Kel Mitchell Found Jesus

We are gathered here today. . . Light in through the colored panes of church windows. . . Bow your heads. . . The smell of polished pews. . . Come self-proclaimed 90's kids, you boob tube aficionados, you couch cushion jockeys. . . your prophet has arrived.

Prepare the body of Christ. . . a bag of potato chips. . . Pour forth the blood of Christ. . . Coca-Cola. . . Its a shame loud T.V. . . [louder now] Its a shame loud T.V. destroyed. . . I said its a shame loud T.V destroyed your hearing so. . . I said. . . never mind:

Your prophet has arrived. . . 

Guess where Kel's other hand is?  Keenan's face reveals the answer.

What fasting.  What endurance in the name of the lord; none.  What emptiness along the crawling spaces.  The psychedelic soma water, the duodenum berries.  Throw down your orange sodas my friends, Kel Mitchell found Jesus but never fixed his teeth.  Destined, the dreary sidekick.  Even that dance show gave him the title of co host. . .

What stables of women.  What endurance in the name of the wang. What many girls, some of questionable age.  They fell and lay in his bed of success.  Like withdrawing from the bank account.  The word then was 'fine'.  He's FIOOOYNNE.

Piqued, made for decline.
Getting drunk on orange wine.

Who loves orange soda?  Kel loves orange soda.  Is it true?  He do he do he doo-oo.  Orange sugar water and orange Nickelodeon money. Wadded thick in the pockets, placed gingerly betwixt the g-strings of working girls. Oh he do, he do.

Who loves Kel?  Kel loves Kel.  Is it true?  He do he do he doo-oo.  The countless mirrors for looking upon himself, the mirrors for catching sex acts, the mirrors, the mirrors.  The portrait of himself hanging in the hall, overlooking his 'pussy palace.'  The initials KM engraved in the fine leather headrests of his finer automobiles.

But more importantly, more than orange soda and himself, Kel loves God. Is it true?

What fasting.  What endurance in the name of the Lord; none.  What emptiness along the crawling spaces.  The psychedelic soma water, the duodenum berries.  Throw down your orange sodas my friends, Kel Mitchell found Jesus but never fixed his teeth.

Kel of course got his start on the Nickelodeon show All-That, which was kinda like SNL for kids, in that it was once very good, only to slowly get shittier and shittier until reaching a point of being unwatchable; but at least All-That was finally taken out to pasture and put out of its misery.  It was where Kel met Kenan Thompson (who curiously currently works for SNL) and under the bright lights of the Nickelodeon Studios in Orlando Florida, a great bromance bloomed.  The relationship allowed them to develop chemistry and proved rather fruitful for their careers. They were like a Laurel and Hardy, and the beauty of it was their audience was so young and ignorant they could steal rather liberally from their material without their young fanbase even noticing. One of their more successful skits included a place called Good Burger, with Kel playing a retarded-Spicoli-surfer-fast food employee- named Ed (pictured above). He of course was a horrible employee who could never show up on time and further illustrated the common belief that all fast food workers are retarded (which is generally true.)  He also suffered from being capable of spouting only three or four annoying phrases, all of which somehow became trademarks.  On the basis of this flimsy sketch a movie was made called Good Burger, which unfortunately could only taint the wondrous talent of the Great Sinbad.

Now I know all you 90's kids. . . but I have to explain it. . . Not everyone knows the glory of. . . I said not everyone knows the glory of. . . I said. . . Oh damn your rotten ears!  Always interrupting me with their refusal . . . their refusal to work. . .But I must explain it. . . I said I must explain it for others who. . . oh never mind.

Ever wonder what happened to Ed?  Well apparently his last name is Jankins, and this happened to him:

He went bat shit insane on meth and now frequents the local playground, scaring the shit out of little kids.

In 1996, Kenan and Kel were given their own show, The Kenan and Kel Show, which was helped by an already established fan base from All That.  It provided more of the same, with Kenan repeating phrases including a proclamation of his love for orange soda (which was alluded to earlier) and 'Aww here its goes' and all kinds of other shit.  Kenan played the straight man, only he was a schemer who thought up schemes which propelled the show for five long years.  Before the show ended, Kel got a role in the movie Mystery Men.  He played Invisible Boy, who could only turn invisible if no one was looking at him.  Yes, it seems that even as a superhero Kel Mitchell is mediocre and equivocally lame.

The movie didn't really succeed, which was surprising in that Janeane Garofalo was in it. . .  (best joke so far)

With a failed movie under his belt, and the end of another show, Kel feared slipping off into nothingness of everyday 'civilian life,' and did his best to do what he could to keep from becoming a nobody.  He tried to get jobs, but no one wanted him, and it was then that Kel first saw the bars of that cage which had seemed so free earlier; that niche of being a home made Nickelodeon star.

Too old, sweet prince.

Despair set in.  He started eating peanut butter.  Lots and lots of peanut butter.

"Help me God."  The sweet prince cried.  "Help me."

I know what you think. . . and am making this up. . . Obviously you haven't seen any. . . I said obviously you haven't seen any of my stuff before. . . Of course its all true. . . every last word. . . I said every last word, even the part about the. . . about the peanut butter.

God would answer him?  He got a role in a television movie no one saw, called Two Heads Are Better Than None, and then he would get even more offers for work: an episode of Nash Bridges, voice work for The Adventures of Rocky and Bullwinkle, and Clifford the Big Red Dog.  Later he would go on to host The Pokemon 2000 Movie Special (lawlz).

Kel counted his blessings, and continued praying, but only with peanut butter in his mouth.  In 2005 he appeared Kanye West video, as a porter. Betcha didn't know that. . . but then again Kel Mitchell really is Invisible Boy.  Word is he tried talking to Kanye, who swatted at his ear as if to silence some tenacious gnat.

Still more blessings:

In 2007, Kel Mitchell had a minor role in the dramatic film Honeydripper.  

More:

Now, Kel is working on a movie he wrote and stars in, called Chicago Pulaski Jones.  He plays the son of Cedric The Entertainer, who dies, and Kel feels the need to avenge his death. . . with dance:

Urban river dance is ruffffff.

