The Human Billboard, Lessons on Selling Out, Repetitive Retardation

The Human Billboard doing what he does best.

The first day Rob Dyrdek showed up, he was dressed head to toe in DC, a walking billboard. I wondered what it was about this pogo stick from Ohio that made a company want to choose him to be the face of their entire business. But then I remembered the skating. Oh yeah, the skating. But that's how it is with a lot of skaters, if it weren't for skate boarding they'd just be total jack asses. He arrived in the mid-afternoon, and although they sky was blue and setting up for a beautiful day, I felt a certain dread, as if it were going to rain, at any moment. I assumed it was his doing. He wasn't alone either. He had a camera crew with him, the same guys who gave The Jackass crew their fame (hmm I see a theme developing,) and although he was friendly, I wasn't fond of the cameras.

"Cameras?" I asked.

"Yeah I film everything now. . . I find that I'm just such a volatile force of creativity that everything I touch just turns to gold. . . "

"Like King Midas." I said. "From the myth."

"King who? From the what?" He shook his head, the confusion was water in his ears and he was desperately trying to shake it out. "As I was saying, I'm a genius." He echoed Kanye. "And I just couldn't live with myself - just couldn't sleep at night - you know, if I ever missed any of it, because then I wouldn't have a chance to exploit it. . . And that my good friend, is what life is all about, exploitation." He smiled. "I'm an inspiration, and you should feel lucky to be around me."

It was good to see that fame wasn't getting to him.

"So why I'm here is I was thinkin' maybe I could write your blog, and then you could go to a skate park and try and skate, and we'll film it all. . . Its for my new show idea, "Switching Places with Rob Dyrdek."" He framed the title in the air with his hands, his eyes already glowing with some imaginary light bulb billboard that said just that "Switching Places with Rob Dyrdek," it was a billboard only he could see. "I was thinking about how great it is to be me, and then got to figuring that everybody wants to be me. . . So I came up with this show, where me and a contestant switch places, I do what they do, and then they try and do what I do."

"And what is that? Singing all the time, selling out, walking around generally disrespecting stuff and being to wealthy for one's own good? . . . I'd like to try that - I just generally disrespect stuff, all the other perks of being you might be fun."

"No, no." He threw his arms out, it was a defensive move he learned from rap videos. "They skate, the people in the show I mean, they skate, because I skate. . . I'm a skater."

"Oh is that what you do?" I asked.

"Weren't you listening?" The arms came down, it was a swinging motion he learned from rap videos.

"I was, I was, it just sounds retarded, Rob."

"Retarded? Wh-what?" He was shocked, he adjusted his already skewed baseball cap, it was a move he learned from rap videos. "Retarded? Do you have 21 Guiness Book Records? Do you have 2 hit shows? Your own line of personalized skate shoes, clothing, and apparel? Do you have your own movie, that you wrote, directed, and appeared in? Have you done commercials? Have you been in video games? Do you have your own line of kids toys? . . . How many clip shows have you even done?"

"Clip shows?" I asked.

"Hah." He laughed, sandpaper. "What we in the business call clip shows - recap shows, you know where you just go over all the memorable moments of the season in one nice and simple episode all of its own? You know, so you can put out another show in the season without having to come up with any new material or having to put in any real effort. You can seel yourself, your image, sell more commercial space, appease an episode contract you can't fulfill with new material, and you don't even have to use your noggin. . . Now that's smart!"

"And you actually do this?" I feigned ignorance.

"Oh yeah, I've practically done a whole season's worth of clip shows, 8 , 9, 10 episodes at least! Plus it feels great. . . no greater promotion than shameless self-promooooowowowtion." He sang the last part, like an R&B singer, and laughed again, sandpaper.

"I don't think it works with blogs Rob, or even literature for that matter."

"Why the hell not? You can do a blog recap blog, of all your other blogs, of just the good moments. . . It would be genius, and since it was my idea, I think I should help you with it."

After much debating, Rob finally convinced me, we were going to do a recap blog, sell out style. . . It went like this:

"Hey J. Wood, remember the time you had your kid sister cousins from Germany stay with you and your family for the weekend, and you told them a bed time story?"

"Yeah I do. . ."

"And how did that turn out for you?" He looked at me for an answer. He threw his arms up in the air, a move he learned from - oh you get the point. "Well lets just go to the 'clip' then, shall we?"

And suddenly its that time, my young cousins in their bed trying to sleep but failing due to the warm unfamiliar Californian weather. . . I forget what year it was.

"Can you tell us a story?" They asked one night, so innocently I couldn't say no.

"Sure sure. . ." I sighed heavily, searching my brain for a story, and then it came. "Once upon a time, there was a half-man half-bull named Brock Lesnar."

"A minotaur!" One of them shouted out.

