Zack Hample

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Jon Lovitz Is A Delusional Dodger Fan

Jon Lovitz and his only fan.

Scrappy was an alley cat, who in his career had won over fifty fights with other felines.  He had lost an eye in battle, along with two inches from the end of his tail.  He was a noble cat, though now old, who called one particular alley in Hollywood his home.

Jon Lovitz was a troll with thinning hair, an expanding waste line and a voice forever tuned to annoying.  In his career he had lost over fifty fights, never winning and declaring all but one--which he determined a draw-- total and hopeless losses on his part.  And he had the scars to prove it. His problem was that he just couldn't keep his mouth shut.  "Always with the talking Jon," his Mother would say.  "Always with the talking, can't you cork it every once an awhile?  I've got a headache from all these bills as it is. . ."  So she vainly tried to shut him up by constantly feeding him, but Jon would just talk with his mouth full.  It was a practice that made him fatter and fatter.

He too, called the same alley home.

These two, Scrappy the cat and Jon Lovitz the troll, shared this alley for very similar reasons.  The two had come to live out the rest of their lives with careers ended, and nothing left to do but die in grace amongst all the other trash.  Though Scrappy came a willing victim of time, passing over his throne with the dignity of one worthy of the name "King of  The Tom Cats," Jon came  a man forced out of his niche, like an annoying zit on the otherwise unblemished face of a Prom Queen.  He came a defeated man, with no parade and no pride to soak up all the shame.

It started on one balmy day in June, when the Summer air lifted the hide and all of Chavez Ravine rang out with the crack of the bat and the cheers of the crowd.  Drawn by America's Past Time, but more so hot dogs, Jon Lovitz decided to once again grace the people with his presence and appear at The Dodger game in his usual seats (he was a season ticket holder.) The Dodgers were starting the first game of a three game series against the dreaded Saint Louis Cardinals, after splitting a four game series with the Atlanta Braves.  In the top of the first, the first three Cardinals went down one, two, three, and by the time the Dodgers came up for their turn, Jon had already consumed five dodger dogs, washing them down with more than two liters of Coca-Cola.  His blue Dodger's jacked stained and flanked about the collar with remnants of pig parts, his mouth glistening under the bright lights of the big show; Jon Lovitz was whole again. He stood up to lead the charge and cheer on the Dodger Blue.  He wondered why celebrities always complained about going to Dodger Stadium, about constantly being hassled by fans.  He had never once been hassled at Dodger Stadium.  He had no idea what they were talking about.

He assumed it was because of respect.  Respect I tell yah.  He remembered his actions out on the field during the celebrity softball game.  He had represented the team well.  He remembered when he had belted it a heart wrenching rendition of The National Anthem before a game.  He had represented America well.  They just respect me.  Yeah yeah that's all.  And he didn't give it any more thought, continuing his meal.  He even hummed, but the more he thought about it the more his face gave way to one of concern.  As the Dodgers assumed their role on offense, this seed of doubt was already beginning to germinate.  Rafael Furcal lead off the inning and promptly lined the pill to left field for a single.  After stealing second base Matt Kemp got himself a double, allowing Rafael Furcal trot around third and become the games first official run.

DODGERS 1
CARDINALS 0

During Andre Either's at bat, involving a wild pitch advancing Kemp to second, and a single to left, further advancing the lead runner to third, Jon polished off a whole plate of garlic fries himself, with little regard for the prostitute he knew he planned on purchasing after the game.  Next up was Manny Ramirez, the overpaid, overthehill behemoth walking out to the plate with a weapon that was no longer perceived as deadly; yet still the crowd came alive with the notion of more runs.  Jon did too, but mostly because he was still reminising about the 15 hundred calories he had consumed in a matter of minutes.  His squealing grew loud, and even managed to penetrate the cheers of the crowd, and the concentration of Rameriz; as instead of hitting it out of the park, Manny grounded the ball to short, for a 5-4-3 double play.  Matt Kemp however scored.

DODGERS 2
CARDINALS 0

To further illustrate the sheer strength and penetrating power of Luvitz's froggy voice I've constructed a horrible diagram of the whole debacle:

John Lovitz, sitting in his pompous rich bastard VIP seats, shall be represented by a black X, black like his soul.  Despite the luxurious view he's in the back of the section, his voice thusly passing over thirty or so heads, the visitors dugout, the dirt track, the grass and eventually to the batter Manny Ramirez, the blue X, and still strong enough to penetrate a ABS Hard plastic vinyl lined batting helmet, and eighty pounds of Manny's matted signature dreads dense enough to put Bob Marley to shame. Now thats annoyance power times a billion.

Jon didn't see much of the top of the second, for he had to evacuate all of the sugar water he had consumed in the prior inning.  After an awkward moment at the piss troughs it was off to the vendors to get more food.  As he squirted ketchup and mustard on his next half dozen dogs, he fended off a few flies with all of the annoyance of a fat child forced to share a sugary treat with an undeserving neighbor.  During this time the sides had again switched, with the Cardinals managing to score a single run off a Ryan Ludwig home run.

DODGERS 2
CARDINALS 1

By the time the Dodgers came up to bat, Jon had started to lose interest in the game, instead taking notice to the few slight pangs that were poking his insides.  He again wondered why he often went so unnoticed at Dodger games, despite being a celebrity.  He wondered why he always had a two or three seat cushion whenever he went to games, even when they were supposedly sold out and there wasn't an empty seat left in the house.  He tried to look around and make eye contact with those around him, perhaps lock eyes with someone and smile, and in doing so they would remember all that he had done for them, all the times he had made them smile; a thought that would no doubt make them remember him. . . But his eyes met no others, he would only get glances from people, and upon meeting his eyes they would quickly look away, or pretend to suddenly be interested in some spot up in the night sky.  He then tried speaking to someone at the end of the row (his nearest visitor,) but they acted like they couldn't hear him, his words lost in the sounds of the game, their hands going up and cupping their ear for a better listen but straining no further than that.