One can clearly see this movie will suck horribly, as if one could not tell from the rather unoriginal plot line to begin with.  I think its supposed to be dramatic, but with Kel's haircut, his acting, and Cedric the Entertainer directing the whole debacle, its awful hard to tell.

Awful hard to tell.  Like his newfound Christianity.  He's got the lingo for sure.  But is it true?  No one can say, only Kel can, and he thinks its true, but only if you pray with peanut butter in your mouth.

So yes brothers and sisters. . . we should be thankful. . . a man exists today. . . and integrity to stand up for whats. . .  I said what's right. . .  So drink forth the blood. . . share of his flesh. . . pray only with peanut butter and for the. . . GET YOUR HEARING AIDS FIXED!

Firstly I'd like to accuse myself of purple prose, 'betwixt' being the primary offender.  Secondly I'd like to apologize for uh, I guess acting like a preacher there, and like you couldn't hear, I just felt the need to talk needless shit about 90's kids.  Why?  Spite.  With that said, we are all guilty, every one of us.  I'm not here to say believing in God is retarded, I'm just saying that when you go around preaching God and the Bible, and then right after that judge a booty shaking contest you kinda look dumb and hypocritical. . . I'm just sayin'.

I commend the fact that you're still trying, but I mean come on, Chicago Pulaski Jones?  I suggest you can it before anyone sees anymore footage, before you're canned. . . for good.  Keep the faith alive, though it still doesn't change the fact you were legally declared retarded in the summer of '04.

Congrats, iR declares Kel Mitchell, legally retarded.

Way to burn out, writer of this 'blah-g.'

Kenan and Kel fans have been begging... I mean BEGGING, for a reunion of the two on SNL with revivals of their roles in the Good Burger movie. . . These people are morons.  I say this not because they desire such a thing, but because they believe such a thing could be possible.  Not only that but desirable. . .  They have aged, ladies and gentlemen, and I'm sure they would have no interest whatsoever in playing roles they had when they were teenagers.  

If you disagree feel free to comment... or call me an asshole.

love,

iR

Scott Adams is an Ass Hat

It is a hot day, the sun already boring through the one hole of your hut, waking you.  It is to be another dreary day in the world of the internets, but you remember the beheading today.  You forget just exactly who it is this time, but know you could never turn down a good beheading. Skipping breakfast to ensure a good view you tend to your outward self in the mirror, and reassure your inner self with boastful empty words, and head out the door only to find so many already streaming down the street. Joining in, the flow streams right on down toward town square, past all the homes and businesses always changing; past the chickens scattering about your feet; past the children and their sacred eyes, down, down into the belly of the beast.

"Now hear this!"  Above your head the hawkers hang from wooden poles, reeds in a river of ignorance, drifting slowly by.

"Hear ye! Hear ye!"  Smiling rotten teeth, drifting slowly on by.  "Scott Adams is an ass hat!"

You think to ask who's Scott Adams, but an old lady with a hairy lip and one milky white eye like that of a gypsy witch, spits up black death from her lungs and asks first.

"The creator of Dilbert"  the hawker replies, "to be beheaded today, and as you can see, traffic is rather congested accordingly."

"Dilbert?" the gypsy woman asks, but the hawker has already drifted on behind her.

"You know, like Office Space, only not funny" a nearby man in the stream replies.

"You're just not smart enough to get it," another fish rebuts.

A great groan erupts in waves, yet still the stream continues on down toward town square, like water drawn straight down the drain.  The guillotine glints in its cruelty far off.  From the growing buzz you can already tell you are getting closer.  The walk is long but its reward is worth it, and your belly begins to squeal its discontent at being so empty. There is not a morsel to be had, and no way to stop in such a flow of human thought, but when the blade comes in full view you're brimming with excitement and all thought of food quickly escapes you.  The world gathers around this stage of death.  The air is full of hate, thick and heavy in the lungs and stinging to the eyes.  You can almost smell it.  Looking at your feet, you can see how all the traffic has turned the soil underfoot to sludge, thickening already in the sun.  Through the hatred, warm knife through butter, they bring out Scott Adams, out to the stage, out to where he could be seen by the rows of molten angry eyes.  He stand unaffected, still content with his self assessment of genius.  His crimes against the internet being sockpuppetry, or the use of a pseudonym or alternate online identity to deceive members of an online community or otherwise spread intense douchery in an effort to praise and/or defend one's self or ideals.

For Scott Adams this meant lurking forums under the username PlannedChaos and defending Dilbert and himself from haters or anyone generally talking shit.  His favorite thing to point out was that Scott Adams (himself) was a genius, with a matching IQ to prove it, therefore making anyone who disapproved of him or his strip stupid because 'they didn't get it.'  He lurked for months under this username, defending Scott Adams selflessly, to the point where many people accused him of being his boyfriend.  Whether or not Dilbert is 'smart humor' can be debated, but how could such a thing be even considered possible when its creator is clearly the dumbest asshat in the bizz today?

How big of an asshat is he, you may ask?  Well, Scott is such an asshat he actually blogged about men's rights, its prose flowing into a misogynistic rant that would make even Mel Gibson blush.  He pondered what it would be like if women opened doors for men, and men were served first, what it would be like if the world didn't needlessly cater to women.  What if you didn't have to hit on women to get laid?  What if women had to hit on you?  What if. . . what if. . . what if. . . He asked that we think of a world where society doesn't 'discourage male behavior' and 'celebrate female behavior.'  He then went on to compare women to the mentally handicapped and children in need of candy, stating that the world gives them special privilege because 'its just easier this way for everyone.'  And like a true asshat, when the shit hit the fan he deleted his post and posted an explanation as to why: that most Dilbert readers are of 'an unusually high reading comprehension level' and that as such 'the content of the piece inspires so much emotion in some, they literally can't understand it. . . Regular readers of Dilbert blog are pretty far along the bell curve toward rational thought, and relatively immune to emotional distortion.'  So yeah, if you were offended, its because you're too dumb, and not of the reading level of those who read a CARTOON STRIP.