"No no, he's just a normal man, now let me finish the story." She frowned and let me continue. "He was born a particularly soggy summer afternoon, on July 12th, and aside from the rain it was a particularly strange day. . . It was to be the day when a cow gave birth to a human being, the first recording of its kind. All the boys were hanging around, shooting the shit, drinking beers, when they heard quite the ruckus come from the barn. It was old Betsy, the crowned gold cow of the farm, crowing like she was about to give birth. Sure enough, out came Brock Lesnar, half human-half bull. He was the result of a lonely night on the farm, when some tired farm hand yearned for the touch of a woman but found himself to be surrounded only by cows. . . During his days as a kid he'd shoot up steroids - the kind they use on horses to help fix races, and was fed nothing but proteins - 3 raw eggs in the morning, and 3 more at night. When he was 16, he'd run around town scooping up chickens and biting their heads off. He'd eat them," I demonstrated his ravenous feeding as I said this, for added effect. "While the torso still flapped around molting feathers - the hunt for him was like some sort of primal urge he could not control. When he grew up he wrestled, and even was in the UFC, where he'd tend to your face like a man tends to a pillow." I illustrated the pounding for them, my two poor cousins staring back at me with wide fearful eyes. "And he's swelled up by all the steroids, and by his ego, and by the limelight, which further swells him up, so he just stands in the ring and looks giant from all the swelling. He looks down at you and he's got fists like sledgehammers; two large 4XL gloves that fly out at you with a vengeance and try and crack up your face like so much concrete. . ."

I stared at them, nothing but half covered eyes and white knuckles, white knuckles up around their heads where they had pulled the sheet up over themselves for protection, even though they knew it may as well been tissue paper at the hands of a dangerous retard like Brock Lesnar.

Suddenly back to the present.

"Who would of thought that you would be such a nice guy that you would read terrifying bedtime stories to your two little cousins." Rob said sarcastically, staring into one of the cameras - his safety net.

"Yeah they didn't sleep much after that. I had to convince them that Brock Lesnar only beats up other athletes, and not women and children - which we all know is a lie."

"True dat." He said. "Now. . . I've been around some big people, but never any big women, Bobby Light don't get down like that, I'm more of the 'dirty girl' kinda guy. . . But your boy Tom Arnold seems to love em."

"Yeah he does." I affirmed.

"But we all know sometimes it can be a hazard, like in this next 'clip.' Check it out. . . "

"Can you stop sayin' clip?" I asked vainly.

Suddenly its 1990.

They lived in bliss as the years just seemed to float on by, Tom Arnold got his own show and he and Roasanne opened a restaurant, "Rosanne and Tom's Big Food Diner," a roach house for ugly obese people in Illinois. Yet the marriage started to deteriorate after Rosanne trapped Tom Arnold in her massive vagina, for three whole days, much like Jonah had been swallowed whole by the giant fish in The Old Testament. During his captivity, he sang songs to keep himself busy, finding amusement in the echoes that rang off her vaginal walls, and kept himself fed with the carcass remains of other men she had trapped in her vagina, and totally forgot about. By candle-light he wrote his memoirs, and vowed after getting out to become a star all on his own, and to divorce Rosanne as soon as possible. It was as if he had found himself in a sudden clarity, as if the beer-goggles which seemed attached to his face were suddenly taken off, and now he had seen the error in his ways - and all it took was three days in a deep hot dark cave that smelled of rotten fish.

Suddenly, back to the present.

"How did Tom get out of her vagina anyway?"

"He escaped with a grappling hook he made from the spines of other ex-boyfriends of Rosanne, who, as it turns out were not as craft and smart as Tom Arnold was. . ." I said.

"He certainly has gone to hell and back." Rob said, pausing for laughter that wasn't there. . . Speaking of hell, didn't you do an iR about the Devil's other son?"

"Yeah. . . Billy Mays."

"And how did that go?"

"I don't think this is working Rob. . ." I said finally.

"Why not, clip shows are a staple in the t.v. industry these days."

"Yeah, the t.v. industry Rob, it doesn't work the same with stories and written words. . . Why what if Hemmingway did it, or Faulkner, or Carroll? What if they wrote a book that was really just made up of all other books? Everything would get so mushed up that people would confuse the stories, Alice would no longer be a lost blonde hair girl, but a ball player, or maybe a fireman that burns books. Or maybe there was no Alice at all. Dorian Grey wouldn't be vain, he'd be homely a sickly and longing for his Dear Lonore. . . The raven wouldn't be a raven at all, but maybe a seagull out of The Old Man and The Sea, and nobody would be the wiser of it being any different. . ." I frowned a heavy frown.

"I don't think I get it."

"Yeah I don't think you do Rob, I don't think you do. . . You just can't recycle shit over and over again, and expect everyone to enjoy it. You can't expect everyone to love you just because you're everywhere. . . You've spread yourself thin Rob, real thin. Your retardation plagues many fields, it isn't just skating anymore. You're a reality star now, and guess what that makes you retarded."

"I still don't get it."

"I know Rob, I know. . . And you're so retarded you repeat your retardation over and over again, like some broken record. . . And its true, you really are an inspiration Rob."

"Really?" He was excited by the thought of it.