All three Dodgers in the inning struck out.  No runs scored.

All of the third Jon thought and thought.  He ate and thought, mostly because eating helped him think.  He found himself to be a profound thinker.  By his fourth hot dog he stared down at its half eaten carcass with different eyes, for somewhere behind them, an idea was brewing.  He had decided by the end of the inning that he would pretend to choke, and upon doing so he would attract the attention of all those around him. . .  A near death later he and the EMT who 'saved' him would both be on the news that night, and once again the name of Jon Luvitz would grace the beautiful lips of Californians.

A silly and desperate idea, yes, but Jon Lovitz is a silly and desperate man, you see.

DODGERS 2
CARDINALS 1

By the fourth inning the last of the stragglers have usually all trickled in, and all of those looking to beat traffic have already allowed the thought of leaving early to enter their minds.  The time was now, and Jon knew it.  He stood from his seat and proceeded to down hot dogs, eating them as disgustingly as he could, his mouth swallowing as much masticated food as it let slip out.  In seconds hot dogs slipped down his gullet, and in between breaths he'd produce squeals like a pig.  Those around him still ignored him, so his efforts doubled, animal parts spilling from the sides of his mouth like a great waterfall of swine.

"AHKEM!"  His throat produced the sound but everyone cheered, for Manny Ramirez had just scored.

DODGERS 3
CARDINALS 1

"AHKEM!"  He feigned choking once more, but again everyone cheered, for this time Ronnie Belliard had just scored.

DODGERS 4
CARDINALS 1

His eyes bulged, for in his feigning he had actually begun to choke.  The piece lodged itself in his throat, his throat contracting in attempts to draw in air as the panic came over Jon's face.  He kicked the man in front of him in his struggle, and even knocked over a beer as he made his way down the aisle, his face becoming more and more the color of Dodger Blue.  As all hope escaped his body, along with his last breath, a foul ball came soaring back into the crowd, arching high over the heads of several fans, hitting Jon square in the abdomen.  The blow took the air right out of him, and with it it expelled the half chewed hot dog out onto the field.  The ball bounced around and fans all around him fought over it, some going as far as to trample him as he gasped for air.  He caught his breath and rose slowly to his feet, dejected and morose.  He had been forgotten in the celebration of a well fought for foul ball, even the man he had kicked had forgotten about the slight pain in the back of his head.

Taking his seat, he sat more lonely than he had ever been before.  He felt as if he were sitting in that stadium completely alone.  Even as The Dodgers continued to rack up runs and those around him cheered he remained still as a statue, his head drooping, his eyes fixed on the uneaten remains of his fourth inning snack.

As the game went through its motions and the crowd eventually bored and took to batting around beach balls and participating in the wave Jon sat a sad lonely man.  He even let all of his hot dogs get cold, his soda diluted from all the melted ice.  This had never happened before.  And just as Jon was about to get up to leave and succumb to all of the horrible feelings that were now washing over him, a hand touched him on the shoulder:

"Excuse me. . ."

"Wh-What?"  Jon had his face in his hands.  He was more shocked than anything.

"Mr. Lovitz?"

"You. . . you recognize me?"  He smiled, looking up, but his eyes met no fan, they met those of a security guard.   Instantly Jon was annoyed.  "What. . . what do you want?"

"I'm afraid I'm gonna have to ask you to leave. . ."

Jon protested, and security explained that Mr. Lovitz owed the stadium a great deal of money, and that he was ordered to remove him from the premises.  He grabbed Jon by the arm, but Jon pulled away, an action which the security guard later describe as a 'furtive motion.'  After all the pepper spray and Jon finally stopped sprawling in the aisle, it took five security guards to escort Mr. Lovitz out of the stadium, where he was plopped out in the parking lot, and left to his shame. . .

The game ended, a blowout:

DODGERS 12
CARDINALS 4

As all the fans left the stadium, one man remained propped up against a light pole - its succeeding light spotlighting his failure.  He sat dejectedly, like a fan who's team had just lost. . . for he was now indeed a man without a town; a fan with no team but his own to cheer for.

And now Jon has sunk so low he lives in an alley in Hollywood, having fights with an alley cat with one eye and an unusually short tail over rotten food and spoiled cans of cat food -- and often Jon loses.

The relationship between Jon Lovitz and The Los Angeles Dodgers soured quickly, as he once opened a game singing the National Anthem (imagine that horrid scene for a moment if you will,) played numerous celebrity softball games on the field for charity, and was after all, a Los Angeles Native.  Yet after a dispute over a rather hefty ticket package involving three season seats in one of the many VIP 'dugout' sections at Dodger Stadium, for three seasons (2008 to 2010,) the team is suing the fat little man 100,000 dollars for tickets unpaid.  But thats how life is I guess, when you're annoying: when you have money, you are tolerable, but as it dries up so do your friends.

It is true that he's a 'celebrity,' and as such receives some leniency, for some retarded reason, but Jon is a small enough fish its better not to have his ugly mug around.  Certainly not when it can easily be replaced by a much prettier one, with a well manicured face and a pair of tits below that aren't just stored body fat.

