The Rogen

Once upon a midday dreary, while I pondered Timothy Leary,
Over many a droll and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I smoked, nearly coughing, suddenly there came a scoffing
As of some one gently quaffing, quaffing at my very sores.
'Tis my mind,' I muttered, 'doffing the pain of my sores -
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was the dead of Summer,
And each separate waking bummer came up through the creaking floor
Eagerly I wished tomorrow; - vainly I had sought to hollow
From my mind visions of sorrow - sorrow for the sightly bore -
For that often and duplicated fluff of a Hollywood bore -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the raucous rambunctious echoing of each white wall
Thrilled me - filled me with tremendous terrors endured before;
But still now, to ease the beating of my brain, I stood repeating
'Tis my fragile mind entreating entrance at my psyche's door -
Some midday freak out entreating entrance at my psyche's door-
This it is and nothing more.'

Presently my head grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Tard,' said I, 'or Retard, truly you must try your best to explore;
The notion that I've been smoking, and thusly so gently toking,
When there upon came your joking, joking at my psyche's door,
That I scarce believed I heard you' - here I said hello behind the door; -
Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there silent and leering,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But no joke was spoken, and there was no sign of Rogen,
The silence remained unbroken save for the whispered words, 'a bore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, 'a bore!'
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into my bedroom turning, all my guts within me churning,
Soon again I heard a scoffing somewhat louder than before
'Surely,' I said, 'surely that is something outside at my window;
Let me seen then, what the fuck it is, and this mystery explore -
Let my balls be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a shit and mutter,
In there stepped a fattened jew of the saintly days of bore.
Not the least obeisance made he; he not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But with the right of a Crystal, perched above my chamber door
Perched upon a bust of Kesey, just above my chamber door,
Perched and sat, and nothing more.

Then this fattening man beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the silly and jocund state of countenance he so aptly wore
"Though thy chest be hairy and dense thou,"  I said "art no comedian,
Fattened, grim, and silly bargain, wandering the Hollywood shore.
Tell me what the shameless name is on Hollywood's Plutonian shore."
Quoth the Rogen, "Nevermore."

Much I marveled this foolish clown to hear bullshit so plainly;
Though his answer gave little meaning, little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no sane human being
Ever yet was plagued with seeing fool above his chamber door,
Jew or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."

But the fool,sitting lonely on that ancient bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his guts in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further he uttered; not a man tit did he butter,
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other fools have come before;
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtfull," said I, "what it utters is its only hope not to be a bore,
Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster, till his jokes one burden bore, --
Till the songs of his love that melancholy boredom bore
Of "Never--nevermore."

But the clown still beguilling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of jew and bust and door;
Then, upon the cold seat sinking, I took myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous fool of yore -
What this grim, overweight, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous fool of yore
Meant in laughing 'Nevermore.'

This I sat deeply in thinking, but no syllable came finking,
To this fool whose empty eyes now bored their way in my head's core;
This and more I sat bribing another drop from a drink I was imbibing
On the desk's wooden lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er
But whose cigarette burns lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
He shall burn, ah, forever more!

Then, methought, the air smelled vile, perfumed by Rogen's bile
Spat out upon the very carpeted fluffed floor.
'Bastard,' I cried, 'thy Producer hath lent thee--by such demons he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of that bore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind of nepenthe, and forget this lost bore!
Guffawed the Rogen, 'Nevermore.'

'Prophet!' said I, 'master of bores! - prophet still, if actor or devil! -
Whether anger sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this warm land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there laughs in Zack and Miri? - tell me, you fat bore!'
Quoth the Rogen, 'Nevermore.'

'Prophet!' said I, 'master of bores! - prophet still, if actor or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with idleness full if, I were to fashion here a bull,
It shall ram you through your very skull, from which come such bores -
And eliminate entirely, the very skull, from which come your bores?
Quoth the Rogen, 'Nevermore.'

'Be that joke or sign of parting, actor of fiend!'  I shrieked upstarting -
Get thee back into the emptiness and the Hollywood's endless bore!
Leave no small laugh as a token of that lie thy mouth hath spoken!
Leave my emptiness here unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy laugh from my ears, and take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth the Rogen, 'Nevermore.'

And the Rogen, still staffing madness, still is chaffing, still is chaffing
From the pallid bust of Kesey above my chamber door;
And his belly has filled with demon's that still are dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his laughter on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies laughing on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!

Edgar Allan Poe really thought a Raven carrying the memory of a loved one would be quite terrifying.  But he was quite wrong.  The laugh of Seth Rogen is far more terrifying.  Weeks of it would make a person rip their own ears off and poke out their own eyes.  