"You've inspired a whole new type of retardation. . . Repetitive Retardation, you're repetitively retarded Rob, repetitively retarded Rob, repetitively retarded Rob."

repetitive retardation n. - retardation in an individual that is constantly repeated, without ever straying from the formula. Said victims are repetitively retarded.

"Hah you said that three times."

"Good Rob. . ." I waited. "I said, repetitive retarded." It was the code work. Out from the cupboards, from other rooms came men dressed like a swat team, guns in tote. They fired these guns, at Mr. Dyrdek and his camera crew, and killed the whole lot of em.

The end. fuck. shit. ass.

iR.

Surrounded by Imbeciles Other Than the Imbeciles in My Everyday Life; or, A Writing Convention Headed by Vampire Novelists

The beast is awakened from her slumber by an inner turmoil, a need to write. Sliming her way out of bed, quietly, as to not disturb her husband, she evades the cold with a house coat and slips her feet into some cosy house shoes. She finds relief at her keyboard, where she types out all her porn fantasies brimming with luring vampires lurking in the dark, mysterious and dangerous and beautiful all in one. She likes these nights, when she's all by herself, for there is no one to interrupt her. As she types she becomes more and more emphatic with each keystroke, as a fire burns somewhere inside of her, a fire she quenches with Ding-Dongs. She types and she eats, and eats some more. Her work is the basis of True Blood, and she's becoming quite well known for her novels; trashy little things they sell at supermarkets all around the country, trashy little things scooped up and adored by people with similar vampire fetishes. She's a round woman, with small eyes set in a doughy face. She wears glasses and has that southern smile. Her name is Charlaine Harris. She looks like this:

Across the country, the lizard is typing away too. She's working away at her next book in the Twilight series. She too has a love for vampires, but hers is less erotic, and more romantic. She's glimpsing through Pride and Prejudice, because old romantic novels are where she gets all of her ideas. She loves reading Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights, and Charlotte Bronte's Jane Eyre, and of course Pride and Prejudice, rounding out her horrible taste in literature. She's a New York woman, a city woman, and wears make up and is slim and has lots of money, but she's sad and she's lonely. Her name is Stephenie Meyer. She looks like this:

At a cemetery in Dublin, a corpse is turning over in its grave. When the corpse was not a corpse, but rather a human being, it was a man with a long face and piercing eyes. He had a beard and slick greased over hair. He was a writer, who wrote Dracula, and who probably dreads that he ever wrote the damn thing in the first place. His name was Bram Stoker. Before all the worms and things got to him, he looked like this:

In a disclosed location up on a little hill foolishly described as a mountain, there is someone else writing. But he isn't writing about vampires, he's writing about the vampire novelists themselves, and how treacherous the whole fad has become. He's wearing a red flannel bath robe and is drinking a cold beer. His writing goes like this:

I don't know why I decided to go to the Vampire's Writing Convention, but I suppose it was mostly for laughs. There weren't many writers there though, mostly just fans there to see the two headliners: Charlaine Harris and Stephenie Meyer. Stephenie Meyer of course is the writer of that undying retardation Twilight, and its subsequent books. Charlaine Harris wasn't well known, until True Blood kicked off on HBO, and now she's a household name among vampire fanatics. Walking around I felt as if I stuck out, and thats probably because I most certainly did. I'm sure the pyschic vampires read my thoughts, and were on to me. They knew I'm not a true believer. Where's his vampire fangs? They probably wondered. Or, No frilly cape? No Twilight shirt? No eyeshadow? He's no vampire. . . He doesn't belong. . . I should watch him. It is then that I noticed that I was surrounded, I had unknowingly (how foolish of me) walked into a den of retardation. There were the teenagers, the Twilight fans, who had fallen in love and been taught romance from a dead man. They were all skinny little things, in Twilight gear, and they all had that same giddy nervous laugh every time they saw their leading man, and he was everywhere. There were the middle aged women, the True Blood fans, who had given up on love and romance (from years of never receiving it) and wanted only lust, to go to bed with some fiendish vampire. They were fat like their favorite writer, many of them clutched her book in hopes of getting a precious autograph. There were vampire fans of all ages, ethnicities, fans of all different types of retardation. Everyone was gathering in the great auditorium, where the guest speakers were already arranging themselves.

Charlaine Harris went first, while Stephenie sat on idly by, content that she was far prettier. Charlaine went on about how homely she is (which she really is), about her preference for werewolves and vampires and things of the occult. She looked just like a big ripe tomato up there, her red sweater bulging at the seams. She went on:

"I'm constantly asked, "Where do you GET your inspiration?" as if I had a magic spell to conjure it up, or as if I could go to the store and buy some. Inspiration comes to me because I am a writer. Its an integral part of being a writer. The creative flow of ideas which constitutes inspiration can be sparked by anything, can appear out of nothing, can be tweaked by a news article, a quip on a sitcom, an overheard snatch of conversation. The inspiration comes in using these things as ingredients for creating something new, something your own. Most inspiration arises from the basic question, "What if?""