Stare into Bubbles' eyes, Scott, they clearly say FUCK OFF.

The sun beats down and you spit in the dust.  You don't like him insinuating you're stupid.  You don't like how he thinks he's so smart. The face up on the stage is the mask to your hate, grotesque up there before the stage.  Let it no longer live, the swine.

He has already fallen so far.  He once had his comic strip, and with it all the money he made from whoring it out, but now he runs a failing restaurant in a run-down strip mall in California.  His employees hate him, and mock him behind his back.  His head chef has confessed to media that he feels Mr. Adams has no idea what the fuck he is doing at all.  The genius of course ignored it--he was a genius--and put out such bright ideas as adding a flat-screen television to that restaurant that would play nothing but Dilbert, a dress code for employee inspired by the Dilbert character (complete with ties curling upward at the end), puns on the menu, and a banquet room for events like 'Mommy Mojito Night,' nude volleyball, and some bullshit called 'murder mysteries.'

You look out over the crowd.  Nearly time now.  The crowd grows restless and past your head flys a head of lettuce.  It hits the feet of Scott Adams and laughter erupts from the crowd.  A miss.  Other fruits and vegetables join the fray, the treacherous Adams frowning juice and seed as the stage spotted with bits of bruised fruits and rotten vegetables.  An orange hits him square in the eye and the crowd around you cheers.  The blade would bring him mercy, cease his shame and so many wish to compound it.  You throw like a girl, so you dare not join in with the others, though you would really like to.  Adams just stands there, his captors at his sides, the blade threatening up above, the bucket eagerly waiting down below.

The horns sound, the crowd eases back upon itself.  You edge in for a closer view, and can see Adams standing smug despite his situation.  Somewhere unseen in his head his mind works out some genius means of escape.  His face flashes a smile.  He attempts to run.

Slips.

Falls.

Laughter.

He is lifted.

You see their mouths moving.  You cannot hear them talk.  Adams weeps sarcastically, thinking still his genius will save him.  They lower him upon the block, fasten tight the rope to hold him down.  You try not to blink.  If you blink you can miss it--the blade moves that fast.  It hurts your eyes to keep them open for so long, they begin to flutter, and down comes the blade, a sound like wind blowing.

Thud.

And down his head goes, body left behind, the severing so fierce the head spills out of the bucket and out on to the stage. . .

Adams comes off pretty smug.  I don't even care about Dilbert, but when I see such acts of douchery I must comment.  Scott Adams commited 'sock puppetry' a bullshit internet word which basically means he went around on the internets pretending to be someone else with no affiliation with Scott Adams or Dilbert, and who had an undying love for the both of them, to the point where he felt the need to destroy anyone who felt differently.  

But Adams actually thinks media is out to get him, to misuse his words to promote their own agenda, because so many people give a shit about what the creator of Dilbert has to say about real life shit existing outside of the small world of cubicles he created in the limited space of a comic script.  Ha, what an asshole.  I know personally I could give two shit, but then again, when you go around calling yourself a genius, you're inclined to believe that the mass of man feels similarly, and therefore must have some sort of interest in what you have to say, even if all you do is draw a shit strip for a dying medium (the newspaper.)

Yes, Mr. Adams you're a genius, but apparently being a genius doesn't stop one from being retarded.

With that said, I'd like to post some emails I've received, that were in no way written by me at all, emails that have been full of praise for iR:

Dear iR,

I think your blog is fucking awesome.  I mean, really, its the best blog out there.  All those people who say it sucks are probably really dumb, or just not big readers.  But whatever right?  Because that makes us so much smarter than them because they don't give a shit about what we give a shit about.  And what we give a shit about is important, because, duh, we're geniuses.  Anyway, I just wanna say thanks for all your work, and keep it up!

Your biggest fan,

Arnold Schwartz

And another!

Dear iR,

You have a massively huge dick.  Anyone who says you have a small one is just jealous and too stupid to take into consideration such factors as weather, randiness, and overall girth.  But whatever right?  Anyway I just wanted to say that you have a massively huge dick.  Hugely huge.

Love,

Jessica Alba

All very true, no sock puppetry going down Mr. Adams, none whatsoever.

Adams is a vegetarian.

He's a licensed hypnotist.

If he reads this, lets hope he trolls it.

Yay

love,

iR

The Icelandic Phallological Museum

Why's he touching it?  Why not?

Iceland has got a dick house, and its got a new member.  By dick house, I mean not a restaurant specializing in variations on the dessert spotted dick, nor a shack home to a bunch of rude individuals, nor even an office with a plate glass window that says PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR, what I mean it really is a house of dick; of schlongs, of johnsons, of tallywackers.  Yes, a dick house, or Phallological Museum, established in Husavik Iceland in 1997.

Husavik is a small town along the north coast of Iceland, with rolling hills and gingerbread houses taken straight from a model train hobbyist's diorama of some quaint little town of picturesque stagnancy. The bulk of its buildings lay along its bay, which attracts many species of whale, and as such attracts many nature freaks looking to do some whale watching.  In years passed, the town had been an export harbor for silica, though now they have nothing but fishing and the tourist trade. But alas dear lads, under the quaint fog of this sleepy little town (Population 2,296) lies perhaps one of the strangest museums around the world.  Its founder, and current director Sigurour Hygartarson, is a former teacher of history who gave up filling the heads of children with facts and tarnished history for the filling of thick, greased jars with penises and formaldehyde.  How did the change from history professor to museum curator come about? Well in his own words it was like this:

"The foundation was laid in 1974, when I got a pizzle or bull's penis.  As a child I was sent into the countryside during summer vacations and there I was given a pizzle as a whip for the animals."

Wait. . . what?

"At that time in 1974, I was living in the town of Akranes on the south-west coast [of Iceland], working as a headmaster in a secondary school. Some of my [colleagues] used to work the summer in a nearby whaling station and after the first specimen [the pizzle] they started bringing me whale penises, supposedly to tease me.  Then the idea came up gradually that it might be interesting collecting specimens from more mammalian species."

Yeah. . . interesting.