I say it is so.

I remember when I first saw him.  It was in Knocked Up.  No wait, it was in 40 Year Old Virgin.  I never watched Freaks and Geeks, I don't care much for either of them, less of course they are in cages, or in a Freak Show at some circus ground filled with the scents of cotton candy, stale peanuts, and elephant shit.  That way, you can see their sadness in its purest of forms.

Oh Rogen, that laugh of yours, reminiscent of a retard and that hick dude in Waterboy, oh how it fills me with such terror.  I thought you should know, so I wrote you that little spoof poem there.  The Rogen. . . I mean really, how terrifying would it be to see a raven fly into your room with the head of Seth Rogen?  And the only thing from his lips would be that laugh?  The answer is, quite terrifying.

I say it is so.

It is for this reason, that I, iR, declare Seth Rogen and his laugh to be a bit of cursed retardation.

Love,

Joshua.

Douchebag; or Fred Durst's New Sitcom

The crumbling graveyard of sitcom television fills with the cold winds of Autumn.  There are leaves there, blowing across the tombstones like so many leaflets from so many horrible reviews.  The tears of America grace the cheeks of the Nothing Generation, caught up in a world where entertainment no longer comes from the television.  Some would think that this would be a bad thing, but for guys like Fred Durst its an opportunity. An opportunity to change things, despite his history of failures.  The ink has not yet dried, and already Durst is taking up a napkin to wipe away the tears.

Yes. . . dear friends, Fred Durst is getting into the sitcom game.  He signed a deal with CBS, and not only will be its 'shining star,' but will also be its co-producer.  The show?  Well its called Douchebag, yes one word (as Fred Durst isn't very literary) and its all about some aging rock star trying to deal with his career and his family. A struggle, so to speak, with overtones of comedy.  Of course, it would have overtones of comedy, that is if Fred Durst wasn't involved in the whole process, and it wasn't on CBS.  But alas, it is well known that the poor and cheap have no other choice than to swallow whole the trash that syndicated channels offer them.  And as the 99%'ers like to point out, only 1% of Americans have the wealth to watch whatever they want.  That and own slaves--only we don't call them slaves anymore.

How else can we explain the prevalence of such shows like Jerry Springer and Judge Judy?

We can't.

Luckily, being quite connect with the swine that control syndicated television, I have been give an early copy of the proposed pilot episode.

It goes like this:

INT. MANSION - MORNING

A living room, furnished lavishly.

A maid, MARTHA walks the length of the room with a basket full of dirty laundry.  She knows the lay of the room quite well, and navigates it without having to look in front of her.  The basket is piled high up over her eyes.

FRED enters the room looking quite tired.  He rubs his head with a slight groan and makes his way towards the kitchen for a much needed cup of coffee.

FRED

(tired)

Hello Martha. . .

MARTHA

Late night, sir?

FRED

Yeah, the girls kept me up all night

MARTHA

Your daughters, or those women you sneaked in last night?  One of them was young enough to be your daughter, that's for sure.

FRED

What women?  I'm a changed man, you know that.  I may have had lots of women in the past, but I'm a family man now.

MARTHA

(smiling)

Really, I thought you did it all for the nookie?

She walks towards the door to the laundry room, not taking any mind of Fred

MARTHA (CONT'D)

Oh, and your wife is already up and in the kitchen.

FRED

(shocked)

Not cooking, please not cooking.  I still haven't recovered from the last time she tried to make vegetable soup.  I've never seen mud so thick.

RATTLING of pots and pans comes out of the kitchen.

FRED

Oh dear God, she's cooking.

MARTHA

Mmmhmmm--oh and sir. . . you've got some lipstick on your cheek.  Experimenting with make up again?

Fred only looks at her and blindly wipes his cheek.

FRED

Make-up?  What do you think I am, down with the clown?  You should look into make-up Martha, you sure could use some.

MARTHA
(under her breath)

I could use a stiff drink.

Martha makes a face at Fred, but he doesn't see it from behind all of the clothes.  Fred shakes his head and enters the kitchen, RATTLING coming in clearer as he opens the door.

INT - KITCHEN

The room is half full of billowing smoke, filling the room with each passing second.  

Jane hums while she works at the stove, mixing up some concoction that hardly looks edible.  She seems unaware of Fred's entry.  He walks up to the island in the middle of the kitchen and sits down.  There are pots and pans hanging over head.

FRED

I love the smell of smoke in the morning. . . You know we have people who can do that for you.  We wouldn't want any unexpected fires, now would we?

JANE

What's that supposed to mean?

She works the pan, the food BUBBLING with the sounds of grease as smoke continues to fill the room in thick grey clouds.  

