Guide to Love, Fame, Happiness, Success, and Being the Life of the Party.

Her celebrity blog is called MissTilaOMG!

iR

Farmville: Sad Retardation

By noon the men outside are already dripping with sweat.  Tired yet knowing their work is far from finished, they break only for lunch.  They eat outside near their unfinished work, some too tired to even clear a space out on the ground.

"You know."  One of them says, looking up from his sandwich.  His eyes are bright amongst a dirt stained face.  Its wrinkled from time spent out in the sun.  "The wife been complaining about the family."  He spat.  "Got some relatives from the city, from . . Ell. . . Aye. . . some girl that refuses to do work.  Don't wanna work none.  Too busy on the computer playin' some damn thing called Farm - Villll."

"Farm what?"  Another asks.

"Farm - villll."  The other replies.

"What's it 'bout."

"I don't try and understand it none, but 'pparently its 'bout farmin'."

"Well if that aint the dumbest thing I ever heard. . . Hey Randy you ever hear anything as dumb as that?"

"No, and I spend lots of time 'round you."  Randy says.  They laugh.

"What do city folks know about farming?"

"I don't suppose nothin'.  But they do say it requires the Dee-Es-El."

"The what?"

They all have a good laugh.  Down the street in a humble home with a beat up wooden front porch the man's wife tends to the stove.  Although she had started early preparing dinner, she's behind schedule and is preoccupied with a relative from out of town.  A little thing with pig tails and the demeanor of a "rotten vulture, a rotten vulture she is, I tell yah..."

"Off that blasted thing."  She yells.  "Off!"  There's work to be done."  She calls out into the other toom but no answer comes.  "God damn that blasted thing, Lucy."

Lucy's mouse clicks.  This is her planting a new crop.  Outside her cousin grunts.  This is him planting a new crop.

"Its downright disrespectful, Lucy.  To be so lazy when your family is outside working so."

Lucy's straw slurps.  This is her drinking soda.  Outside her cousin coughs dryly.  This is him dying of thirst.

"God dam Lucy. . . You're wasting everyone's time."

This is common sense nagging.

What plagues Lucy so?

In Farmville you pay money for fake crops and tell all your friends about it!  Its really awesome!

FarmVille, a legal drug manufactured by Zynga.org, one which is most often used by retards.  Zynga.org was founded by Mark Pincus, a silicone head with a bullshit idea to "transform the world through gaming."  In reality Znga.org's slogan should change to "lining or pockets through gaming," as all of his games are nothing more than a profit making venture which utilizes the retardation of an entire generation.  (Or"transforming the world through gaming for the worse" will suffice.)  And its no real surprise, Mr. Pincus has an MBA from Havard Business School.  Pincus' venture generates money by offering intaginble computer generated products to its gamers in return for real-cold-hard-cash.  For instance in the case of FarmVille, users are offered the opportunity to spend real money in return for special imited edition crops and items that can then in turn be planted and used on their farms - features that non-paying gamers do not have access to.  No other perks can be found from purchasing these "crops," other than the ability to brag about them. . . But who the fuck actually brags about having imaginary crops?  Well certainly the same people who would spend real money to buy something that is tangible only on the computer screen.  Retards, yes: these people are actually bartering something real for something that is entirely imaginary.

And the best part is, there's no way to really win at FarmVille.  There are no objectives other than to plant crops. . .  It is a life long game in which retards become to daily financial backers.

Aside from selling imaginary things to generate real life money, Zynga.org and FarmVille also utilize the social networking sites they run on.  Whenever gamers level up or receive new items/plant new crops, they're given the opportunity to publish these events on their social networking sites, for all of their friends to see.  This of course creates more potential gamers, and more potential money.  This mode of business in turn essentially makes all of its gamers nothing more than spammers and total asshole who become advertisers for the game, advertisers that actually PAY Zynga.org to advertise FOR THEM.  More users in turn generates more revenue - both from "in game features" and traffic through the use of ads.

And one of its most succesful "games," in this regard, is none other than FarmVille.

But why is it popular?

Because its nothing like real farming.

Aside from the fact that crops need to be watered regularly (using a computer's internal clock to register when crops are "planted" and in turn when they are "in need of water" hours later) Farmville is nothing at all like farming.  The fact that the game utilizes time management only furthers its retardation, as some players are actually giving up real social appointments to "maintain crops in need of water," and tend to farm animals that are "in need of care."  Its one of their 20 plus games which fully utilize (I.E. spam) nearly every social networking site/application, and also allows the option for its gamers to "share the experience" of the game, whether it be through Myspace.com, Facebook.com, My Yahoo, MSN Messenger, or cellphones, including applications for the dreaded-and-all-powerful-pompous-communication tool, the iPhone.