"Collecting these organs progressed slowly in the beginning and in 1980 I had 13 specimens, four from whales and nine from land mammals.  In 1990, there were 34 specimens, and when the museum opened in Reykjavik in August 1997, the specimens were 62 in number.

In the spring of 2004, the museum moved to the small fishing village of Husavik, the whale watching capital of Europe."

You can poke an eye out with that thing... thats what she said.

Yeah, because moving a dick house there makes total sense.

I say he just likes dick.  Like really, all I gotta say is 'pizzle whip.'  I'm certain that pizzle whips hardly if ever come up in normal conversation, and as such I must assume that Mr. Hygartarson wanted to divulge such information, and apparently his colleagues were willing to humor him to the point of actually bringing him specimens.

As such, the museum grew...

and grew...

and grew..

and now houses over 276 baby makers (most in formaldehyde, few dried/nailed to the wall), all housed in 7 different sections, the most absurd of which would have to be the Folklore section, which features such headliners as: the penis of a merman, the shriveled nuts of The Corpse-Eating Cat of Thingmuli, the penis bone of an elf, a petrified troll wang, and the bits and bobs of many other Icelandic mythical (imaginary) creatures. The majority of all specimens at the museum have been donated, the donors all in a long list reading like a who's who of dick collectors.

And now, on April 12th, after 15 long years of waiting its got its newest donation (ha, see how I did that?).

A human specimen, the first of its kind at the Phallological Museum maintained in its own jar of formaldehyde.

And its donor?  Well, he is now dead, having offered up his ninety-five-year old hose to the curator, and long time friend posthumously; but in life people called him Pall Arason.  Now thats true friendship.  He wasn't the only one offering up his junk either, over the years many applicants tossed their names and manhood into the hat, though Pall's was the first one to be 'submitted successfully.'  Direct quote, I shit you not... first one to be 'submitted successfully' . . .  Apparently a chap in England sent his penis to the wrong house, and terrified an Icelandic woman expecting word from her son in America, and another, well his penis got mixed up in shipping and got sent back to him, the jar in which it was contained cracked, smelling of death at sea.

Hygartarson finds no problem in having his friends old wang up on display, stating that many people donate organs after their death, and there should be no difference between "penises and kidneys."

So pack your bags kiddies, and head up to Iceland for a jolly good time! Don't worry, you can't miss the place, its the place with the huge carved wooden dick out front!

Iceland is a weird place.  There's no ice, yet its called Iceland.  And we all remember D2 right?

Only in Iceland would they teach kids to do a triple deke only to stop at the blue line, making the whole 'triple deke' pointless to begin with.  Thats like if Kobe Bryant worked the crossover, lost his man and then proceeded to jump stop, waiting for the defender to catch up, get in his face, and then, when guarded tried to attempt the shot.  Of course the shot is gonna get blocked, of course the puck aint goin' in the net. . . But thats backward ass Icelandic thinking for yah.  Its why they didn't win that junior hockey championship, and why they've got a penis museum.  

Its latest addition I would hope to be horrifying to children and grotesque to anyone with a penis.  I'm not trying to disregard the 'scientific' purposes behind such a museum, but really? a mangled penis in a jar?  Who the hell wants to see that?

And it is for these reasons, that iR declares The Icelandic Phallological Museum to be irreparably retarded.

The Icelandic Phallological Museum

love,

iR

The Epic Retardation of Big Mommas: Like Father, Like Son

In regards to its retardation, I was all set to proclaim this movie one of the greatest ever; the final chapter of a trilogy the likes of which will never be surpassed again.  The Back to The Future of retarded films--a real accomplishment.  And I say this because of its concept--a black man dressing up like a fat old woman and loving it so much that not only does he find reasons to don this costume under the guise of 'undercover work,' but also so much that he feels it necessary to pass on his old fat lady drag obsession to his step-son, like a torch passed on from father to son: "Here, the family legacy."  I was really ready to tell this story, really wax it on thick with the bullshit and slanderous tongue that is the M.O. of iR.

But then I saw the film.

This story was no pass of the baton to keep on a silly degrading drag race, it was a stumble short of epic fail.  It is the opinion of this writer that Big Mommas: Like Father, Like Son just may be the end of both Martin Lawrence and Brandon T. Jackson, at least in my eyes, and I say this with particular dread in regards to Mr. Jackson, for at such a young age, with an entire career ahead of him, he has effectively strapped three hundred plus pounds of dead weight to his ankles with this movie.  Get ready for the great sink.

Or maybe you won't drown, young lad--there's always a career in commercials.

And I condemn this poor upstart actor with such a rotten fate with good reason too, for this movie is an utter piece of shit.  Had they spun it my way--the symbolic passing of the torch (wig?), the family legacy to be upheld--this movie would have shined as the final gem on a wonderful project.  A wonderfully retarded one.  But to understand what I mean you must look at it all a certain way, like looking in a Kaleidescope clicking into place.  Stare not at the words themselves but between the lines.

Consider this:

In the original 'Big Momma's House,' Malcolm Turner (Martin Lawrence), is an FBI agent who's actually a master of disguise and has all sorts of prosthetics and movie quality make-up techniques that can help him turn into anybody he wants.  He's been assigned to track down this lifer who escaped prison named Lester Vesco.  Now, he heads out to Georgia and decides it would be best to stake out the house of Big Momma, who happens to be the Grandmother of Lester's ex-girlfriend named Sherry. . . Why this makes sense?  No one really knows.  Anyway, iso facto, Big Momma has to leave conveniently on some trip to see a friend, so Malcolm heads into her pad and stakes it out and shiiiiet, guess who calls?  Why Sherry of course.  He pretends to be Big Momma to lure her to the house and get information from her.  So she shows up the next day with her young son, and there you go, you've got Martin Lawrence in drag, pretending to be a fat old Southern woman.

And although strange, the disguise makes sense, in a way (considering you just forget the fact that he could have just as easily met her at the door the next day with his badge and gun and shit, and gotten all the information that way, but hey, thats no fun!).