He's not even a big star: not one big enough to attract more people to a Dodger game.  Besides, its common decency to pay for what you use, especially if you're a 'V.I.P.'  In fact Jon Lovitz is so unnoticeable that he served three years on the show News Radio, and was so anonymous he played three different characters without anyone notice, or perhaps more importantly, anyone giving a shit.

Best known as that noisy obtuse extra from Saturday Night Live, Jon has had a career dotted with mild flirts with success, and voice work for cartoon characters fatter and more disgusting as he.  These days, he's opened his own comedy house called The Jon Lovitz Comedy Club, and rivals Pauly Shore's The Comedy House as the worst shit house in the landscape of attempted humor.

There's no saving this one.

As such, iR declares Jon Lovitz: hopelessly retarded.

J&D's Bacon, Without the Bacon.

The USDA defines bacon as the 'cured  belly of a swine carcass.'  It is made by taking a pig and killing it, slitting its throat and allowing the blood to drain from its person, after which the belly meat is trimmed off (prized for its fattiness,) and is most often cured, either through a smoking process or a brine.  When cooked, the result is delicious bacon. America, being vain yet fat, fat yet full of itself, does bacon like no other, for although other countries indulge in pig parts, their cuts aren't as fatty and are taken from the sides of the pig, rather than his belly.  In fact the strips that go into making American bacon are called "fatty" or "US style" outside of the States.

Fuck yeah.  America.  We've got guns and fatty bacon.  And entitlement. And oh, God is on our side too.  And he looks like us.  And oh, we've got this, we've got Baconnaise:

Some bottles of Baconnaise seem to be 'chunkier' that others. . . gross

Made by J&D's Food Company, this bit of chemical madness has bacon flavor, though it isn't actually made with any bacon.  Just bacon flavor, probably made by soaking pig heads in water and formaldehyde for days on end, stirring in artificial smoke flavoring and appling heat so that the fat may rise and be skimmed off.  Whala.  Bacon flavor.  But Baconnaise is not J&D's only brainchild, nor its first.  J&D was formed by two d-bags named Justin and Dave, who started their company after--get this--Dave's three year old son won America's Funniest Home Videos by, surprise, surprise, launching a baseball from a tee directly into daddy's nuts with the aid of a baseball bat.  The money was necessary to fund their first idea, bacon salt:

Mmm, in three different flavors, and guess what?  Bacon Salt is vegetarian too!  Just like Baconnaise, its not made with any actual bacon, but instead registered chemicals 405 and 1298!  Because your lazy ass is too preoccupied with reruns of Buffy The Vampire Slayer to cook bacon and sprinkle it atop your baked potato (which you didn't really bake in the first place, but nuked in the microwave:) Bacon Salt, for the lazy retard. Bacon Salt, for the half-hearted vegan.  Yum yum.  Pass the cyanide, I always like a little cyanide with my fake bacon.

You know all this talk of fake bacon reminds me of 'Beggin' Strips. . . ' You know that dog treat that looks just like bacon!  Since when were people like dogs?  What kind of dog would I be?

Don't like salty?  Well how about sweet?

Teaming up with the Jones Soda Company, J&D foods helped them make their worst soda ever, and with hundreds of flavors bearing the JONES label, this is quite the accomplishment.  In fact, its even worse than the pizza soda.  Somehow.  Yes, the taste of swine in a bottle, for the low low price of a soda.  Like it's brothers and sisters, it too is made with no actual bacon, which leads one to wonder, just what the hell is in this stuff?  No one really knows, but according to co-owner Justin Esch "Nailing the flavor was tough.  We didn't want pot roast, we didn't want pork tenderloin, we wanted bacon. . . The drink started out tasting more like pork.  But eventually we were able to get the crispiness of bacon in there without it being overpowered by porkiness."

If that doesn't fully illustrate how disgusting this shit is, I don't know what will.  I don't know a single person who has ever wanted to 'drink pork,' but that may just be because I don't often befriend retards.  Besides, 'we were able to get the crispiness of bacon in there,' what the hell does that mean anyway?  It's got a bite to it?  Somethin' that makes the soda go down rough?  Or perhaps its got a hint of grease as it slides down your gullet?

The buck doesn't stop there either.

The pursuit of money has created yet another bastardization of a traditional snack that had absolutely nothing wrong with it to begin with. Introducing, the wonders of pop corn, drenched in buttery bacon flavor.

Once again, a bacon product that isn't really bacon.  One would think this product would look brown, as if covered with powdered swine, but alas, it does not.  Which is yet another reason one should ponder what the hell is in it.  The ingredients list merely makes mention of artificial and natural bacon and butter flavors.  'Flavor' is Nutritionists code for chemicals. For surely if a product with BACON written all over is VEGAN friendly, there's definitely something fishy going on.  Yet there are shit tons of blogs praising this product, with an overzealous use of the word bacon and exclamation points, so it must be good right?  I mean bloggers aren't opinionated assholes to begin with, right?

On the occasion that you roll your fat bacon' lovin' ass off the couch, your bacon needs are at hand:

For when your equally fat girlfriend not only wants to fuck a pig, but make out with one too.

And what if you wish to write a letter, and tell all of your friends what a fucking loser you are?  Well, introducing J&D's MMMMvelopes!

Yes!  Not only do they look like strips of bacon, but the glue on the back tastes like bacon too!  Because gosh, everything should taste like bacon! Even paste!

J&D, not everything should taste like bacon.  Bacon should taste like bacon.  Soda should taste like soda.  Popcorn should taste like popcorn. Lip balm can be flavored, but certainly not bacon flavored.  Envelope paste, should taste like paste.