I scoffed, she forgot retardation.

She continued on, but I didn't hear much of it. I was distracted instead, by what a thought was a tenacious gnat behind me. It turned out to be a woman wearing plastic fangs. She seemed harmless enough though.

"Can I fang you?" She said.

Puzzled I didn't quite know what to say, so I simply turned and pretended I hadn't heard her. I knew though that I needed to get out of there, and soon. The girl next to be pawed a Twilight book, its cover a reproduction of the movie poster. She showed it to me with bright wide eyes, carefully, as if she was showing me a prized jewel or fine china that may at any moment break. She feared my gaze might break it, so she thrust it back into her bosom, where it was safe.

Charlaine stopped speaking. She smiled at the applause from her adoring fans and slimed away from the podium and sat down with a squish. She pulled a snack out from a fold in her back fat and started eating it. The southern drawl had ceased, and now it was time for the city woman. She was stern and cold as ice. Charlaine had been a ray of sunshine, warm and buttery, but this woman was like the chill of night. She waited till she was sure that all eyes were on her before she even moved. She got up and the room came alive with screams from young teens who had bottled up all their emotions until almost exploding, just for her arrival. Their screams drowned out the room, splashed up against the walls and flooded around my feet. I was knee deep in teen angst. I feared it may stain my jeans, and forever be a reminder of the day I stood amongst 1500 or so vampire fanatics with plastic fangs and retarded fancies. She stood at the podium stern and still, patiently waiting for the screaming to die down. When it did she spoke.

"Thank you." The room dropped 10 degrees. "I've come to adore vampires, as you all have, and I'm pleased to say there will be a new book!" Cheers. "Yes yes, full of werewolves and witches - all sorts of vampires of course, and time travel. . . and portals - maybe even a magician or two." All the girls steamed up and got to yelling like teapots again. She went on, I'm sure, about all the senseless lore and all the silly different types of vampires - but I don't know for sure, for it is then that the Quaaludes finally kicked in. I had taken them earlier. I got them from a hippie type named Blueberry. He went on and on about Northern California, he called it the Garden of Eden - with large redwoods and fine smelly herb. He spoke of selling hash outside of pharmacies - dolling it out in gobs just like jam. Thats how much he had.

I drifted for awhile, in cotton candy dreams, in a peaceful state I didn't think I could be woken from. I was wrong. When my eyes opened I had a blonde haired "vampire" staring me in the face. The boy must have only been 10 or 11.

"Don't eat me." He smiled, content believing that I actually thought he was a vampire. He raised his arms and hissed at me, exposing a pair of fake fangs. Too tired to put up with him, I made a cross with my hands and like any good vampire, he made himself scarce.

I shook my head. I had to leave. These vampires occultists were even recruiting children, innocent young children. I left, but not defeated. I had a plan.

But that is where the writing stops, the man didn't seem to finish. He's typing away now, but he's content, because he knows what is about to happen. Somewhere in their homes, Charlaine and Stephenie are typing away too, Charlaine in the middle of a juicy story about a vampire and his love for phalic objects, Stephenie knee-deep in copying Pride and Prejudice word for word, only changing the characters and their names. They were all content, but none more than the man on the hill. He stopped writing he smiled.

Somewhere far off two homes were bursting into flames.

He knew he had done his deed; ridden the world of two more tragic retards.

It is from the look in that little boys face that iR names vampires and all that is associated with it: tragically retarded.

FURTHER RETARDATION:

Charlaine Harris writes novels with horrible book art: things like airbrushed women dressed in leather, clutching rottweilers with burning coal eyes - the dogs of hell.

Twilight was the biggest selling book in 2008.

Twilight the movie, made 328 million dollars worldwide.

Stephenie Meyer can't go a year without re-reading Jane Austen's books.

Meyer was named author of the year in 2008.

Vampire rules constantly change: Dracula couldn't stay out in sunlight, and also didn't care much for garlic or crosses. . . Vampires in Twilight are impervious to all those things. Vampires in True Blood can travel large distances in a short amount of time, and have a blood lust equaled only by a sexual lust, which is just as strong. . . Sometimes they are villainous, sometimes they are heroes, sometimes they are vampires who were created genetically, sometimes they just are what they are for the sake of being.

Vampires can be straight up blood drinkers, they can be beings which feed on your life force, on your soul. They can have psychic powers, they can accomplish great feats of strength, basically they can do whatever the writer wants them to, a nice thing to have when you have written yourself in a corner.

Just take one look at any vampire fan and tell me it aint retarded. I'll call you a bloody liar. Ha... get it? Bloody.

iR.

David Blaine the Child Molester, Vegas Lights Can Ruin A Complexion, and An Underground Kiddie Porn Dungeon

Co-Writs Daniel Rasmussen

The truth is David Blaine used his magical mind powers to brainwash a sting ray into stabbing Steve Irwin in the heart. . . It was a murder driven by jealousy. . . He's the Aquaman of Murder.