But what of Big Momma's House 2?  This same agent finds that this guy, Tom Fuller who is the head of some private corporation is working with some evil douche looking to hack the FBI and commit other forms of cyber terrorism, so he decides the best way to get the dirt is to become his nanny. . . Did he really have to dress up like Big Momma this time? From the franchise stand point, yes, but from a character stand point it makes no fucking sense at all.  I mean he's a master of disguise!  He could have been anything. . . At this point, it just proves that he just loves dressing up like a fat old black lady--its like if Robin Williams' character in the end of Mrs. Doubtfire, after all the hub bub started going around playing nanny for other families, for fun or money, or sick pleasure, whatever.

I mean a nanny?  Martin could have just as easily dressed up like a fat Mexican woman and they could have called it Big Madre's House.

See?  When looking at it this way one can see why Big Momma's House 2 could be considered funny--ole Mister FBI has got a thing for drag--and furthermore how Big Mommas:  Like Father Like Son could have run with it, had they only had some damn artistic integrity for the character they created.  Nope, instead we've got a trilogy that doesn't even stick to its own shit: the boy Trent in the first one is a little boy, in the second film, years later, he's in middle school, and now in the third one he's entering college!  Furthermore, his brother--the baby they so heavily emphasized in the second movie (his wife Sherry was preggers, and he took a desk job to be with the wife: but then again, that itch started and he just had to put on his old lady drawers) is no where to be seen in this third film, and not even mentioned.  Sherry is also absent in this third film, but she's at least mentioned (apparently she was smart enough to turn this one down).  

They story goes like this, Malcolm's shit head step-son Trent The Amazing Aging Boy is an aspiring rapper, though his father doesn't share his same enthusiasm for his choice in a career.  Nope, like a true Dad Malcolm wants Trent to live his dream, to go to Duke University and be a Blue Devil.  Trent should follow daddy's advice, for he isn't the brightest of fellows: he follows his dad while he's doin' his FBI thing to get him to sign a contract for a rapping deal (cause he's 17, yah dig), and ends up witnessing this uber-dangerous dude killing this guy, so guess what? Now he's after Trent. So what does Dad do?

Puts on the fat suit and gets his kid to do the same, and they head out to an all-girls school to hide out and search for this flash drive with all the information on this evil douche: enough to put him away for life.  Never mind that all this time Trent should be finishing up high school and taking Finals, never mind that he'd never be able to get into this girls school because its like Juilliard, and the fool can't sing or dance: just rap. . . And whats worse is the fuckers throw in a love interest for Trent, who he eventually becomes friends with while dressed in his chick outfit, and of course, she finds out, and of course she's quite angry, and of course she forgives him in about a minute.  HATE THAT SHIT.

Include in the fact the movie isn't even funny; not at all, and you've got yourself some epic retardation.

The only thing funny about this movie is that it is even considered a comedy in the first place.  I really wanted to laugh, but often, I did not.  I did laugh once however, with only about 10 minutes left in the movie, and instead of validating the time wasted watching this steaming pile of retardation, it made me angry--angry for finding anything in this movie enjoyable or funny.

I don't understand why these movies are so popular, nor why black comedians have seemed to gravitate towards dressing in drag as old women.  But it seems to work.

Shit, Eddie Murphy, Tyler Perry, and Martin Lawrence should all get together and make a fat black old lady version of The Golden Girls minus a bitch.  That shit would sell like hot cakes!

In short.  F-this movie, and the entire franchise.  I'm sure they'll find some way to make a fourth and maybe even a fifth, what with all the money its been generating we'd be lucky if this doesn't turn into a whole Police Academy franchise. . . 

And it is for all these reasons that iR declares Big Momma:  Like Father, Like Son, epically retarded.

Brandon T. Jackson bobbing his head to his career outro. 

The Tale of The Narconon Lady; Or Who Killed The Electric Car?

The hard bed in the corner, with posters overhead and the light by the wall; a place to sleep.  Somehow, you can sleep on it.  Somehow you can dream, and the first few images wading in through the emptiness and fog are nostalgic and fun:

I

The familiar section of woods was there alright, with stones set in a circle about a fire pit.  Although it was night, the moon gave plenty of light and made it easy to see everything.  It rained for a little bit.  But then it didn't, and one by one the gang came in, no wait, they were already there.  And no one was wet.  Nothing was wet.  It hadn't rained after all.

There was Kiki, in her usual set of boy clothes, looking as mean and twisted as ever, almost as if some man dared called her 'pretty' or something.

Gary sat by himself fumbling with his stupid glasses, his huge nose sticking out like a giant toucan's beak.  It was enormously huge and bothersome.  He seemed more putrid and weak than ever, and kept mumbling something I couldn't make out, some inaudible declaration of inferiority. 

And sitting next to him was Danny Devito:

And next to him a flamingo drank from a pond that appeared but did not seem to affect the overall scene.

And of course there was douchey Tucker, acting like his usual self: that is to say like a feminine cleaning device.  In fact in the dream he appeared to me as one, a draining bubbling douche and when he spoke his orange stomach gurgled and his black mouth wheezed when drawing in air and out would come a voice like sloshing water:

Also there was Frank, Sam, and the rest of the gang (not pictured.)

"So who's the new kid?"  Asked Gary, still playing with his glasses.  It was a wonder how they could move around so frequently on such a wide and spacious perch.

"They call him J. Wood."  Tucker, the douche sloshed out.

"I dunno about him. . . "  Kiki started. . . "I just don't. . ."

"I don't know about you."  I heard myself saying.  "With that get up and all.  Do you really expect to get boys dressing like a boy?  It seems to me you're playing for the other team."

"Hey now, this is a kids show."  Gary said.

"Shut it Canadian.  You know what I'm talkin' abooot?  Or I'll bust that nose of yours permanently.  Its such a big target it'll be awfully tough to miss, aye.  This may be a kid show, but firstly its my dream buckeroo."  

Gary sulked.  Defeated.  Specters of the REM can be easily defeated if you're forceful enough with them.  He sat at his stone and must of thought all sorts of sad things, for from his eyes a single tear was produced.  I'm the damn leader of the society, he must of thought.  Kiki was fuming. She didn't like being pegged either.