The Bacon Wave is a silly and trivial one.  Yes, bacon is great, but it isn't the greatest thing on earth.  It certainly isn't 'the candy of meats,' and although most things are better with bacon, not everything is.  No fucking way.  Especially when it isn't even real bacon to begin with.  I know personally if I want some bacon, I make some bacon, I don't drink a bacon soda, or balm up my lips with bacon grease, I fry up some bacon and I eat it.

What's with the logo?  None of your shit actually has pig in it. . . Which is why iR must declares J&D's Food company dangerously retarded.

The Continuing Saga of Randy and Evi Quaid

iR story #1
iR story #2

Fragments.  Fragments of insanity just like the inner workings of Randy's mind: look.

1

Rats can be quite a delicacy when done right.  The biggest problem is the fur.  Most of the time this can be done away with with a good burning, but when in hiding, smoke can be the biggest detractor of concealment. If you have a knife you can skin it.  Or you can boil it.  Most of the time though, you find yourself too hungry to care.  To think I once consumed caviar at swank Hollywood parties.  The drinks.  The shine of the cars. The shine of their eyes.  The shine of their jewelry.  Everyone shined. Like stars ought to.  Rats brains are like caviar.  You can suck them through their eyeballs.  Really, its the best part.  Squirrels are too fast. Best to stick with rats.  Rats.

2 

lulz, this photoshop sucks, iR approved 

RANDY:  Rip?  Rip, you there?  Hey buddy.  I'm calling from a pay phone, I can't really hear you.

RIP TORN:  That's. . . that's beehcause I wasn't talking.

A drunk Rip Torn had just finished off a bottle of whiskey and was playing around with a pistol, pointing it at things in his vicinity and killing them with his mind:  KHEWW KHEWW.  The phone had rung and he had picked it up, and was even now killing armies of inanimate objects.

RANDY:  Listen, just listen, I"m in a real fix, but I can't talk much.

RIP TORN:  I'm no sailor!

On Rip Torn's end he could hear Randy breathing heavy, as if he had recently undergone some strenuous activity, and Evi Quaid singing La Vida Loca just like a bird.  For some reason he was reminded he was no sailor.

RANDY:  Listen.  We just evaded them.  Them!  Them!  Those bastards, they're like ticks on a dog's back.  They're like chocolate stains on a fat boy's shirt.  You know they're gonna be there.  You.  looking. . . Just. around. . . Don't know where!  They're after us.  Just know that.  That means they could be after you too!

The silence which ensued almost illustrated the look of confusion on rip Torn's face.  He seemed genuinely perplexed.

RIP TORN:  After who?  After what?  When!  Where are the bastards!

RANDY:  Just listen.  Listen.

RIP TORN:  Wait?  You're on a payhee phone?

Even Rip Torn found it strange.  He thought to ask how?  How?  Where? Where did you manage to find one of those things?  but Randy answered him:

RANDY:  Yeah, we're in Canada.

RIP TORN:  That ehhsplainsit.

RANDY:  Listen.  They're after stars.  Big stars. . . Stars like us. . . . . . Oh my God!  They're probably tracing this call!  I'll call you back.

Rip Torn casually hung up the phone and then went back to killing things around his home office with his mind.  A picture of his first wife fell victim to his imagination and the poison of his breath:  KHEWW KHEWW.  The pistols deadly end scanned the room, Rip leaning back in the chair and squinting his eye as much to add to the character he played as to keep himself balanced and the room from spinning about him.  A half hour must have passed, and bored with his murdering, he took up inspecting his deadly weapon.  He hiccuped on occasion.  The phone rang.

RANDY:  Rip?  Its me.  Had to change location.  They're after us.  But look, if you just come up to Canada with us, we can fight them.  Rally the troops.  Bring in the greats.  You know Tom Arnold right?  They're after him.  Chevy Chase. . .  They're after everyone.

RIP TORN:  What of your brother?

RANDY:  Fuck him.

RIP TORN:  Of your brother. . .

RANDY:  Fuck him.  Listen.  They murdered Heath Ledger.  They killed David Carradine.  I know that, and because I know it, they're trying to get rid of me too. . . Oh God, I've involved you now too.  Listen, they're Hollywood Star - Whackers.  The Whackers.  Offing us. . . Offing us. . .

RIP TORN:  I do enjoy casserole.

Rip Torn, still firing at things around the room with his imagination had become overzealous, pulling the trigger he bore a hole right in his sole copy of Moby Dick.  He never liked the book, so he didn't mind much. He then casually hung up, probably to make some casserole.

RANDY:  Hello? . . . Hello? . . . Shit. Shit. Shit.

3

When they first walked in, I could tell something was off about them. They just had that sort of look to them, and believe me, I should know. In my fifteen years at the Blue Swallow I have seen just about every breed of scum and lowlife walk through the door, even the occasional rich fool looking to spend a night with a hooker, unknowing of the disease she was about to impart on him.  I know trouble when I see it, I have a discernible eye for that sort of thing.  My eye almost starts to itch, all on its own, and the second that bell over the door twinkled and the neon lights flooded the floor of the small office, I knew they were trouble. 

I was itchin' fierce.

First, I must state that:

My boss has a penchant for making money, and as such he never likes to turn away business, which means his employees are never to even think of it, even as a smiling villain drools on your desk and eyes the register with hungry eyes.