FarmVille and its other sister games are all described as life-simulators, particularly by Zynga.org.  The fervor generated by them and the utter time wasted by them makes them cancerous to the human body - the human way of life.  When considering the fact that people spend more than five minutes on these things, it must be a fraction of a growing preference toward simulated worlds.  This is further proven by the fact that people spend real money of virtual items, giving imaginary things worth.  It is a problem that began with World of Warcraft Douchetards, but was never fully utilized until Zynga.org came along with its mission to connect the world through gaming.  

What a crock.

And it is for these reasons that iR declares FarmVille, Zynga.org, and all of its products to be Sadly Retarded.

Further Retardation

Zynga.org boasts 70 million users a day.

19 Zynga games are featured on Facebook

8 on Myspace

1 on the iPhone

1 on MSN Messenger

Zynga.org's founder doesn't even play games. . . he's got a separate company that handles the actual game work. . . he just counts all the money.

A boy in the United Kingdom ran up a bill of over 900 pounds on his mother's credit card playing FarmVille, without his mother knowing.  When she found out she tried to get a refund, but Zynga refused, basically saying "be a better mother next time, and it won't happen again."

On any given day 500,000 tractors are sold in the game FarmVille. . . at 20.00 USD a piece, thats a lot of fucking money for a lot of fucking NOTHING.

Love,
iR

Billy the Exterminator: Epic Retardation

The underbelly of Louisiana is a dirty one.  Its swamps and bogs are home to alligators, bats, rabid raccoons, and venomous snakes.  The very trees are perfect for wasp nests, its practically a death pit for the untrained. . . Luckily the world of vermin has a ferocious natural enemy with 21 years of experience under his belt:  Billy the Exterminator.  This guy:

Criss Angel meets Brett Michaels.  Yes, this guy actually exists and is one of A&E's 'reality' tv show 'stars' . . . The exterminator badge worn like Dog the Bounty Hunter, the cowboy hat, the Matrix glasses, the 'hip' facial hair, the frosted mullet, the black tee with aftermarket spikes attached with matching studded belt. . . everything about this guy screams douche bag.

Tonight's Episode:  Snakes. . . In Waiting. . .

Billy races down an empty Louisiana road, lush vegatation on one side, wretched murky water on the other.  The passenger in his black Tacoma pick up truck is Ricky, his brother and right-hand man.  Ricky, like his brother, shares a similar love for mullets and he and his brother usually get along nicely.  They both even love heavy metal, mostly Twisted Sister.

Suddenly Billy's cellphone lights up.

"Hey ma."  He says.

On the other end, back at the home base, Mom tends to all the calls from potential customers.  She's got big poofy red hair kept up by chemicals and a cheap grin caked with matching red-orange lipstick.  She's got ice blue eyes and is about as dumb as one can be.

"Yeah hon!  We-we just got a-a-"  She's horrible at reading her lines.  "A call from a crematorium place, 'bout a snake - you gotta get there right away!  Right away!"

"Yeah ok ma."

" . . . Remember now," she says.  "Don't get bit!"

Billy hangs up the phone and scoffs.

"I don't know what mom is worried about (yeah you got them sick shoulder spikes to protect you) like. . ."  He throws up his arms as if he were suddenly frightened.  "Oh God!  Gotta get down there lickety split!  you know?"

Ricky nods and smirks.  Ricky aint big on words. . .

"Prolly just some snake got in there. . . It did storm yesterday.  You know how they like to move indoors when its cold and wet out."  He pauses, giving the viewer ample time to register the wisdom he just imparted; cold bad - he strokes his soul patch - heat good.

At the job Ricky and billy take to the building and utilize long sticks and tongs to poke and prod everything in their search of the snake.  Its a sweeping tactic Billy developed when he was a hired exterminator for the United States Air Force.  Aside from prodding around billy is also wise enough to get on all fours to peek under a cabinet elevated by its wheels, and if he didn't feel vulnerable enough, he decides to turn and focus his attention on his brother Ricky so that he may once again mention how dangerous venomous snakes can be and how this meant one must always be alert and cautious. . . Any second now the bastard is gonna get it, just you wait and see. . . Any second now. . . After a sweep of the area, no snake is found, but Billy, with his keen expert eyes spots out a grate near the ground unprotected.