FRED
(coughing)

It's like a Bob Marley concert in here.

The smoke continues, thick.

FRED (CONT'D)

What are you making there anyway?  I've seen science experiments that look more appetizing.

JANE

(frustrated)

The same could be said for some of the women you've been with.  You're being a douche bag.

FRED

(annoyed)

I thought you weren't going to call me that anymore?

He raises his hands and adjusts his backwards baseball cap.  Feeling it out he finds a position that is more comfortable.

Jane turns from the stove to glare at him, her hands rested on her hips.

JANE

I thought you weren't going to act like one anymore?  Life is full of disappointments, dear.

Fred frowns.  The sound of STOMPING comes down from the stairs.  DELILA and SAMANTHA enter the room running.  They scream.

DELILA

(screaming)

Fire!  Fire!

FRED

No dear--

SAMANTHA
(echoing)

Fire!  Fire!  

The children run around the island, screaming and waving their arms in the air.  Delila is seized up by her mother, who grabs her by the arm.

JANE

(shouting)

Enough!  Enough!  There's no fire!  Mommy is just making everyone breakfast.  Isn't that nice?

FRED

That remains to be seen.

JANE

How did you sleep girls?

SAMANTHA/DELILA

(together)

Fine. . .

SAMANTHA

But there were all these noises coming from Daddy's room.

FRED

(surprised)

Noises?  What noises?

SAMANTHA

Oh, Hi daddy.  Didn't know you were up.  Its a little early for you isn't it?

Fred's shock turns to dismay, as his wife serves the children.  He frowns.

SAMANTHA (CONT'D)

Sounds like farm animals.  I think I even heard a cow.

JANE

(angry)

Oh, I thought you gave up fat chicks, dear.

FRED

(innocently)

They were probably dreaming, dear.

The air is full of tension, and smoke.  The children start to play with their food, moving it around with their forks.

DELILA

There was definitely a farmer too.  I remember hearing him talk about his precious hoe.

FRED

Kids and their imagination.

Jane turns from the stove with a plate of food.  She slams it down on the table in front of him.  She stares a hole right through him, and under her gaze he shrinks a little.  The smoke still fills the room and she opens the door to let some of it out.

Fred eyes his plate suspiciously, quite confused as to what it is exactly. The kids continue to play with their food, hardly eating it.

FRED

What is this?

He pokes it with his fork.  Bringing it to his face it drips long stringy substances.

JANE

Eggs, douche bag.

Fred frowns and meekly takes a forkful.  He eats it and his face changes to one of disgust.

FRED

(disgusted)

You never could tell the difference between salt and sugar.  It would be horrible if we had cyanide in the house.

JANE

Who says we don't?

Jane takes the kids plates and puts them in the sink.  She wipes her hands on a dish cloth as Fred gets up to leave.  She turns to look at him.

He stops.

JANE

Where do you think you're going?

FRED

Work?

JANE

Oh no, its your day to take the kids to the studio.

FRED

You're crazy if you think. . .

She stares at him.

FRED (CONT'D)

But. . . honey. . .

She continues to stare, she lifts her hand to rest it on her hip.

FRED (CONT'D)

You've got another thing coming if you think I'm going to bring them to the studio!  They don't even like my music.

JANE

Funny, I thought only children liked your music.

FRED

No.  No.  It's not gonna happen!  No!  No!  Over my dead body.

CUT TO:

Fred is at the wheel of his car, trying his best to concentrate with his two daughters kicking and screaming in the back seat.  They kick his chair, and he rocks forward with each blow.

FRED

(pleading)

OK, can we calm down?  Daddy needs to drive to a very important gig.

The kids scream louder and kick his chair.  He seems quite upset.

FRED

(to himself)

Now I know what it feels like to be in the mosh pit at one of my shows. . . 

INT - STUDIO

The studio is well lit and clean.  Fred's band members are already fitzing around.  GUITAR RIFFS blurt out intermittently.  A SOUND MAN is stationed at the sound board adjusting the levels.

Fred enters with his daughters in tow.  They are lively and full of it.

SOUND MAN

What's with the kids?

FRED

My day to watch em.

SOUND MAN

Family man eh?  Shall we begin?

Fred nods and kneels by his children.  They are fidgeting around.  Delila's mouth is covered with chocolate, and Samantha has a candy bar all of her.

SOUND MAN

You know, you should never give kids candy.

Fred ignores him and looks into his children's eyes.  He takes on a voice that most parents make when they want their children to do something they know they aren't going to want to do.

FRED

(desperate)

Now daddy has to work, but I know you're going to be real angels.  Isn't that right?