With that said:

I knew I had seen them somewhere.  When they signed in as Bonnie and Clyde, I knew it was a lie, but facing the boss was hardly anything I was interested in.  The weekend was near.  I couldn't quite recognize them, and as I looked at the man I tried to imagine him without the fat about his face, to imagine him without the wispy unkempt beard, but all of it was in vain, all I could think of was December . . .  He was a memory kept yet not quite tangible enough for the mind to bring up for the eyes to see, and as such, it irritated me.  Only the man spoke, his face blank and lifeless. The woman next to him seemed capable of only making squeaks and squeals, like a trapped mouse being tortured by a cat.  Yet no keen eye could see any cat.  Just nervous twitches.  Squeaks.  She was annoying too.  To be honest I was happy to get rid of them.

They paid cash for one night.

They took their key and left.

In the morning the police arrived, and they asked me questions about a Randy and Evi Quaid.  I described them, and they said I had described the fugitives they were looking for perfectly.  They hadn't returned their key, so I assumed they were still in their room.  We went down to it, and the cops entered, kicking down the door with their pistols drawn.

They found a room with chairs turned grotesquely over, some missing legs, others gutted with what one officer estimated was a six inch blade. The mirror on the wall had been shattered, it lay on the floor reflecting an army of fragmented police offers.  The bed no longer resembled a bed, but more a fire pit, as scorch marks emanated from the center of the Sealy Posturepedic.  The television was gone, even though it was bolted to a dresser.  Now that I mention it, the dresser was gone too.  All the towels were missing, even the Gideon's Bible.

It was then the officer said:

"Well Earl, we've got another one."

Earl was his partner.

4

Dear Dennis,

I just want you to know what a cocksucker you are.  I want you to know that I know you've always had eyes for Evi.  I remember than night in January.  I remember everything.  Evi remembers too.  I know you've spoken with them.  I know you've told them all about me, I know they've told you they're going to kill me.  I know you don't care.  You jealous bastard.

Their control runs deep.  They've taken our home and turned the world on us.  We weren't running.  We're not crazy.  We're surviving.  We're targets.  They've sought to make an example out of us.  Them and everyone else.  He'll, you're probably one of them.  I'll probably tear this up when I'm done with it.  I just wanted you to know you're a cocksucker. What a shitty little brother.  I knew you were always jealous, but this is just ridiculous.

Big Bro,

R.Q.

Randy took the hand written note, smeared about the edges, soggy from the sweat on his hands and stared one last time.  He must have read it thirty times.  He tore it into pieces, and as the soap and grimy water from a Lexus getting a luxurious bath washed down the rain gutter, he tossed them in, and the waters carried the pieces with it, down and off towards the ocean.

5

SBPD Arnold BARRY #3528
09-18-10
7:20 PM

I was on patrol when I received call of a 10-31.  Arriving on the scene I called for backup and proceeded towards the residence.  During an interview with the family they claimed they had heard noises from their guest house and suspected people of squatting there.

200 yards span between the house and the guest house.  A search of the perimeter revealed only one entrance into the guest house in front, and all of windows were blacked out.  Officers Gutierrez and Smith arrived on the scene providing backup.  Knocking on the door brought no response and after the necessary allotment of time we proceeded to use force.  The door did no budge at first, but with the help of Officer Gutierrez we managed to open the door and enter the residence.  Pieces of an outdoor jungle gym had been dismantled and propped up against the door. Furniture within the guest house had been destroyed, along with the personal effects contained therein.

The kitchenette was empty, along with the two other adjoining rooms. Officer Smith searched the bedroom where there two suspects, Randy and Evi Quaid were found laying on the floor unresponsive.

Paramedics were called in to the scene.  When they arrived Evi stood up and tried to evade custody.  She ran outside and dove into the pool.  She swam down to the bottom and did not come up until she needed air. Upon reaching the surface she was promptly arrested.  Randy was found to be merely asleep.

Suspects were separated and interviewed individually.  Neither seemed particularly nervous, though they were worried about the state of the home.

Randy revealed their ruse was to feign death, and then escape when the police weren't looking, and that he would have ran as Evi did, had he not fallen asleep.

Evi denied any knowledge of breaking and entering, claiming that her and her husband have owned the home since the early nineties.  The homeowner provided documentation disproving this claim.  The home was bought from another man, whom the Quaids recognized as the purchaser of their home in the mid-nineties, yet they still claimed the home was theres.  Neighbors had no information on the situation, but were kind enough to offer tea cakes and coffee.

Both Randy and Evi Quaid were detained at 8:45 p.m. on 09-18-10.

ARRESTING OFFICERS:

Arnold Barry
Johnathan Gutierrez
Wynona Smith

6

"Hi, I'm Evi."

His mind replayed memories of her.  Of when he first met her, on the balcony on the twenty second floor:

"You know, they say mockingbirds have the prettiest song.  But they are wrong."  She hung over the railing, staring down at all the ants beneath her without a worry at all.  She smiled though she seemed to be teetering over the edge.  Jesus, she's smiling. . .  "I much prefer humming birds." She said, and then started humming and moving all about the balcony.  "I also like it when crows laugh."

It was then that he knew for certain, that he was in love with her.  Though there were other people at the party, he only noticed her: this humming bird moving ten times faster than everyone else, this humming bird living faster than everyone else, an exotic dart shot through the monotony and grey that was his everyday of this whole life thing in dreary Los Angeles.  What could such an exotic bird be doing in such a black and white jungle as this?  Oh I forgot, they're the only kind left.  If only he could catch her.

Of when she would sing, always singing, no matter what it was she was doing.  Cooking, cleaning, fucking.  Always singing, and with a song for every moment.