David Blaine is an illusionist, which is really just a grown up word for magician - given to old and aging magicians who would otherwise be considered "pathetic" in the already pathetic world of magic. They're too old for simple card tricks, and far too egotistical to perform at kids' parties. They perform "illusions," which are much like the lame magic skits we're all use to, except they require more "skill." They find their work to be an "art form" and in some cases even a commentary on society. They are a different level of pathetic, and David Blaine appears to be one of its most retarded. Now naturally I had all of this in my head when I heard David Blaine's fading voice on T.V. talk about his next trick. He had announced in Vegas earlier in the week that he would be performing a trick, pardon me, an illusion, he called "The Lava Man," and refused to say anything more about it, much to the chagrin of the media.

I had to cover the event. So I did. Vegas baby. It went like this:

*Editors note: The first night the writer apparently got too wasted and couldn't remember the night, save for a few notes he jotted down in between swigs of alcohol. To provide insight on the complete story, and to end any arguments we have had here at the iR offices, we have added his notes, in their original unedited form.

The lobby is a lot emptier at 3 in the morning, wonder where all the drunks are? The casinos are still humming with the slight shuffle of cards and slot machines, symbols spinning, we'll see if we have a winn-ah, a winn-ah, no oh no, not this time around, hang your head - its ok, we're use to it. I never liked the desert. Something about it, nothing but flat dead land unfit for your average person to survive in - perfect location for Vegas, what with all its vultures. Was Vegas made for this desert, or was this desert made for Vegas? No way to be sure really, these people do look like crocodiles. In the casino at 3 in the morning. Nothing but die hard gamblers and ancient women who are probably 70 but look 100 from too many disappointments along the way, chasing the ever deceiving American Dream along The Vegas Strip. They suck cigarettes and doll up their faces like they did back when they were 20, but they know Vegas screwed em, everybody knows it, so they just suck cigarettes and play the slots with only a slight hope that maybe the next pull of the lever will break the bank and end all of their woes. It never comes though. They have these faces - horrible faces, with wrinkles and contortions of flesh - too much time in the Vegas lights melted their skin just like wax, and when the spotlight went out (after many years,) they took to making their fortune with the help of good ole' Lady Luck. Their faces would cool in the casinos, over many years, and an expression of despair would set in that wax. One day it would break, but that would be the day they died.

Fighting man at the bar, khaki shirt, navy blue slacks. In uniform. Workin' the gambling machine at the bar. You can tell when he loses, he slaps the DEAL button harder than usual and shakes his head. Sometimes he'll stir his drink and just stare into it. Damn, they'll even milk a fightin' man, send him off right, with empty pockets. He gives up after awhile, leaves with a hooker. Time to go I s'pose.

Through the casino up to the room, pass the Texas Hold-Em tables, where all the men look up at you and judge you with their eyes: Too small for this man's game, hit the slots with all the other ladies, dip-shit. You probably can't even cover the small blind! Up the elevator, into the hall - the black carpeting got red oval designs that look like red blood cells on it. Red blood cells, drunk fools with money are the life blood of Vegas right? I may be drunk, and I may be a fool, but I aint got money. S'pose I don't belong in this bloodstream - better get to my room. The Luke Perry room, with artificats from his movie career up on the walls, and a yearbook from his high school days encased in a small glass side table. A look out the window. Louis Vutton building being built across the way. A hotel? A modern affair, nothing but glass windows, and is almost a whole block long. What a monstrosity. How much to build that fucker? 120, 000, 000, 000 dollarzez? Doll-hairs.

*Editors note: There are more notes, but the rest seems to be legible only by drunk people. Its nothing but chicken scratches and is stained brown from a Jager spill. Luckily the writer recovered and was able to finish the story.

Keep reading, its good for you!

I woke up hung-over. Had to get downstairs though, to meet up with David Blaine. I had been given the opportunity to interview him before the big night, which was only two days away. I dressed and met him in the lobby, where he was smiling and levitating there in the center of the room. A crowd had gathered, and he seemed to be giving special attention to the children, who he beckoned to come closer and grab on to his legs for a closer view. When he saw me he called me over. They all gawked at him, some of them even frightened, by what they believed was some kind of demonic act against the laws of nature. The children were ecstatic and he gave them all high fives, and even managed to get a hug in with one portly little boy. When he saw I wasn't all that impressed he frowned a little. Like an upset child, he cut through the crowd, making his way towards a little place for some breakfast. We sat at the table - steak and eggs.

"So what's this magic trick you're doing?" I asked. He was entertaining the children behind me, he didn't hear me. "You like kids don't you?"

"Loooove em." He smiled. "Its why I got into magic in the first place. . . All kids love magic, don't they? They're close to my heart."

"Ok M.J. - what's this magic trick you're doin' on Friday?" I asked again.

"Trick? Trick?" His lust gaze on the children had been broken, he was no longer that sweet innocent Blaine. "I'm not a dog, or a dolphin, come now. . . I do illusions my good man, illu-sions." He smiled, and with a slow sweeping motion over the table he turned over his hand and a fork appeared. I wasn't impressed, so he then "bent" it with his mind. . .