"Now is this a popularity contest or is this about telling a good story?"  I asked.

"Hey that was my line!"  Stig said. 

"I know.  I saw the episode.  So what?"

There was a silence.  And then Danny DeVito stood up straight, rather violently and suddenly, in such a nature that it appeared quite frightening. His eyes bulged, and the lump in his throat descended and returned to its peak as he swallowed hard. Then he spoke up, apparently caught in some sort of moral dilemma:

And then, he sat down.

We all sat pondering a moment, as the silence of the night came in through the protection of our circle, of our fire.  The crickets played their violins, the woods occasionally cracked with the sounds of some unseen moving beast.  A good question, a good question indeed.  Certainly too good to be answered now.  Though no doubt the answer is a simple one: ENTROPY my dear man.  ENTROPY.

"Alright."  Gary said.  "Tell your story, but don't think you're getting in."

I sat at the stump and gazed out at all of them sitting around me, lit up by the aching fire:  the jock, the twirp, the lesbian, the shy girl, the bookworm, the outcast, the silent but possibly violent, the sheep, the creep, Mr. DeVito with Mr. Flamingo. . .  Where do I fit in, in all of this? Which role can I play?

"There once was a giant pink dildo monster. . . radioactive of course. . ."

Smug asshole is always fun.

They looked at me hardly amused.  The Midnight Society was serious business.  An ancient tradition practiced in its most elementary of forms, despite the modern world heckling all about them.  And by God despite Gary's timidness his passion for the story had brought all these rather unlikely opposites together for the sake of a good story. . .  Can't let no riff raft in.  Even in my dreams.  OK.

I grabbed that magical bag, that one filled with space dust and some magical substance that produced a rather dramatic and staged explosion when thrown into the fire, complete with purple twirling smoke.  A wonderful concoction of mystery and magic.  But what was it?  

"Sometimes, people will do anything to look beautiful.  A foolish sot.  For though you may try so ravenously to fend off time, it is a losing battle. . . And sometimes, before you know it, death comes to take your hand, despite your efforts to delay it. . ."

Submitted for the Approval of the Midnight Society:

I tossed it in the fire and then immediately knew what it was: the powdery hallucinogen DMT.  I could tell by that familiar smell, like wax burning in a pot of incense.  Oh and the hallucinations.  No wonder everybody saw the story.  The Midnight Society, a bunch of fuckin space cakes.  Who would'a thunk it. . .

THE TALE OF THE NARCONON LADY

He had taken special care to make sure he had not been seen.  Even with his heavier and slower friend behind him like a ball and chain (sing it Janis) he was out into the yard and soon the far corner, under the shade and protection of a drooping elm.  He pulled the packet from his breast pocket, his eyes peering all about him.  Quiet, the trees and courts and jungle gyms were all silent observers of an act they had never seen anyone so young commit before.

Bobby Katchatorian and his cannon ball of a friend were only twelve years old, and aside from the package in Bobby's breast pocket, they had been simple boys, content with the adventures of childhood.  Like curious cats they had trampled every inch of the schoolyard.  They had played every game under the sun.  They had seen it all, and all in the shining glory of their innocence.  But after that fateful Saturday, Terry Daniel noticed his friend had stalked the yard with a much different purpose.  His eyes peered at the monuments of their childhood with much colder eyes that hinted at some heinous act he was planning.  The jungle gym was no longer stormed like a soldier, nor swung from like a baboon, but instead inspected, as if he were checking for leaks.  The slide was no longer for sliding, but for hiding, as he sat under it and eyed the administration buildings like some flower child protester.

Bobby... with his curly chestnut hair and his almond eyes was definitely up to something. . .

And now here they were with that ominous box in Bobby's breast pocket, and here he was pulling it out.  He had picked this spot for this evil deed, Terry knew the second that Bobby spotted the tree he knew he wasn't going to like what he wanted to do.  It was far from the comfort of the school, and if the sun hung just right its shadow could swallow up four square courts and sand pits with a hunger that was not only frightening but ominous.  When Bobby spotted the tree "Ah" was all he said. He clicked his tongued and nodded his head and just ran off in the other direction.  It was the sound of trouble.

Bobby pulled the colored box from his breast pocket and showed it to his fat friend.  Camel cigarettes.  That unmistakable camel raised against the carton.  Terry wished to touch it with his nubby fingers, but Bobby wouldn't let him touch it.

"Bobby. . . The Kirs. . . "

"The what?"  He huffed.  "The Kirstie is gonna get us?  You really believe that kiddie stuff?"

Bobby pulled out a cigarette, eying it curiously.  He lit it, took a drag, and exhaled, coughing.  He was upset with himself for losing his cool, and took another puff, although smaller, content to keep it together this time. He then handed it to his friend, who returned his devil-may-care look with one of anguish and fear.

"Just do it."  Bobby said.

Terry listened to his friend and choked on the cigarette.  He felt sick, his head felt light and dizzy.  He felt as if he was about to vomit. He handed it to his friend just as another hand reached out and took it.  A much larger hand, one belonging to a bigger arm with heavy shoulders, and between those shoulders a big mean angry face.  Terry glanced up into it, and he saw features that were as violent as they were dark, a veritable black hole of hatred looking to suck him in with a menacing glare.

"What are you boys doing?"  He boomed.  It was the physical education teacher who carried a reputation popular in middle school lore around the country: that Mr. Phys Ed was really nothing but a creep pedophile sneaking a look in the girls or boys locker room--or both--take your pick.

"You want The KIRSTIE to get you?"

They pulled away from him, with looks on their faces often seen in little children and sometimes in grown men when the shit gets really thick. Escaping, they ran off and did not stop until their lungs burned and their legs threatened to abandon them forever.  They stood catching their breaths, hearts beating loud in their pink ears.

"Bobby."  Terry said in between mouthfuls of air.  "Bobby. . . I. . . told. . . I told you.  She takes bad kids. . . took three from my block alone this year!"

"The Kirstie isn't real, it's all a lie Terry."

"Is so.  The Narconon building is where she lives."

"Is not."

"Is too.  Its some sort of factory.  You come out changed.  You come out different."