Of when they first went on the run:

"Tis a lovely day don't you think?"  She said.  She was wearing that white cotton shirt without a bra, and a skirt that left little to the imagination.

"Yeah, not too bad."  The gas station attendant said.  He was in his thirties, and not really her type, but he didn't know that.  I knew that.  

"And you cooped up in here all day.  Don't you ever get to come outside and play?"  She said, with the littlest hint of mischief on her face.  I would take all I could get.

"Uh, no not much.  Got to work.  But I do get off in a few hours."  He replied.  Smiling.  The fucking jerk-off.

"Ohh really now?  Well isn't that exciting.  What is there for a girl to do around here?"  She leaned in closer, to allow him to better inspect her features.

"Well I do enjoy the bar down the road, on 12th and Washburn."  He said after looking and liking what he saw.  

"Oh, well see you there."  And then on the signal he would come up from the back of the store, and walk up to her side nice and polite, to share a moment with the poor confused fellow behind the desk.  They would pay for their gas and leave.  Outside, in the car, they would take everything out of his pockets, mostly gum and candies, but also bigger stuff like beef jerky and a handful of doughnuts.  She was always doing stuff like that. Always conning people.  She was like an actor, much like he was, only she was carefree enough to change characters on a whim, in a instant, mid-monologue, she was free to do as she pleased, and he felt she was damn good at it, too.

Of her favorite television show: The Jeffersons.  Of her favorite color: puke green.  Of her favorite medications: Zoloft and whiskey, Cocaine and Mimosas (for breakfast.)  Of the dancing at the Beverly  Hills Hilton, beneath the overhang of the ornate ceilings.  Just he and her, two wackos in a cuckoo's nest. . .

7

Now.

"So, just where are the defendants?"  The judge peered over his spectacles with tired and slightly annoyed eyes.  They fell upon the Quaid's lawyer, who's calm and professionalism was slowly giving way to a noticeable nervousness seen in the shifting of his eyes and the biting of his nails.

"Well. . . your honor. . ."

"Yes?"  He asked abruptly, almost to cease any excuse that happened to be forming in his mind.

"Well, I don't know."  He confessed.  

The judge pondered, a great sigh emerging from his person.  Swelling. Silence.  The lawyer thought to himself, mostly of the tail by the pool in Las Vegas.  The judge thought to himself, mostly of last nights roast beef dinner.  Home fried potatoes and asparagus.  Delectable.  The judge was a fat man.  

"Well, I must say, I've never seen such a blatant disregard for the judicial system.  I understand that Mr. Quaid has been in many a film.  I know he's a figure of National Lampoon.  Well National Lampoon is a buffoon.  I can only assume that the Quaids and their history of ignoring court dates is indicative of their contempt and vanity -- as if somehow their celebrity status will forgive their actions away from the silver screen.  Yes well, unfortunately for them, we are living in reality, and besides my mind fails to remember the last film Randy did, it was so long ago."

"Actually sir, It was..."  The lawyer started to say.

"I don't want to hear it.  The point is that justice should know no color, no race, no religion, that justice should not have loopholes and breaks for those who feel they're more privileged than others.  May it free the main wrongly in chains, and cut the hands of he who tries to steal.  Your clients seem to think that the rules do not apply to them.  That because of some made of imaginary enemy is out to get them that its okay to skip out of hotel rooms, after destroying them, and that it is perfectly logical for them to squat in a home that is not theirs.  Up until now, the courts have shown their understanding.  They have shown their soft backsides.  But alas sir, I shall not be the same.  As such I wish to issue bench warrants for both Randy and Evi Quaid, at 50,000 dollars bail each.  We will reconvene October 26th.  That is all."

His hammer banged through the courtroom, and with that Randy Quaid and Evi once again cemented their fugitive and regally retarded status.

The timeline goes like this:

Sept 24, 2009:  Randy and Evi Quaid are arrested in Texas for running out on a hotel bill in California.  

October 29, 2009:  Randy and Evi Quaid fail to show up to court.  Bench warrants are issued.

April 12, 13 2010:  Again Randy and Evi Quaid fail to show up to court.  

April 14, 2010:  Arrest warrants issued for Randy and Evi Quaid.  Couple forfeits 40,000 in bail money.

April 26, 2010:  Quaids actually make it to court.

April 28, 2010:  Sanger, the Quaid's attorney resolves the case.  Case thrown out due to lack of evidence.  Evi sentenced to 3 years probation and 240 hours of community service.  

September 18, 2010:  Quaids arrested for breaking and entering.  Suspected of squatting in their old home, and reportedly did 5,000 dollars worth of damage to the home.  Bail set at 50,000 each.

September 19, 2010:  Quaids post bail, released.

October 18, 2010:  Bench warrants issued, Quaids miss court AGAIN.

October 22, 2010:  Quaids arrested in Vancouver.  Apparently the jumped the border fearing persecution from a group of "Hollywood star - whackers."  Randy proceeds to claim they killed Heath Ledger, and may have even had a hand in David Carradine's death.   

October 27, 2010:  Quaids released.

love,

iR

The Last of The Juggalos

AUTHORS NOTE:

There have been many battles against ICP, for their enemies are many. Their most recent entanglements have been with 'the scientists,' who in their eyes ruin all the magic in the world with their logic and common sense. Many a historian has transcribed their battles in lengthy texts, most of which the ICP have never seen, for many still know not how to read.  The following tale isn't much different, though I must say its got more gusto, and pretty pictures to look at.  Its events are as accurate as can be humanly possible, for not all of the proceeding was seen with mine own eyes. Nonetheless, precautions were made to ensure the authenticity of the tale, for the sake of entertainment and history.