"Sorry yeah, so what's this illusion you're doing?" I was annoyed.

"Well its an illusion, well more of an endurance trial, its, its, an endurance illusion." I could tell he was talking out of his ass. "They're feats of amazing endurance, that test the human body and the human mind to almost the breaking point. In a way they're almost super human. I mean I've nearly died doing these things."

"Nearly." I scoffed. "Too bad."

"Huh?" He asked, I didn't acknowledge him, so he continued. "Well yeah, as I was saying, they're amazing feats, most of the time when I'm done I'm shipped off to the hospital. I tell you, they really are trying, but worth it in every way, don't get me wrong. . . Yeah I've stayed encased in a block of ice for a week, did a stint in a giant ball of water for a whole week. . . Stuff like that - you familiar with the glass box stint I did? Suspended over the air in a glass box."

"Yeah, I remember. People started throwing food at you."

"The unbelievers!" The worlds nearly exploded out of his mouth, he seemed embarrassed by how loud and quickly they came out. He was use to being the quiet one, in school he was the creepy kid who took to the corners of rooms and never really had any friends. He's had those bags under his eyes all his life too. After some fidgeting, he calmed himself, continued. "In truth, the only restrictions on our capacity to astonish ourselves and each other are imposed by our own minds." He reached out for his napkin, fluttered it in the air, and it turned into a dove, which flew off through the restaurant. The kids behind me applauded wildly, and Blaine blushed. He often did this where ever he went, like it was some itch he had to scratch constantly. Sometimes he'd pause while walking down the street, and snatch up a man's newspaper, twirl around and come up with roses, and hand them back to the annoyed man who only wanted to read his paper. Other times he'd stop someone and ask to see the time, and when they'd look he'd tap their wrist and the watch would turn into a snake and slither away. He had a real way of pissing people off, but his favorite place to perform tricks was at playgrounds, or outside elementary schools - anywhere children frequented.

"But you know my next illusion?"

"The Lava Man. . ."

"Yeah." He ducked his head so he could talk to me softly, to prevent eavesdropping. "They're gonna put me in a giant lava lamp - large coils on the bottom are gonna heat the liquid I'm submerged in - gonna be hot wax floating all around me, just like a real lava lamp! They're gonna leave it on for a whole week, during which time I won't be able to do anything but simply endure! Endure my friend."

"What's the point in that?"

"The point is I'll be trapped in the world's tallest lava lamp - a Guiness Book Record in itself, and it will be a visual interpretation of the everyday struggle we find ourselves in every waking moment of our lives! But most importantly its yet another example of the great things we as human beings can do, the wonderful feats we can accomplish if we just put our minds to it! Impressive, isn't it?"

"Not really. Sounds retarded. Sounds horrible. Sounds like a bunch of phoney baloney to me. . . It aint phoney baloney now, is it. . . Mister Blaine?"

"If I was a phoney baloney. . . could I do this?" He got up slowly out of his chair and turned his back to me. He started to levitate again. "HUH?! HUH?! . . . Wait wait, you're at the wrong angle, move over the left a little. . . No wait you're too close. . . Is it working? No? Wait maybe its the damn lighting, the damn lighting!"

1. Empty

2. For blowing dudes.

3. Filled with an intense love for Houdini, children

4. Empty

5. Filled with hidden cards and flowers

6. For kneeling (see 2)

The children were no longer cheering, they were in fact booing, and each boo seemed to cut through him like a knife. They soon got up and left with their mom and dad, which made David even more upset. He actually started crying.

"Please, don't leave me. . ." Sob sob sob. "I love you. . . I love you, alllll."

So many thoughts ran through my mind, for in my heart I knew his affection for children wasn't healthy. I thought of perhaps performing a magic trick, justing pulling that trigger and making him disappear forever - Tah Dah! In the end though, I just left him there crying. Soon enough he would get his.

As I was leaving the hotel, I was passed by a man in a hat with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. He may have been a ghost: he was wearing an Acapulco shirt, tea shades hid his eyes, and in his right hand he clutched a leather doctor bag. He didn't seem like a doctor, he certainly didn't dress like one. Maybe it was the shorts and the wicked glare that gave him away. Maybe it was the smell as he passed me: bourbon. Turns out he was on assignment too. His piece started like this:

"We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold."

And it ended like this:

"I felt like a monster reincarnation of Horatio Alger. . . a Man on the Move, and just sick enough to be totally confident."