He pats them on the head and leaves them.  He goes into the sound booth and begins to sing.

FRED

(singing)

I'm a loser, yes it's true.
Feels like I'm losing since I met you

Through the good times and the bad

Feels like I'm losing all I've ever had

SCREAMS cut through the air as his children start chasing one another about the studio.  First Delila is seen, then Samantha, chasing after her.

FRED (CONT'D)

Check it out
Back in the days there was ways

I was moving on guns all ablaze

Pullin on the past like I do 
Still can't forgive all the abuse

SCREAMS continue, grow louder.  This time Samantha is seen first, holding Delila's candy bar, followed by Delila chasing after her.  Fred becomes distraught, but continues to sing.

FRED (CONT'D)

That aint no way to rise from the crib

Still running hard from the shit
Why you wanna push my buttons?

Makin sure that I feel nothin?

SCREAMS continue.  The children can be seen crawling all over the sound man.  They wrestle him and he falls from his chair.  He SCREAMS.

The children start to play with the sound board.

FRED (CONT'D)

Do you really think you need to remind me
Just to make yourself feel better?  I don't think so
I just wanna do it all right
Find me a better place in this life

The kids continue to play with the sound board, adjusting the levels.  Fred sounds high pitched.  They continue to play.

FRED (CONT'D)

We bring out the worst in each other

That aint no way to love one another
I'm a loser, yes its true
Feels like I'm losing since I met you

More adjustments

FRED (CONT'D)

(auto-tuned)

Through the good times and the bad

More adjustments.

FRED (CONT'D)

(deeply pitched)

Feels like I'm losing all I've ever had

More adjustments.  The sounds of SCREAMS.

FRED (CONT'D)

(high pitched)

I'm a loser yes its true

FRED
(womanly)

Feels like I'm losing since I met you

FRED
(like a chipmunk)
Through the good times and the bad
Feels like I'm losing all I've ever had

Fred stops singing.  He looks up and see his girls riding the sound man like a horse.  He SCREAMS as they tear at his hair.  His screams make them laugh.

FRED

(to himself)
This is gonna be harder than I thought. . . .

Thankfully, the remainder of the script seems to be stained with some strange sticky substance, rendering the rest of it quite a difficult read.

Since when was Fred Durst funny?  By that I mean, since when was Fred Durst ever funny without it being unintentional?  Sure his career has been funny, but that's only because he himself has become a giant walking joke--complete with a backwards cap.  Even Fred knows it.  With this sitcom, never before has a title been more fitting.  Douchebag is perfect, for Fred's been one for decades.

CBS has come to make quite a grave mistake.  Perhaps they are so out of touch with today's youth they actually think kids like Fred Durst (or that its still the 90's), or maybe they think hiring him to lead a sitcom based on his rather flimsy (virtually non-existent) television credits is a great idea.

In both occasions, they are sorely mistaken.  A cadaver could provide more humor.  If the show makes it pass the pilot episode, I'll be shitting my pants in surprise--though I'm sure lots of people will watch the first episode just to laugh at what he's become.  OK, so if it makes it pass the second episode, I'll be shitting my pants in surprise.

But then again, Two and a Half Men  is still on the air, even with a front man who is turning out to be just as morally corrupt as the man he replaced.

With that said, iR declares the idea of a Fred Durst sitcom to be infinitely retarded.

Fernando Flores' Journal Reads More Like A Babysitter's Diary; Britney Spears Farts, Bodyguard Crumples

Note:  The following entry is a copy of Fernando Flores' self-edited diary entry.  All cross outs are taken directly from the original text, as apparently Mr. Flores has taken to self censoring himself for his upcoming lawsuit of Britney Spears.  All crude drawings were added by Mr. Flores himself and have been X'd out in attempt to further censor himself and facilitate the image that he is in no way just a bitter man looking to get some cash out of an ugly cash cow.

Dear Diary Journal,

The life of 'professional bodyguard' is a pretty tough one, filled with danger and the very real chance of getting seriously hurt.  You would think a job description like that would be exciting, but mostly its fucking boring. Mostly you play babysitter to some snot who's only famous because people in general are infinitely retarded.  It can be a pretty glamorous lifestyle too, but also like I said, pretty damn boring.  With celebrities its mostly tight lipped limo drives and picture signings and self-promotional bullshit.  Its always the same procedure, there are fans and psychos and creeps and its your job to pick them out and act accordingly. Sometimes you make the right choice, sometimes you don't. But still, its boring. That is unless you've got some horrible client that's a real target or seems to be public enemy number one. Or unless you get a prima-donna, or even worse, a farter.