THE LAST OF THE JUGGALOS

The United States of America has been home to many tribes of a people with faces painted white, with noses all different but usually round and red; of a people with giant shoes, hyperbolic in every way, along with their every person: the hair flammable in color and obtuse in size, the cheeks like swollen cherry tomatoes, their shit eating grins the size of The Brooklyn Bridge.  They are the dimwits of art and theater who's calamity brings joy, who's tears bring laughter - those people who's lifestyle is so infrequent and onto itself that those who practice it can be considered their own breed; a race of people known as fucking circus clown.

Creepy. . . 

Chief among their tribes are the people of Barnum & Bailey, who in the last hundred years have formed a mutual alliance with the people of the Ringling Bros.  Other tribes exist as well, though hardly as worldly recognized as the two previously stated. Their people have taken up the names of the regions they squandered from decency, dispersed like kindling in the wind. So many of their brothers and sisters have splintered into the deepest crevices, the highest mountains, the lowest valleys and everything in between.  Though so thinly spread, the resolve and determination of each component of the whole hardened each of them, allowing them to live out semi normal lives despite being complete and utter outcasts.  However, these days deliberations are made around the campfire of Barnum&Bailey and The Ringling Bros. on an evil enemy who sullies the blood of his brothers with antics that include not pie throwing, nor the sudden loss of one's pants due to a suspender malfunction.  They speak of an enemy who though featured like them, operates very differently than themselves.  Here in the red and yellow striped tent, amongst the elephants and the smell, their people gather, for a deliberation on rather serious subjects.

Their chief had risen first silent as the multitudes waited with patience. Although he had a station of superiority over the others, he very much resembled his kin.  When he walked his shoes squeaked comically as if stuffed with dog chew toys, and the flower which bloomed from his breast pocket boasted virility without the need of water or soil.  This chief had been named Skid Mark, for his act included an over sized pair of pants hemmed for a man much fatter and taller than he, so they often slipped from his person, revealing a pair of stained drawers -- and living up to his name his pants dropped upon reaching the stage.  Picking them up he cleared his throat and spoke.

"Our brothers in Detroit have been proven to be anything but family.  They sully the name of the Ringling and Barnum & Bailey.  The black and white faces dare to say they walk with our brothers, yet they have never taken a pie in the face, and instead choose to bathe in sugars of Faygo.  They speak of Family, but there's is not our own, and is spiteful of the Shiney Red Nose in The Sky."

Sounds of agreement came up from all those listening, namely the honking of plastic noses and the ringing of bicycle bells.

"They deceive our own children with false hopes.  They sell them the defiling of the mind, body and soul. . . Many a season have our people found peace, and have pursued all avenues to ensure it, but they sing of war, and idolize weapons like hatchets.  To the juggalo the first remedy of any problem is war, and all his tales tell of blood spilled, and hatred . . ."

The wise words of one of their elders had been rudely interrupted by a recent outcast in the village, a clown with hair colored red from the blood of his kin, his garb that of a yellow one piece with sleeves striped red and white, his over sized red shoes laced in yellow.

"Eject this miscreant at once!"  Skid Mark flicked his wrist in a sign of instant disgust.  "The clown of McDonald has betrayed his people, and profits while he feeds our children poison."  The coward was dispatched of, his feet dragging as his captors took him out to rot with the dogs.

yay.

The Chief then paused, allowing the disturbance to pass under the weight of his fierce gaze.  In the silence the interruption was soon forgotten, and all eyes once again fell on the Great Skid Mark.

"The severity of the situation has required the wisdom of our eldest father, who in his many years has gained more knowledge than we could ever hope to obtain.  He was around when our people emerged from the bosom of the earth and only the white face carried the distinction of clown.  It is a rarity that one of our own should live so long, it is the workings of The Great Spirit. . ."

It was then the ancient clown emerged from his caravan, his likeness on the side fading, the paint having chipped in a disordered fashion from the vigors of passing seasons.  In short, his vessel appeared more to be a tomb than the home of a great chief.  Age had eaten away at his hair, though he still possessed red tufts of matted fur on both sides of his head.  His frame seemed crumbled as he walked a parade that more resembled a death march than a procession worthy of a dignitary. Painted black eye brows gave the appearance of perpetual shock, though his features beneath sagged and were life less.  Upon reaching the spotlight, he stopped to regain his strength.  It was then that he made an effort to stand up, and it was then, with the sound of old and cracking vertebrae that the tribe looked on their most knowledgeable - a clown simply known as Bozo.

He spoke, his words dry and papery.  Every word an effort.

"I have seen many things."  Bozo said, deep in thought.  "Yet I have never encountered beings such as this."  A gasp arose from his collective listeners, as it was believed Bozo knew everything, especially all matters regarding clowns.  "Their tongue I find unrecognizable.  They bring no joy - they make a mockery out of the time honored tradition of making a mockery of oneself!"

Sounds of approval.  Horns and whistles.  Bozo struggled, breathing heavy.

"In short, they're. . . they're. . . retarded."

And with that he spoke his last word, one which serves greatly as an umbrella term for all that is stupid, and breathed his last breath.  His head dropped, his eyes void of any life.  Lifting their fallen comrade, the clowns carried him out of the tent in a somber procession fitting of a funeral. Reaching their destination, they dumped him in a grave fit for any clown - a ditch not far from their camp, where bones mingled with garbage and noisy flies.    

Scaring children since 1928.