I thought of that ghost, and 2 days later David Blaine attempted his "The Lava Man" stunt. It was well covered, I remember. At the 7 day mark he was taken out. 5 minutes later he was pronounced hopelessly retarded. The stunt had caused severe brain damage, he quit the illusionist game, but got a good job doing magic for kid's parties. He was extremely happy, until a concerned mother phoned police after her son told her Blaine had made inappropriate advances. 2 day later Police raided his house and found a kiddie porn dungeon. Stories then started to come out, from children who had claimed that David Blaine had commited horrible sex acts upon them, and threatened to kill them with his magical powers if they said anything. They were all tragic teary eyed tales like this one:

Little Nathaniel Westbrook, seen here with David Blaine was raped by the illusionist in his hospital bed after the magic star promised him the "magic cure" and a wonderful show, to boot. Nathaniel Westbrook was quoted as saying "He didn't pull a rabbit out of a hat, he pulled a rubber dick out of his ass." The poor boy, a cancer patient is still fighting his disease and is traumatized by his encountered with the magician.

It is for these many reasons that iR declares David Blaine, hopelessly retarded.

FURTHER RETARDATION

Blaine fasted a week before being submerged in a tank of water for an entire week, to prevent having to worry about defecation during the stunt "Drowned Alive." he was given air and nutrients through a rubber tube.

During his "Dive of Death" stunt, billed as a 60 hour endurance trial for Blaine to be hanged upside down from an elevated height in Central Park, Blaine would come down once an hour for medical checks. He also took breaks on a waiting platform, right side up.

Lulz: Voted the 'Biggest Loser' of 2003 in a British poll for spending 44 days in a box suspended over the River Thames in London, without any food.

USA Today called David Blaine "The hottest name in magic right now." What they really meant to say was "He's the only name in magic right now. . . except maybe for Penn and Teller, and nobody gives a shit about them."

The Sun once lovingly called him "Bonkers Blaine."

iR.

Interview Turned Brawl: The Mouse Man, Truth, and Cigarettes

Persecuted self-mutilator: The Smoker

"What derogation of self, what sin greater than sss-smoking? Than the tobacco man? He'll kill babies and take ladies, and won't bat a single eyelash. Just a gilded rose for your tombstone and leash to wrap around your now orphaned children. . . And his consumers. . ." Shawn Caputo swallowed thick cause he just couldn't stand the very idea of them. He was a tiny man, who had been kicked around all his life, and grew up in a family of smokers - he hated them. "His smokers, why they are just as bad, killing themselves the way they do - and killing us too! All for 6 bucks, and climbing, minding you, a pack. Killing us all with their damned SMO-KING." He sipped his Starbucks coffee, and continued. "You've always gotta remember that Dave, they're killing everything around us, we've stopped them from stinking up the cafes and restaurants, even the bars, but we haven't stomped em out completely yet." He laughed. "Get it? You know, 'stomped em out?' Like a cigarette butt!" More laugher, a little mousy laugh Shawn had all his life and tried desperately to cover up. He didn't think it matched him. He was wrong. "I really want you to lay into this next guy - really let him have it. If its any good, we'll use it for our next commercial." He smiled, thin wiry lips underneath a bushy mustache.

It was the latest filming of a Truth commercial, the campaign slogan being "Do you have what it takes to be a tobbacco exec?" Its an ad set up to be a job interview, that of course is entirely fake and set-up, but the applicant doesn't know that. They're asked a bunch of questions by a big phony, and posed with problems - the kind tobbacco executives have to face everyday, and of course all the applicants swear up and down that they could never do anything so horrible, so villanous. Todays act was no different, they were merely banking on what they already considered a successful campaign. Shawn had instructed his colleague David to "lay into the next guy," and they'd get the footage and be done with it.

But thats how they saw it.

Across town a 22 year old saw it differently.

His name was Josh Wood. He saw it like this.

Alright a job interview, gotta get all gussied up and ready. It would be nice to have the job, you know, maybe then the Combine wouldn't work on me so hard. Its how they like it. Play dress-up. Never understood what was so bad about doing what you please. Don't be silly now. Time for the monkey suit.

He went through all of that trouble, the uncomfortable starchy monkey-suit, sweaty under the arms, the long trip on the bus with drippings and forgotten human life, all for a fake interview he thought was real (wonder if he'll get angry?) that went like this:

"Hey, hello, come on in." David said, a 30 year old man in a suit. He was playing the role of the interviewer, Shawn his associate hid in the other room. "Please sit down." The 22 year old sat down. He looked strange, somewhat out of place, long hair tied back and side burns out in all their glory - it was like somebody took his head and put it on somebody else's body, the body of some paper pusher in a suit. He seemed uneasy, nervous.

"No need to be nervous, uh" a quick glance at the made up application. "Mr. Wood. Do you have a resumè?"

"No."

"What? What kind of person doesn't brind a resumè to a job interview?"

"A person like me." Wood smiled. "You mind if I smoke?" He pulled out a cigarette and raised it in the air for him to see.

"Yes."

"Yes I can smoke?"