So yeah mostly its boring.  I hate to repeat myself so much, but I'm a bodyguard, my job is repetitious, and as such so am I.  My life in fact is run on repetition, I often feel like a kite tethered to the ground that's drawn so tight I can only go in circles.  Its so bad it runs my social life, the way I talk to other people, and renders my writing rather cyclical.

To keep with this theme I'll get back to the farter.  You see Ms. Spears was a constant farter.  I can't stand farts.  If during that time with her she was to ever be attacked by Howard Stern she would have been fucked, probably literally too.  I wouldn't go anywhere near that fart factory.  In fact they'd be perfect together. But nonetheless, other than her constant farting she often picked her nose in front of everybody {editors note: no papparazi photos provide evidence of this} and generally smelled.  She didn't bathe often enough for me, or for an entire flight of people traveling from LA to New York for that matter.  Perhaps when she called herself toxic she was referring to her anal leakage. . . She didn't brush her teeth sometimes for days at a time, she smelled like cigarette smoke all the time, was generally mean to me (I don't have a 'tough outer skin' okay?) and besides, she had horrible fashion sense.  I mean, gurl, really?  Like her purses wouldn't ever match her outfit.  Ever. . .  And sometimes the way she would wear her hair was just so. . . ugh. . .

It was so traumatic I filed a sexual harassment suit against her.

JOURNAL

Look diary^, look at her fart!

A lot of people think I'm just trying to get money out of her.  But they're wrong diary.  I endured a lot of emotional damage when I was working with that woman.  To see a woman like that fart and burp was disgusting, I just couldn't take it.  Besides, that wasn't the worst of it.  One night she showed up in a completely see-through white dress.  She had a cigarette in her hand and was smiling at me innocently, to trick herself into believing she didn't know she was practically already completely exposed. She walked over diary, and dropped her cigarette and bent over to pick it up. . . exposing herself to me. . .

Teeth diary, teeth.

She'd get naked and ask for 7up.  She'd perform sex acts in front of me. She would have sex and make such a noise, such a ruckus, I was sure she was doing it just to get me jealous. . . But I aint the jealous type. . .  Not with her anyway.

But it other news my time away, and my experience with Britney has taught me something.  A bodyguard's life isn't one for me.  Sure I can be as tough as anyone, but I've got my soft side.  A rather soft side.  In fact, I'm very interested in fashion, and fabrics.  I think the feeling of cashmere is amazing.  Lately I've been getting in with the fashion crowd, and have taken to designing dresses now.  Its all for fun of course, and there's no greater feeling than constructing a dress and seeing a beautiful woman made even more beautiful because of something YOU created.  Of course, it would be amazing to try on something I've made, but I don't think there's enough fabric in the world to make me look good in a dress!

In other news, the lawn is doing great.  The yard looks great with the new chrysanthemums I planted last week.  All seems to be going well on that front.  Now, I plan on drinking a Cosmo and catching up on some Sex and The City.

Dear Fernando Flores,

Crude fart and toothy vagina drawings aside. . .

There are a lot of internet creeps out there who feel that because Britney threw herself at you and constantly showed you her beaver and that this all in all disgusted you, that you are gay.  If you are so be it.  I don't really care.  After all, internet creeps are just internet creeps (a few who said they'd love to clean Britney's feet with their tongues after that article was posted about her stinky feet stinking up the whole plane) and a person has every right to love whoever they want.

What bothers me is that any credibility you had towards this suit has now been thrown out the window, after your latest comments that Britney smelled and farted a lot.  Don't get me wrong, I'm not defending that tard, and the fact that it meant a lot of 'respectable' papers felt the need to report with hilarious headlines about Flatulence and Drugs brought me much lulz, I'm just saying your grounds are weak and retarded.  You're a bodyguard.  A bodyguard.  Hardly a job one would take if they wanted to keep away from undesirables; people hire you to protect them from weirdos and shit.  But in your case they'd have to be hygienic weirdos, with shit tons of etiquette.  Are you a clean freak too?  Bad choice.

The woman is insane.  We all know that.  If you didn't know that when you signed up in the first place, you're probably just as retarded as she is. . .  This lawsuit is only degrading you both.  Which is why iR must declare you, Ms. Spears, and this entire debacle to be shamelessly retarded.

The Infinite Retardation of Adam Sandler

If you're a 90's kid, at one point you probably liked Adam Sandler.  I know I remember seeing Billy Madison in theaters at some rich kids birthday part and loving it.  The highlight of the movie--at that time--was the dog shit scene, in which Adam Sandler and his pals hunt out a 'good piece of shit,' put it in a paper bag, and set it on fire on this dude's porch.  Soon an old man in his tighty whities and a wife beater comes out and stomps the shit (pun intended) out of it with his boot, only to later realize its full of dog shit.  "Its one of them flaming bags of poop again!"  To which Adam Sandler says, "He called the shit poop!"