"Yeah, snake definitely got in here.  He opened it to show how easy it must have been.  "Definitely, no grating on the outside.  Nothing. . ."  

"Snake!"  Ricky shouts and the two take off like they had just spotted a freshly thrown grenade.  All the tough talk, out the window like so much fresh air.

Ricky, Billy's brother and best bud.  According to the Vexcon website, Ricky "has proven that being an exterminator can be an act of patriotism."  God-damn terrorist mosquitoes.  Aside from being a true patriot, Ricky is also considered to be a "heart-throb" amongst strange sects of human deformity unknown to city folk and native Louisianians foreign to the deep pockets of the thickest swamps found in the area.

After a change of pants and a recooping period involving lots of Heavy Metal--to get into the mood--the boys are back in the location with a well developed plan on how to bag this particular ornery snake.

"What you gotta do is quite simple.  You gotta stuff him in a bucket." 

The bucket comes out, Ricky tight on the bucket.  He's the bucket man, ready to put the lid on the second the snake gets stuffed.  Billy, he's the stuffer, he's got a long set of tongs with an iron like grip he uses to pick up angry snakes with.  The particular rattler to be caught has been cornered, and Billy spears him with the tongs and the snake lashes out with venomous fangs dripping and wet.  A camera on the tongs shows all the close up action, and the snake fights just like a fish snagged by a hook.  The boys are tense, you can tell.  Sweat graces their brows, drips from their mullets, leaving trails like snails, greasy and the smell of hair gel and sweat.

They bark orders at one another.

The boys are tense, you can tell.

The snake is pissed, you can tell.

And so the snake is put in the bucket and the top is put on and the boys go to whooping and hollering.  They are red and sweaty and happy.  They grin like cats and spy their recently caught foe.

And that is it.  The viewer is like 'wtf.'

The show isn't particularly exciting because none of the adrenaline comes when watching someone else face the idea of death - its not even like you're scared these guys might bet bit - you hope for it.  You want them to get bit, and the show of course never comes through in that regard.  All 'exterminations' are successful.  Its main character dresses like an imbecile, he's all heavy metal but he's as soft as a midday candy bar.  What if you went to work like that?  Certainly you'd be laughed at - so why does he get to dress like Motely Crue?  How does a man with Master have the balls to dress like a bike dyke?

Clearly theres retardation of epic proportions involved.  How else could one explain this Bretherton Family holiday card?

And they wonder why nobody comes over for the holidays.

Though one can easily applaud this man for his unprecedented humanity in the field of rodent and pest removal, no one, no one, can ever forgive him for that horrible mullet.  The only real reason to watch the show is to try and spot his customers trying not to laugh right in his face.  You can see it, a slight smile hidden under a stern and serious face.  The corners of the mouth always slightly upturned, as if at any moment the client will lose control and burst out laughing.

And they have every right to, in my opinion.

It is for these reasons, along with his horrible wardrobe that iR declares Billy the Exterminator, epically retarded.

Further Retardation

Billy Bretherton has a Masters Degree from LSU in Termite/Pest Control

Billy carries with him a certain philosophy of life all of his own, and has been reported to say "education never stops as I grown in my job and my life."

Billy is a prominent guest speaker who's speech includes "scary/fun/bizarre" stories about the extermination business and his time filming for A&E, his understanding of nature - "mean but green" and the intricacies of the extermination business. . . His schedule is currently wide open.

Billy's extermination company is family owned and operated, it is called Vexcon.

Billy's outfit is actually sold on the Vexcon website:

• Vexcon cowboy hat: 36 dollars
• Vexcon studded fingerless leather gloves: 24 dollars
• Vexcon tee: 25 dollars
• Vexcon spiked studded leather belt: 59 dollars
• Vexcon studded wristband: 49 dollars
• Vexcon sunglasses: 28 dollars

Grand total: 224 dollars. . . looking like a d-bag has never cost so much.

Billy the Exterminator is produced by September Films, who's body of work includes such trash as The Pregnant Man, 650 lb Virgin, Boys Joined at The Head, and Bridezillas.

For more retardation feel free to visit Billy the Exterminator at his website on aetv.com or vist the Vexcon company website itself at Vexconinc.com

iR