"Yes, I mind." Wood put the cigarette down dejectedly. In the other room Shawn had been listening, the question making him furious. He peeked through the door to see this bit of riff-raff, and took a good gander at the kid. HE didn't like him one bit. The gall of that bastard. He thought. This is exactly why I'm fighting. . . He's such a monster he smokes INSIDE! Why if he were to light that cigarette up, he'd be taking years off of our lives. . . There's probably a baby here, somewhere, in this building, and the smoke could get up into the ventilator shaft and get to circulating. . . and by God, that poor newborn wouldn't stand a damn chance. . . Not a damn chance. His eyes were bulging, his face the color red. Somewhere in Shawn was an anger he was suppressing, but still surfaced in bubbles of hateful thoughts in his head.

Funny.

"Now can we get on with this?!" David was trying to calm himself. "Now this company that I work for, we are looking for you to fill a position for us, that is if you are hired. . . A high level one at that too, but you see there are certain aspects of the job that some people can't handle. . . Or stomach."

"Oh yeah? What aspects doc?" Wood said, he still had the cigarette in his hand and was playing with it. David sat watching it, for as long as he could stand it, and then reached out, grabbed it, and tore it into pieces. "Hey what the hell did you do that for?"

David ignored the question and went on.

"I work for a tobacco company, and were looking for a new Executive of Consumer Relations." He smiled.

"And you're tearin up cigarettes. . ."

"But as I said there are some aspects of the job that people can't stomach. . . For instance, would you be willing to increase nicotine levels, you know, the stuff that keeps smokers addicted, would you be willing to increase them if your boss asked you too?" He leaned back in his chair, content, waiting for what he figured would be a definate no.

"What's the pay?" Wood asked.

"Huh? Oh the pay, uh, 250 k a year - benefits - stock options. . ." David fudged the figures.

"Fuck yea I'd do it."

"Well I unders-What. . . you'd do it?" David asked. He was geniunely disgusted.

"Yeah. . . Since when did people have morals when it came to making money? Especially a shitload of money. . ." Wood said. David looked as if he was actually thinking about it.

"Huh. Guess you got me there." He paused for a moment, thinking. "But what about the babies? Smoking kills babies!"

"Yeah if you blow smoke in their face. What kind of ass smokes around a baby? Not even I do that. . . And believe me, I'm known as quite the ass." Wood said smiling. "I aint never killed no babies. I've blown some smoke in the faces of dogs and cats, but I wasn't smoking cigarettes your honor. . ." He put his hand out as if he were swearing on The Bible. He smiled, he had a smile like The Grinch - menancing, even when he didn't intend it. David took one look at it and became nervous, his head probably filled with thoughts of this cigarette toting long-hair causing him all sorts of harm. He glanced over his shoulder for help to come, for someone to restrain this crazy before he DOES something, God please don't let him do something, but Shawn merely waved his hand for him to keep going, keep the bastard going.

"What if half of your consumers died each year, would you be able to target new customers?" David asked.

"Do employees get free cigarettes?" Wood searched his face for an answer, but no answer was found. "I mean paying just to keep up is getting harder and harder these days, what with the sin tax and those Truth ninnies running around. . . You know just the other day I saw a commercial that made me light one up and just laughed - they're great really. . ." David's face had changed to one of fear, he knew he's colleague in the other room was probably fuming and was gearing up for an assault. "Helping with the wussification of our Nation, I tell yah, them Truth propaganda machines. . . Wouldn't mind it really, just so many times they get it wrong. . . All wrong. Can't fight lies with lies, just don't work that way, you know what I mean, Davey boy? Besides nothing like a smoke when you really craving one, am I right?"

A bullshit smug grin formed on his face, and out of habit he pulled out a cigarette and lit it up. It burned cherry at one end until he took it into his hands and exhaled a silvery cloud of death, of cyanide, of urea, of poison. To David it was a cloud of defiance, and when it reached his nostrils his body coiled, as if he had just smelled something horrible. He worried what Shawn would say. Shawn was on the other side of the door, crying he was so angry, the tears ran off his cheeks and burned holes in the carpet. He was trying desperately to chew on his lips, keep them from moving, for only hatred would come out. Suddenly he clinched his fists, all white knuckles, and lifted his head and sniffed the air. He smelled a smell that reminded him of his childhood, and somewhere on his back cigarette burns marked his back and felt like they were new again, and he was but 12 - punishment for being "a little bastid." He grew distant then, caught up in the past and anger, Mt. Vesuvius just waiting to go off.

Head for the hills.

"You sonnuva. . ." Shawn boomed through the door, surprising both David and Wood. "You dare. . . SMOKE?!" He charged the boy, taking him out along with the chair. They brawled on the floor, with punches and kicks, while Shawn cried tears of anger and pain so great he could have flooded the room. David hid under the desk and phoned the police, for he too had been from a violent family.

All injuries were minor. The incident made the newspapers, some even spun it so that it looked like a vicious attack on an unsuspecting everyday law-abiding citizen. Wood sued the Truth Campaign and Shawn Caputo respectively for assault citing he was a victim of a "hate" crime, he also claimed that he was mislead and that the attack was indeed premeditated. Besides, he really wanted the job.

He won the case and reportedly spent the money on cigarettes.

yay.

The truth though?

Wood knew the camera was there the whole time. . .

iR.