For months afterward, it was my newest phrase.  To a second grader, that shit (pun intended) is hilarious, though not quite up there with the explosive diarrhea scene in Dumb and Dumber.  Yes I remember many lunch periods soaked up with laughter just thinking about Harry splattering his guts all over the porcelan, and it was just as funny at the start of lunch, when we ate our sandwiches and drank our sugar drink as it was when we were skinning knees, knuckles and dirtying our clothes later during recess. Oh man and remember like towards the end of this torrent of shits comes a squeaker?  A fucking squeaker man! Hilarious! Anyway. . .

Yet, I grew up and so did Adam Sandler.  Now I only laugh at shit play when its meant to be erotic (see two girls one cup).  Unfortunately Adam never seemed to shed his retarded humor, and when he became too old to play a foul mouthed buffoon that only kids and stoners laugh at, he became an aging foul mouthed love interest that nobody laughs at.  How did such a thing happen?  Why didn't he just flounder and die, or go somewhere and count his money?

Well work ethic for one.  I have to give it to Sandler, his hard work puts out a shit movie every year, and he's been doing it for nearly two decades. Not even the Police Academy movies had that kind of stamina.  Bravo.

That, and connections my dear friends. . . Had Sandler not spent his time in college farting on stage, he probably would have created Facebook; he knows that many people.  From as high up as Judd Apatow to as low down and useless as Rob Schneider.  His tight knit group of lackeys and writers seems to have spawned from Saturday Night Live, where retardation collected in great pools all about Lorne Michaels, and still collects today.

Adam joined the show in 1990, where he met David Spade, Chris Rock, Rob Schneider, and Kevin Nealon; a group of fellas who would come to him anytime they needed money (not so much Chris Rock), and they always needed money.  More importantly than these role fillers, it was where Sandler first met writer Tim Herlihy.  Tim Herlihy is a film producer, screen writer, actor, and one time sketch writer for SNL.  The reason Tim Herlihy has all these other titles other than simply 'sketch writer for SNL' is because of Adam Sandler.  Every movie he has ever written, produced, or acted in, has been an Adam Sandler movie, from Billy Madison to Just Go With It.  As with many comedians, SNL was Adam Sandler's launching point into 'stardom,' but now many decades later we find that though this may or may not be true, the trajectory of this potential launch into stardom nonetheless ends in a big ole' pile of stinking shit.

His earlier films only hinted at Adam Sandler's money making and entirely retarded formula of retarded-buffoon-embarks-on-whacky-excursion-under-rather-flimsy-pretenses-and-whilst-doing-so-manages-to-bag-the-hot-chick-who's-entirely-way-out-of-his-league, while his later flicks have mastered it and have made it painfully obvious to the point of being unwatchable.

Take for instance Billy Madison.  Adam plays a lazy, sun burned, lush (respek), living off of the wealth his father made from the family hotel business.  But alas!  Trouble strikes when his father says he's giving the company to the extra weaselly member of the staff named Eric, because despite being a total asshole, he's actually qualified for the job, unlike Billy.  Well, Billy aint down with that, and after his Father shows him to be the idiot he truly is (fool can't even spell ROCK) and how he paid for him to get through school, Billy claims he'll go through school all over again.  Yes, he'll undergo 2 weeks in every grade, take all the tests, learn all the material (impossible in 2 weeks) and when he graduates, then his father can give him the family company worth millions of dollars and feel totally good about it.

His love interest is revealed to be his fourth grade teacher. . . And she falls for him, or rather, he bugs the shit out of her until she eventually finds his drunkenness lovable?  So like, if they were to go to dinner on a double date, it would go like this:

"So how'd you guys meet?"  The woman across the table asked.  I think her name was Wanda.  I dunno because I was really drunk at the time.

"Well honey, do you wanna tell them?  Or should I?"

"No, honey I'll tell em."  I said.

I was seeing four Wandas.  Four Wandas dancing around, and that stupid penguin, looking as cocky as ever. . .

"You see I used to be really retarded.  I used to just sit around all day and drink daiquiris [author's note: respek] and hang out with my friends. . . You know get drunk, look at nudie mags.  Before I graduated high school, the second time, or for the first time legitimately--kinda, I was in fourth grade.  I had been to kindergarten and 1st, 2nd, and 3rd grade before that, but I was scared because I was the only thirty year old in class and we were going to do long division and math and stuff. . . But then in walks Ms. Vaughn, the loveliest teacher I've ever seen.  I definitely wanted to touch the heine."  I then grunted obscenely, and Ms. Vaughn laughed nervously.