"Do not."

"DO TOO BOBBY KATCHATORIAN, and you made me smoke!  And now they're coming for me and you. . . bad kids."

"Well aint that rich.  I do you a favor like this and all you can do is talk about some boogey man that doesn't exist!"  Bobby shook his head and gathered his things.  He began a slow walk west down the street.  "And to think all I've done for you. . ."  He sounded remorseful, almost as if Terry had really wronged him, had wounded him so badly it was almost too much to bear.  "I guess we'll just have to stop being friends. . ."

Terry had been listening intently.  He had heard similar renditions of this same sort of thing whenever Bobby wanted something from him.  He knew in this particular case he wanted him to stop talking, and although it hurt his feels he knew having no friends at all was far worse than a temporarily wounded ego.

"No, no Bobby.  You're right, The Kirstie isn't real."  He said it but didn't mean it.

"Good."  Bobby perked up instantly.  He smiled.  "See you tomorrow then."

"So wait, 'The Kirstie?  How is that scary?  It doesn't even sound scary!"  Kiki blurted out.

"I am astounded that such a story teller as yourself would be so rude as to interrupt a fellow participant of the craft, but I suppose this portion of the story will serve as the annex to The Narconon Lady, as apparently it seems some do not have time to listen to the entire story and WAIT, so here, and now, Kiki my lass, is how The Kirstie is incredibly scary. . ."

Again Danny DeVito stood up, his eyes bulging, made to appear to bulge even more under his glasses, his throat working up yet another moral dilemma.  Silence descended once again upon the Midnight Society, but then Danny decided against it and sat back down, looking only slightly apologetic for his performance.

"Narconon is a digit of those gnarled fingers that make up the hand of Scientology.  For some, this hand is grasped tightly about their throats, for others, its straight up their own ass.  Now incidentally, all these fingers are crooked middle fingers--each a salute of vulgar disregard to the constituents of apparent reality and common sense.  Despite being said crooked finger of Scientology, despite using the ideals of L. Ron Hubbard, and despite funding from the very 'religion' itself, Narconon claims not to be affiliated with Scientology, but are still a 'secular group,' of the religion, meaning they teach its ideals and herd hopeless minds looking for answers to the factories where a good brain scrubbing can clean up even the dirtiest mind, or scramble it like eggs. . .

If you ask them they are a drug rehabilitation center with a high success rate that just so happens to preach the ideals of Scientology.  But really, they are a money making venture which lures in helpless people down in the lowest depths of the bottle and at the end of the dirtiest of syringes, looking for hope, by promising them it to them if they follow they're methods.  If you run your body ragged with 5 hour sauna sessions for months at a time and deprive your body of vitamins and nutrients, until the brain is starved with glucose deficiency and the body itself is mutilated its no wonder one sees visions and grasps on every idea easy like spoon fed babies.

A spoonful of 'religion' to help the medicine go down.

And what's worse, their spokeswoman is none other than Kirstie Alley. . . So yes Kiki, its quite scary. . . May I continue?"

Danny Devito stood, this time with a look on his face that this time he'd be able to bust it out.  This time everyone would hear his real dilemma, but with a wave of my hand he sat as quickly as he rose, almost grateful that I gave him an out.

"Not now Mr. Martini."

He smiled.  Which now upon reflection is even funnier.  His drunk stint on The View is common knowledge now, and of course Mr. Martini was the character he played in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, a less than sane man who seemed to act much like this dream apparition.  Martini the man, and martini the drink.  Yes yes.

"Now where was I?

II

"Good."  Bobby perked up instantly.  He smiled.  "See you tomorrow then."

But Terry did not see Bobby the next day, he was not at school.  Walking home that day was much lonelier, and without his tether to direct him, he rolled around the town aimlessly without any real desire to go anywhere or get anywhere.  He just walked along, farther than he had ever gone before.  When he saw buildings and streets he did not recognize, he kept going unconcerned though he knew he should be.  He turned a corner and headed down a street lined with trees, sunlight just barely trickling through the leaves.  He walked along, homes intermingled between the occasional business, but none as chilling nor as ominous as the Narconon building; struck through the spine he was, as if hit by a bolt of lightening at the mere sight of it.  It frosted him to the bone.  He peered up at it, and even the sun seemed to struggle with it: it was white but appeared a dull grey, and all the windows were dulled over and dark.  A dark tomb.  NARCONON.  The Narconon building.  The factory itself, the home of The Kirstie.  He stood for what felt like hours, for his feet felt numb.

A bum emerged from a nearby dumpster, the prophet of doom.

"You must keep away!  Away!"  He shook Terry with stringy bone fingers, his eyes set in dark circles, teeth like rotten candy corn.  He smelled like heartlessness.

He shook Terry furiously.

"Away!  Away!  Or the Kirstie will get you!"

Terry had never ran so fast in all his life, and it wasn't until he was in his home, up the stairs and under the covers in his room that he thought anything other than fleeing.

III

"See you tomorrow.then"  Bobby said.

He had gone home, amused with the fine trick he had played on Terry, still amused despite Terry's predictable gullibility.  Bobby had decided he was beginning to tire of Terry, especially after all that business with the cigarette and 'The Kirstie.'

"Hah, what a joke," he said aloud, and as he did the wind stirred the dead leaves underfoot and whispered a haunt he tried to ignore, but did so in vain.  It shook him, but he refused to accept it.  The next forty yards home were cold and in now way joyous, as he often found himself looking back to where he had been, and once while doing so he tripped over a crack in the sidewalk.  The cold whisper of Narconon had stuffed his ears with cotton and dried his throat with severe drought.  And even as he fucked around to avoid homework he felt its chill for even with all his proclamations of knowing no fear, he really was scared, and it seemed now more than ever that The Kirstie was no mere tale, but in fact very real.

At dinner he ate very little, and when his parents asked him about his day he said nothing of Narconon nor the cigarette.  He only muttered something about being tired and if he could be excused.

He didn't even like cigarettes, it was just all so stupid.