"Brothers, we must avenge the death of Bozo, our wisest chief.  It was thought of the black and white faces that seized his mind and stopped his heart!"  Skid Mark said.  "Our Fathers will never be at peace until they have been avenged and the blood of the Detroits flood their cities and drown the seeds of their fathers Chief Violent J and Chief Shaggy 2 Dope!"

Loud whoops erupted from the crowd, and with newfound tenacity they emerged from the tent a mass of angry clowns wielding crude weapons of their own creation.  With determination they met their enemies who were already expecting them, as word from their scouts reached their lands before their enemy.  Chiefs fought among their men in mass - the clash of opposing forces was so great it resembled the crash of the surf.  Shaggy 2 Dope and Violent J appeared amongst their kin, and as clowns and juggalos fell about their feet, they were content to spill blood.

Skid Mark found the opposing forces and with the skill of a marksman beheaded a juggalo with a sharpened pie tin, the head falling clean from its body.  Shaggy 2 Dope on the other side had taken one of his CD's to the face of a clown, and with pressure popped his eye out of its socket.  Still Skid Mark pressed on.  Violent J had found a target and was unleashing his kicks on a fat clown's nut sack.  Still Skid Mark pressed on. Killing enemies on his way he met Shaggy 2 Dope, who welcomed him with eager eyes, and quickly they were engaged in a struggle.

"Whoop whoop."

The war cry of the juggalo rang out as they witnessed one of their leaders engaged in deadly combat.  Encouraged by the vision the juggalos fought on, killing many a clown with a veracity that matched their hatred.  The battlefield became one of mixed emotions, a thousand dead clowns lying there on the ground, their happy painted faces contorted into expressions of pain and shame, cemented in death.  Colors were everywhere, but predominate was the color red; the color of blood.  Skid Mark had engaged in a struggle with Shaggy 2 Dope, the both of them wrestling in the mud as men from both sides fought and died for their side.  Choking Shaggy, he gained control, and taking a sharpened horn from his back pocket he raised it and buried it into the Juggalo Chief's chest.

The impulse to honk the horn was strong, and as Skid Mark gave it a couple of squeezes, Shaggy 2 Dope died.  -honk honk-  Rising in victory, his eyes then met those of Violent J, who had lost some vigor in light of seeing such a loved brother slain in battle.  Skid Mark advanced slowly, Violent J back stepping as he did so, to prevent his enemy from gaining any ground.  The circus clowns seemed to be winning.

Yet amongst the din, a piano began to play over the frightful music of men dieing.

I dare yah. . .

Family. . . 

JCW. . .

Family. . .

I'm a bad, bad man. . .

Imagine the clowns surprise when an eight year old emerged from the destruction. . . whoop whoop:

Riveted by the appearance of the Last of The Juggalos, Violent J charged his enemy with the pride of a father content to eliminate the evils in his son's world.  Charging Ski Mark he was met with little resistance.  After the clown was slain, his red nose was taken as a trophy and raised above the head of the victor for all to see. It proved effective in rallying his troops, even the young Violent JJ, who proceeded to hurricanrana clowns and elbow drop fallen foes, much to the juggalos enjoyment.  Once again, the war cries of the juggalos rang out: whoop whoop, whoop whoop in a savage cry they alone posses.  They continued killing circus clowns, lead by their only head chief and his prince.

When victory seemed apparent the sirens rang out and painted the landscape red and blue red and blue.  The combatants scattered like cockroaches when the lights come on.

The cops opened fire, guns blazing through the night in tiny explosions of death, and often they didn't miss.  The casualties were great, far greater than the combat that had ensued prior.  Violent J had fallen, and so had many of his comrades.  The circus clowns too, suffered many a casualty, many still crawling on the ground with holes in their bodies.

All that remained was Violent JJ, who's small person deemed more difficult to hit.

Twas the day I witnessed the last of a vile and retarded race of the Juggalos.  

The clown is a descendant of the jester; a creature so small and feeble he would be killed on a whim.  And often for a laugh.  To pursue to be one is retarded, even if you try and deviate it with rap music and weapons.  In the case of Violent JJ, it is apparent that juggalos, though they claim to be a loving bunch just looking for acceptance, are very much indoctrinated in violence. . .  You can't tell me this Violent JJ kid isn't going to grow up to be the biggest piece of shit to ever walk the earth.  I mean, he's already made of poor stock (I think he's Violent J's kid, I don't care enough to get the facts straight,) but now they've already got him 'wrestling' and walking around emulating the bullshit actions of the 'grown ups' around him.  Sure, you may claim that ICP and all of that shit really has a good message to preach, one which only juggalos seem to be able to decipher, and hey, lets assume for a second that this is true, but this kid doesn't understand it.  He's just a kid.

Let him be a kid.

Seeing as how this is all the same garbage over and over again, I have but only one diagnosis to give.  Thickheaded as they may be, surely I must be making some ground, right?

Due to the nature of ICP and its recurring retardation, iR declares ICP and Violent JJ, repetitively retarded.

The Last of The Mohicans was a book written by James Fenimore Cooper.  The Last of The Juggalos was a shit blog written by yours truly.

John Wayne Gacy was a serial killer who gained the nickname "Killer Clown" after he made appearances at children's events dressed as a fictional clown he created himself....

Killer Klowns From Outer Space is a shit movie about. . . killer clowns, from outer space.

Pennywise is the name of the monster/clown in Stephen King's It.

Coulrophobia is fear of clowns... if you have it you probably never made it through this shit.

Logophobia is fear of words... if you have it you definitely didn't make it through this shit.

love,

iR