"Well, that's all changed now.  Hasn't it honey?  Graduated, and went to college!  Didn't you!"

etc etc.

I know, I know.  I get it.  Its a comedy.  You're supposed to suspend your belief.  If that's so, why even put a love interest in?  Why can't it be just a ninety minute long comedy?  Just ninety minutes of shit and fart jokes, like a Jackass movie.

On the other side of it, we have one of his newer movies like Grown Ups, which is by far Adam Sandler's most disgusting movie, having mastered the Sandler formula in such purity that elements can be swapped out and still it can produce the same turd.  The difference in this one being that he's already won the girl over and they've gotten married and produced spoiled offspring.  Still remaining true is Adam's safety net of buddies, and this time they're the main characters.  It features friends David Spade (SNL), Chris Rock (SNL), Rob Schneider (SNL), and Kevin James (I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry).  The entire movie is an excuse for these fellows to go on vacation and get paid for it, for none of them even seem to be trying.  They all play themselves, with the exception of Chris Rock, who at least tries to play a 'stay at home dad,' but even still is only half-assing it.  David Spade is the same cynical dry bastard, Kevin James is still fat and clumsy, Rob Schneider is still Rob Schneider (some strange character) etc etc.  The writing is so lazy its a wonder they didn't just call David Spade's character David Spade, and Chris Rock, Chris Rock, etc. etc.  There is no reason that this movie should have ever been made; other than the fact these fucks needed some money and wanted to have a damn good time while doing so.

This is obvious in that they don't even try to hide the fact they are advertising crap:

The boys are all together because their fucking pee-wee basketball coach died.  Yeah, they've totally ignored each other for years, but because their pee wee basketball coach who coached them when they were like 12 is dead, they suddenly hang out with one another.  They go on this 3 day trip to this cabin they all used to hang out at and once had their championship celebration at, with Coach.  They decide to spread his ashes out on a nearby island, but first, they must eat KFC grilled chicken, and drink Coca-Cola products.  No, they don't do this before traveling to the island, but at the island itself, right before dumping the man's ashes.  This is a somber and serious occassion boys, I mean the whole basis of this fucking movie and the events that are to follow are that we loved our coach, and now that the rival team has gone up and talked shit to us, 30 some fucking odd years later, we're gonna prove them wrong. . . because we loved our coach, and he thought of us as men. . . So please, bow your heads for this dear man we truly lov--hey can I get a wing?  And yes, of course they fuck up the spreading of the ashes and Kevin James gets Coach all over his hands, but eats the delicious KFC grilled chicken anyway.

HAI GUYZ LES PARTY.

NOM NOM.

Cut to them coming back, KFC grilled chicken bucket on Kevin James' head, which was really artsy I think.  They were showing us what they had exactly done to every one who watched this piece of crap; taken a KFC grilled chicken bucket and placed it over their heads.  Enjoy the consumerism boys.

With this said, Adam Sandler has managed to prolong his retardation, and it doesn't seem like he's ever going to go away, his connections and money are far too vast for that, and as long as actresses who were once considered extremely hot but got too old for anyone to care anymore need a job, they'll always have romantic comedies to fall back on, and Adam Sandler will always be there to catch them.

He's got that shit on lock.

And it is for these reasons that iR declares Adam Sandler, infinitely retarded.

The Juggalo Gathering; Charlie Sheen to Host, Along with Other Failures

If you are going to a Juggalo Gathering, chances are you're probably a juggalo, or a friend of a juggalo, or just a wrestling freak looking to have a good time and the possibility to commit some real felonies.  I say probably, because these days there is an element of people who just go and take to the fringe of the Gathering, laughing and pointing at acts they find particularly stupid.  Like any good troll, they are cowards, and hardly enter the fray--the combat zone--for fear of picking up some retardation as if by some ray of stupid.  More frightening is the possibility of violence, for juggalos find self-mutilation and mutilation of others to be as fun as guns and liquor.  If they are willing to take road signs up to one another's heads just for fun, and consider themselves 'Family'--imagine the horrors they could commit to an outsider.

But I got special stupid ray blockers.  A fancy piece of equipment.  89.95 at WAL-MART.  And, I've got a contact.  And I wanna go.  And fourth grade English teachers are right, you should never start a sentence with and, the tendency is to use it too often.

Wendy "Money Nuts" Placquard is a juggalette who thinks she's a juggalo.  Its tough having gender issues in the real world, even tougher when you're down with the clown.  Often she doesn't know whether to spread her legs like a juggalette, or beat the shit out of a minority, like a juggalo.  Despite her gender confusion, she is indeed quite down with the clown, and rather knowledgeable in regards to juggalo etiquette when attending a Juggalo Gathering.