When he went to bed he could not sleep.  His room, in the darkness, seemed much more menacing than usual, as fear and adrenaline helped fuel his imagination into a cruel machine capable of producing beasts far more hideous and evil than any horror movie he had ever seen.  He fought these visions for hours until sleep came to heavy his eyes and temporarily end his imagination's assault on his sense.  It was then, when he finally drifted off to sleep that footsteps echoed through the hall outside, and it was coming straight. . .  towards. . . his room.  The door glowed from underneath, shadowed by two feet unseen but well heard.  It wasn't until the door crept open that he woke up; sitting up in bed he instantly felt terrified, though his eyes were still caught up in sleep and gave a nice blur to everything.

Rubbing his eyes he gazed at a monster only five feet, eight inches in height--but what a treacherous fight feet eight inches--it had a mouth stretched in a wicked smile, teeth and lips still laced with streaks of grease and bits of food from some previous just-finished meal, its eyes glowing with pure hatred, its hair like thorned weeds coming down about a face to poke and prod.

In short, he gazed at The Kirstie.

"I hear you've been smoking cigarettes. . ." she said, laughing an evil laugh.

And as she descended upon him, all that could be heard were his screams and the slight sound of sniffing. . .

IV

The following day Bobby was still not at school.  Terry was beginning to be quite worried, but it wasn't long before it was replaced by fear.  The second he heard the word it rose up his spine and shook his nerves all to a tingle.

"Today class, we're doing something a little different.  Today Narconon will be here to talk to us about drug abuse and prevention, and we are especially lucky in that their spokeswoman Kristie Alley will be giving the presentation herself!"

Kirstie walked in coldly.  Fear.  Terrible fear.  Where's Bobby?  . . . Where's?  As she spoke every word seemed to be directed towards him, and they were heavy, awfully heavy, to the point where he feared he'd ever have the strength to get out of his chair ever again.  He even caught her eyes a few times, and they seemed to look back at him mischievously as if to say I KNOW.  And when she spoke of cigarettes, those eyes seemed to dart at him, and him alone.

"Now cigarettes children,"  I KNOW "can be tempting, especially when friends are trying them and are pressuring them into doing them too," I KNOW "we all want to be cool, but it is not cool, its bad for your health." I KNOW "And has been proven to lead to cancer and health problems in the future," I KNOW "and yellows your teeth and stinks up your breath, and clothes, and fingers," I KNOW, etc. etc.

On and on until Terry felt bruised all over from every glancing blow of her eyes.  He felt sick.

He thought of it all day, at recess, in class, after school, on the way home, and even when he got there.  Like Bobby he didn't eat much, and when he tried to sleep he could not.  And just like Bobby, the steps came down the hallway towards his room.

The glow under the door.

It creeped open and into his room stepped The Kirstie, looking much more menacing than she did at school that day.  Something was different. 

She stood in the doorway.

"So I hear you've been smoking cigarettes."  She boomed.  She reached and grabbed Terry by the leg.  He woke up screaming.  "Oh don't be scared, you're going to like Narconon.  Just look at me, they took me in when I used to snort coke to keep the weight off, and they gave me a much better solution.  Now I snort children's ssssoooooouuuuulllllsss!"  She laughed as Terry kicked passed her.

He ran down the stairs and could hear her booming close behind him.  He thought of the front door.  No.  It was locked.  He headed into the kitchen where she corned him.

"Oh come now, Terry.  It won't hurt too much."

He threw a bowl of fruit at her, which she batted away, rather amused by his desperation, but then he threw cake at her which she devoured.  A ray of hope.  He smiled.  Something to slow her.  Then he opened the cabinet with the candy stash and threw candy at her, which she ate happily, one by one.  And then he emptied the fridge.  Turkey, devoured, bones and all.  Margarine, consumed, down to the last buttery dabble. Ham, last nights leftovers, it was all thrown to be eaten by the Kirstie, who grew bigger and bigger.

And bigger and bigger...

Candied walnuts.  Bigger, bigger.

Whipped Cream.  Bigger, bigger.

Apple pie.  Bigger, bigger.

Cereal of every variety.  Bigger, bigger.

Bigger and bigger and bigger and bigger. . .

Until a bite of coffee cake was consumed and Kirstie stopped eating, her eyes nearly rolling to the back of her head.  Shen then produced a burp that shook the house violently but not as violently as it shook poor Kirstie, for she exploded, all over the kitchen.

It took two weeks to get her out of every crevice in the kitchen, and Terry knew he'd never smoke another cigarette again.  

"The end."  I said.

"What?  That was lame!"  Kiki expounded.

"I agree," said Frank.

"I'm sorry you feel that way, but you're forgetting a very important fact.  That though Kirstie may be gone, Narconon is alive and well. . ."

"Yep yep."  Danny DeVito said, and was still saying as I slipped off to dream a different dream.

Narconon is dangerous.  Its methods for detox have in some cases been proven not only to be ineffective, but in some cases quite dangerous. Their methods are based on the works of L. Ron Hubbard, a man who proposed many ideas about the human body, many of which are entirely wrong.  Furthermore, he's not a real doctor, his doctorate he forged himself, for the sole purpose of giving him the ability to say he's a 'doctor.'  When not forging documents he was also quite the seller of 'snake oils' which were said to work better than modern conventional medicine but simply did not.

Its targeting of drug addicts wastes their money (15,000 flat rate for Narconon's services,) in that their methods do not work, taking away money that could have been well spent on detox methods that have been proven to have some bit of a success rate.  Even more dangerous is the thought that Narconon is nothing more than a cleverly designed recruitment center for Scientology--a religion based on science fiction--much like Jedi Temples, which are aware of their silliness and try not to convince people that Yoda will be able to help them with their heroin addiction... that is only if you join 'the force.'

Drugs, bad they are.

It is for this reason that iR declares Narconon, and its spokeswoman to be dangerously retarded.

Hey he was just a salesman, telling them whatever they wanted to hear so they'd buy the weed!  Now he's not a salesman, no not anymore. . . . Its different ok! And yes, this graph is used for every drug in the book. Same one for booze, same one for heroin, same one for LSD.  Oh my! Even mescaline!  Everything!

love, 

iR