"Just get wasted ninja.  If you see a girl, don't be afraid to hit her up for sex.  If she's got a boyfriend, beat the shit out of him.  If he's got friends, bring your friends.  Bang her family style after.  Its proper at a Gathering, when banging a chick in front of other dudes to at least offer her up when your done."

She had a way of going from her juggalette voice to her juggalo voice in a disturbing sort of way, though both shared common undertones of stupidity.  When I asked her what one does at a Juggalo Gathering she got rather angry and repeated herself.

"Just get wasted ninja.  If you see a girl, don't be afraid to hit her up for sex.  If she's got a boyfriend, beat the shit out him.  If he's got friends, bring your friends.  Bang her family style after--its proper."

"I meant activities. . ."

"Its the Gathering bro!  The Gathering!  If there were like Biblical implications this would be like the Second Coming, every single fuckin' year. . . WHOOP WHOOP.  Yeah, there's lots of BBQs, listed stuff like karaoke and rap battles, signing sessions with band members.  Lots of cool shit.  Carnival rides, JCW wrestling, and a Faygo Wet T-Shirt contest.  Its great man.  But those are just the listed ones."

"Yeah?"

"Shit yeah.  You can also try out for JCW if you want.  You can duct tape your friends to a tree."  She laughed at the member.  "Yeah we got this topless little juggalette and duct taped her to a tree for like 3 hours.  It was hilarious."

"Yeah."

"You can also beat your friends up with large tree branches.  A lot of wicked clowns do stuff like that.  Then there's of course staring at juggalettes, stalking juggalettes, and other things. . ."  A real ominous silence, hinting at some sort of evil.  "You know."

"Really?"

"Yeah, and it aint all just stupid stuff you know.  The Magnet Exhibit last year was real informative and impressed a lot of the Family.  I know I spent 2 hours just watching magnets work.  It was real crazy."

Obviously, I'm not good with phone conversations.  I'm not good with conversation in general.  This much was apparent, so I said good-bye and she said 'much wicked clown love,' and we arranged a meet up with some 'Fam' in a few weeks.  As I hung up I was smiling: the idea of so much retardation in one place was certainly right up my alley.  Enjoyable, to say the least.  And what about the ride?  Would she come tearing up through the driveway out onto the lawn to carve donuts with a massive hillbilly truck?  Would her brother be in the back wielding a shotgun and a bottle of whiskey?  How many mullets and douche cuts would I be able to count?  Would there be signs of inbreeding? Only time would tell.

With research I already knew the real reason I wanted to go to the Gathering.   Mr. Charlie Sheen.

Mr. Charlie Sheen, who has officially changed the definition of winning to 'losing, horribly' has signed on as the leading host of ICP's annual crapfest.  How much did they pay him?  At least a million dollars, there's no way a man with tiger blood would settle for anything less, especially after getting publicly raped by Two and a Half Men. It was scary to imagine and revealed the disgusting wealth ICP has managed to amass, despite its fan base being generally no good poor folk.  They're selling you Family and getting rich doing so.  You're stuck drinking Faygo cause you're broke and uneducated; they're drinking champagne because you're broke and uneducated.  Look the food stamp line is full of fools in ICP merch.

But that's not all of us!

The possibility of a very public freak-out on Charlie's part was too much to pass up.  I wanted to have ring side seats for the whole debacle.  He'd be on stage, and he'd start bombing like he did with his last stage act, and like Tila Tequila he'd take a bottle to the face, and unlike Tila Tequila he wouldn't run off stage but instead rage and taunt the bastards!  The headlines wouldn't tell the whole story.  Maybe the juggalos would charge the stage and pick his bones clean. No one would really care.  Cops wouldn't investigate, and Americans everywhere would just live out the rest of their lives with the carnal knowledge that Juggalo Gatherings are where people go to die.

At his wings, Mr. Charlie sheen has two other random's, who were also apparently randomly drawn from the shit wheel.  First we have none other than Flavor Flav, Public Enemy turned Reality Star, and Dustin Diamond, Screech turned Porn Star.

What do these three have in common?  Despite the need for money, I don't know.  To think they are closet juggalos leads me to believe that perhaps these freaks have more influence than we would like to think. But who's to say celebrities are immune to stupidity and bad taste in music? In fact history leads us to believe they are far from immune, but in fact plagued at epidemic proportions. 

Oh yeah, and Vanilla Ice will be performing.  Why go further?  Why not just let promote it.  Check this retarded shit: