Diry Jobs: Rosanne Barr's Vagina

If you've ever seen Dirty Jobs then you know the host has gone and done some real disgusting work - things some people willingly do daily, for a living (no, there are no episodes about making a name for yourself in Hollywood, though surely some of the most vile things have been carried out in the name of such a pursuit.) And while for Mike Rowe, the show's host, all the dirtiness ends when the cameras go off, for these other people it never ends - they'll continue going elbow deep in the backsides of cows, continue trudging through human shit troughs, others will be still uplifting roots in murky pond water, still collecting and sorting at the trash dump, for the mighty dollar, bust mostly because they actually like doing it. Now surely it takes a certain special breed to want to take up these strange but somehow necessary? jobs in society. . . Yet one such episode showcased a job that was so disgusting and vile that the network refused to even show it.

It showcased a recent migration of whole groups of people to a new found source of gold: Rosanne Barr's vagina. Apparently the vastness of the region was so grand it could house a small city, one of stragglers and sinewy people, all chasing a gold rush like that of 19th century.

A brave group of miners explores the inner workings of Rosanne Barr's Vagina

Discovery Channel doesn't like to talk about it much, but the episode went like this:

"Its early morning here at the Crusted Jewel Mining facility located in the damp gloomy cave that is Rosanne Barr's vagina. Now, we had heard the original rumors regarding Rosanne Barr and her massive lady parts, but when we recently heard of gold being discovered, we knew we had to get in on the action." He stood in front of a productive shack - judging by the sounds coming from it - with a sign tacked out front that said CRUSTED JEWEL MINING CO. 2007. "First word of the Barr cave's vastness was reported by Tom Arnold himself, but this came after the divorce and many people believed it to be slander for a scorned ex-lover, rather than the God-awful truth. It was later affirmed in an online article that totally kicked ass. . . Tom Arnold had been trapped inside of her for many days, like Jonah in the whale, before he eventually escaped, and once again felt the fresh air of freedom. . . But this is Dirty Jobs, today, we're here for the mining operation which apparently started up as recent as three years ago, when trapped ex-boyfriends found gold so far back in her cooch that not even Rosanne Barr knew about it. Come on! Lets go!"

Cut to:

"This is what we use to mine the gold." The miner said. He held up a pick axe, blunted at the end from years of use. "Yeah just your standard pick axe, nothing special there. You basically just hack at it like so." He illustrated his swing, a fierce tug of the axe with pure brute strength.

"Wow." Mike said. "She don't feel it?"

"She don't feel a thing - aint felt a thing for decades mah friend, let alone now."

Then Mike's voiceover went like this:

"This is Otto P. Lotto (lawl), owner of the Crusted Jewel, and was Rosanne's boyfriend in 2004, but after he called her fat she sucked him up and he's been here ever since. He's 45 years of age and is one of the oldest people trapped in Rosanne Barr's vagina. He's covered nearly an inch thick in black soot, but doesn't seem to mind, not that there's anyway to bathe in here anyway."

Otto P. Lotto, he don't fuck around - he'll pierce you with his beady-soul-crushed eyes while he defiantly smokes a cigarette with a bony hand of tangled tree roots: "I don't care if there's no smoking indoors, this whole place is indoors, and I need a smoke - besides I've seen some shit, I'll tell yah - some real horrible shit."

"Yeah." Lotto said. "I don't notice the smell anymore. I'm use to it, but rookies tend to say its one of the worst parts of the job - just the smell alone." He sniffed the air to see if maybe he could smell it again, if only faintly.

"It is quite the odor." Mike said. "Like a fishing dock strewn with the bodies of dead babies."

"But they're wrong you know." Lotto said.

"Pardon?"

"Its not the worst part of the job - the smell I mean. Its this damn moisture. Its everywhere, and hangs over your head like your own personal rain cloud. My word, a man can go through 10 pairs of socks a day, in a hope to keep out the moisture, and it will all be for not, because there's just no way around it." He scratched his head, as if even now he was trying to figure out a way to fight the damn moisture. He kicked his feet and wandered off. . . "Just no way around it."

Mike's voiceover:

"I worked with a few of the more experienced miners, who made the process seem easy. I on the other hand had my difficulties. The floor and walls themselves were slippery, making it difficult to get a good footing. It would get everywhere, all over the axe and my clothing, and the stench made it impossible to think straight. But my efforts were not in vain, after hours working in what seemed like 100 percent humidity, I discovered it. Gold. Cooch gold. Cooch gold is far more rare than regular gold, and although the piece I mined was no bigger than a pebble, its market estimated value was two hundred and fifty dollars. The best part was that it seemed to be everywhere, sprung up like weeds bearing riches - for those willing to sweat it out for it.

We met up again with Otto P. Lotto who still had the same bitterness about him. (Of course Mike, for you this is but an hour special, for me this is but another knot in the noose. This damn moisture, Mike, my skin is peeling like dry paint. I'm rotting.) We came with our newly mined cooch rock. He refined it for us, and did it with an ease that can only come from years of practice. (Clean there in the light. Fine. What infinite pleasures may come of this. What toil went into finding it. And that damned moisture. . .) After studying it he told us of its particular purity, and let us keep it as a parting memento."

"So you think this is the dirtiest job?" Mike said, putting his newly acquired precious metal in his pocket.

"Mmm." Otto pondered a moment, and then spat. "I suppose so. If not it certainly is one of the most dangerous ones." Mike asked, "Dangerous?" "Yes'm. Why just the other day a man took a dip in the drink, drowned hisself in minutes flat. Drowned right there in that river, that penile canal or birth canal or whats-it. Yeah, and another boy took to the vaginal walls over yonder, slipped and busted his head on the rock there - killed hisself in minutes flat. Yes'm."

He took another tug of his cigarette. "Just no way around it." The words came with billows of blue smoke. "Just no way around it."

Mike's voiceover:

"When we left all the workers came to see us off (Came to shun you bastards. To send you off with a dirty glare, and me at the forefront of it all. Like vultures you swept through this graveyard, picked the bones of any meat you found desirable and held it up to your lens for all to see. . . Could you see the emptiness in our eyes - the years of wrought that woman put upon us? I can feel it in my face - the creases - the age - the torment. . .) And we were glad to be off, out into the fresh air which never seemed so crisp before (I'd give anything to smell fresh air again.) We left with a precious cooch rock, a memento of a dangerous smelly. . . Dirty Job. . ."

Mike would then go home and sleep peacefully, a smile painted across his face.

Otto would tie up his noose.

Rosanne Barr would turn in bed - didn't feel a thing.

By midnight Otto would be dead. Just no way around it.

iR

The Genetic Retardation of MTV's Jersey Shore

In 1916, The Jersey Shore was plagued with a string of deadly shark attacks, from a shark said to be a man eater hellbent on eating Jersey kids. Yellowed newspapers from the time tell of a monster born in the darkest depths of the ocean, a creature fat with the meat of thousands of seals, a finned demon with razor sharp teeth and a lust for eating bigger, larger creatures like humans. People became upset, so they took to boats with spears and guns and things. His string of attacks went all along the Jersey Shore, and took 6 victims before he was eventually killed. Only one victim survived. Here is a map of his attacks:

In 1987-1988, The Jersey Shore experienced what they called The Syringe Tide - as the waters there became polluted with medical waste from a nearby landfill called Fresh Kills Landfill. It gets its name from the nearby estuary that starts in Staten Island on landfill, and empties out into the Atlantic Ocean along the Jersey Shore. The people became outraged, so they took to boats and went up to the Landfill with guns and spears and things, but the Landfill, being New York's primary dumping grounds, was full of trash, which attracted feral dogs. The dogs killed 5 people, but things got a little better after that. Here is a map of feral dog attacks on Freshkills Landfill:

In 2009, The Jersey Shore experienced its worst tragedy yet: a man named Mike "The Situation" Sorrentino spent one month with 7 other roommates in Seaside, New Jersey for an MTV reality show aptly named "Jersey Shore." His string of attacks took 26 women, 12 of which ended up impregnated. There was no outrage though. There were no newspaper articles out about him being a woman eater, or a monster from the depths of a tanning booth somewhere in New Jersey, with six pack abs he shamelessly called "The Situation." There were no angry husbands, or fathers, or brothers, or boyfriends running around New Jersey with shotguns and spears and things.

Sometimes life is funny that way.

Here is a map of his attacks:

The following is a record of one such night, when "The Situation" tried to commit one of his many attacks on the female population of The Jersey Shore.

July 20th, 2009:

After running the guido gauntlet of the tanning salon and the gym Ronnie, "The Situation," and Vinny head to the barber for a fresh cut. Ronnie and "The Situation take to opposite chairs while Vinny waits in the wings. For some, barber shops are like social clubs in which one can spout off all the stupid shit in their life, and for a guido, its no different. In The Situation's case, a trip to the barber shop gives him the opportunity to gloat about any hook ups that may or may not have happened so that he may further promote the greatness that is The Situation.

"Now everybody knows about the alcohol, its a given. But when you're trying to hook up with a chick you don't just have to booze her up, no, no, no. The Situation has one tool in his arsenal which most guys don't utilize, and that my friends is the jacuzzi. You gotta put em in the jacuzzi - let em soak, you know what I mean - give em fifteen minutes like a soft boiled egg and after that they're like putty in your hands. And believe me, that's the type of situation you want to be in."

"Wait. . . I thought you were The Situation." Ronnie says. "Why would I want to be in you?"

"I am, but I was using the word situation, you know how you're suppose to use it, you know grammatically and shit."

"I think those tanning booths have fried your brain." Vinny can only think to shake his head. "Soft boiled eggs only take 2 minutes."

"Ladies love "The Situtation." Mike smiles. "Besides what do you know? You haven't even hooked up with nobody yet."

"You mean anybody." Vinny says but decides to forgo the grammar lesson for he realized the first night that he was far smarter than the rest of them, which isn't saying very much, and found that it was best not to try and explain things, for it would only confuse them further. "But not that that matters anyway - Who have you hooked up with? I, unlike you, don't think having sex with a passed out chick is considered hooking up. . ."

"Yeah Vin, I think its considered rape." Ronnie says.

"Aww whatever." At first its apparent Mike is taken aback, but his ego, like a good friend is always there to blanket the truth. He smirks and tries to think of something clever to say, but all that comes out is this:

"Don't hate the player, fellas, hate the game."

Once they found their hair acceptable, they went to their Jersey Shore home, complete with nearly a hundred Italian Flags - on the garage door, in the living room, on furniture and tvs. Life was good, they had a sweet pad and a great chef in Mike "The Situation," a man who put charcoal on a gas grill, a man who sprays PAM into pans until they flame up and nearly burn his eyebrows off. After a quick lunch everyone takes to preparing for a night at the club. For a guido, this is very much like preparing for battle, for the club scene on Jersey Shore is a volatile arena where young adults stalk one another like cats and take to dulling their already primitive minds with heavy amounts of alcohol until there's nothing left in their heads other than a brutish reasoning and power, coupled with a quick fuse that could be lit with a simple bad look, or simple insult.

When night fall comes, the guidos come out to play.

They go to a local club called KARMA, where they get drinks and the fist pumping begins:

FIST PUMPING LIKE CHAMPS!

After awhile the group is feeling amiable enough with one another that the whole group starts dancing together in a circle. It starts with the pounding of the ground in time with the beat and eventually evolves into complete fist pumping. Their dance is a descendant of the same sort of dances their Italian ancestors did as long as 200 years ago at weddings and joyous occasions. Although today the preferred music is house music, and the dance involves grinding, intoxication, mini skirts and exposed beavers.

Yay.

After much drink and much dancing, the crew of Jersey Shore's 8 guidos and guidettes stumble its way home, but there's a problem. The Situation and DJ Pauly D haven't picked up any girls, so as the group strolls home, the two of them are on the prowl for staggies.

staggies n. - drunk ladies who are perceived as being an easy lay, the name comes from their tendency to have poor balance as a result of alcohol intoxication.

The Situation walks down the sidewalk with his shirt lifted, showing the nearby traffic his abs, hoping it'll be the bait he needs to reel in some ladies. And like a fisherman, he's patient, because The Situation plays the number game: if you make a hundred phone calls asking women out and at least 1 accepts, then you're a winner. And like a winner, "The Situation" reeled in a pair of guidettes who happened to be driving by in a black convertible. They already know who he is, as well as Pauly D, as they had already gained a reputation as being a couple of douche bag guidos looking to fuck anyone willing to let them. Pauly D and The Situation find this to be quite flattering, so they in turn high five one another right there in the street. Despite their reputation the women agree to go to their house, as it is still nonetheless an opportunity to be on T.V, and to some people being on T.V. with a total douche bag is better than not being on T.V. at all. So they went back to the house, and Pauly D and The Situation showed the ladies the jacuzzi, as step #1: getting them drunk, had already been completed by other guys at some bar along the Jersey Shore.

Just as The Situation said, in 15 minutes they are back down in the house, in the Situation and Pauly D's room, "hooking up." After awhile one pushes Pauly D away and says:

"I gotta go, I gotta get home. . . My mom is like gonna be pissed." Which is really girl code for "This guy is freaking me out, lets get the fuck out of here, NOW."

"Whattaya mean?" Situation asks.

"I mean we gotta go, like I gotta get home, I have an early day tomorrow."

"Ok well. . ."

"Well she's gonna have to go with me, she drove me." She said.

"Really? . . ." The Situation knows his plight already. "Well uh. . . ok."

And just like that the two got up and left.

And just like that, the mighty Situation came up to bat.

And just like that he had struck out. (Ever read The Natural?)

The next day he would appear in the barber shop, boasting about how he and Pauly D had hooked up with two chicks the previous night.

iR

Lawl, check out this guy:



*And so I half ass yet another project.

The Regal Retardation of JC

At E3 they called James Cameron out to talk about Avatar. The point of the presentation was to show off the video game and give the people a taste of what it was all about, from the man who wrote every little word of it. What followed was a 45 minute dissertation that bored the entire audience, and started like this:

"Avatar is a movie about a race of 9 foot tall blue fish people. . ."

And ended like this:

"Thank you."

Somewhere in the middle was a fantasy world, conjured up by a director who thought "what if?" "What if I had half a billion dollars (which I do) and had the best technology the movie making world had to offer (which I do), what kind of movie would I make? Well the CGI infested wet-dream that is Avatar, of course. The tale of Avatar is good or bad, depending on your ability to play along and swallow drawn-out shit from fantasy land. Its world is as rich as a hearty stew and can easily be compared to The Lord of The Rings in its dense subject matter. Its people are products of long histories which JC no doubt dreamt up in between wet dreams of Jessica Alba as Dark Angel.

Do me JC.

Its people are humanoids, which are alien creatures that have human-like features, called the Na'vi. They live on a little moon called Polyphemus, which circles the planet Pandora. They have bones made of reinforced carbon fiber and have blue skin that makes them glow, or "sparkle" Robert Pattinson style. They have tails and are 9 feet tall. They live in tune with nature and respect it, where as the greedy white men who want their planet do not - they wish instead to tear up the land and make profits from their vital resources. . . Stupid Na'vi.

Its story is very similar to one America experienced nearly 200 years ago, but instead of primitive-dumb-savage-call-them-what-you-will Indians, there are primitive-dumb-savage-call-them-what-you will Na'vi. The part of greedy white man is still the same, only these white men are living in the time 2154.

All a little much to swallow right?

Oh it gets better. . . The problem with Pandora is that its planet is hardly geared towards supporting human life. Its atmosphere consists of no oxygen, so a scientist creates a way for humans to invade the planet, with an invention known as 'avatars.' Avatars are beings humans "live" through while on the planet. They are made up of genetic material both from humans and the Na'vi, and any human who's genetic material went into making an avatar, can control said avatar while in their sleep.

The Na'vi: A furry's wet dream realized on the big screen, and in IMAX 3D.

Hmmm.

But don't worry, Avatar wasn't made to tell you a story, it was made to please your eyes and further the career of the great JC. . . James Cameron. For, after Titanic he was so bombarded with questions regarding the film, and teary-eyed letters from women who felt he had captured a true love story that he needed to make something else - he needed to make his own Star Wars, a Star Wars made up of nothing but Jar Jar Binks looking fish people. Way to go JC.

Under all of this sci-fi bullshit, JC worked in a little lesson on life and humanity. To him Avatar is a "spoonful of sugar of all the action and the adventure and all that," but "makes you think a little bit about the way you interact with nature and your fellow man." How touching, some people with boat loads of money donate to charities, feed the homeless, spearhead urban renewal operations, donate buildings, etc. . . but oh no, you, James Cameron, you wanna help the world so you burn half a billion dollars (and in these times) making a film that only furthers your name and makes you money. How very un-JC of you.

Oh and what money there is to be made, JC. Avatar on opening day made an estimated 27 million dollars, finishing up that opening weeked with 77 million dollars world wide - a record for any non-franchise, non-sequel, original film - which is hardly fair in that James Cameron himself is a franchise; mere mention of his name and studio execs climax in their pants at the idea of all that money. . . Add on book sales (Avatar: A Confidential Report on the Biological and Social History of Pandora) a video game deal, as well as a whole line of action figures. . . Yep JC is helping the world all the way to the bank.

But its not like this royal retard needs any: James Cameron has enough money for about 30 lifetimes, during which time he could burn whole stacks of hundred dollar bills without feeling bad about it.

And whats worse is that if Avatar is successful, he plans on making sequels..

Lets go for a cool billion on this one JC, whatya say?

FURTHER RETARDATION

JC is Candian.

Has a star on the Canadian Walk of Fame (I believe the whole thing takes up one block.)

Has been married 5 times.

Is in possession of 4.9 billion dollars (wowzers.)

Was given an honorary doctorate from South Hampton University for his work filming underwater.

Is well known for his dictatorial filming methods while on the set and often blows up at actors. Ooooh lalala.

iR

Tiger Woods' 8 Wood

Tiger Woods circles the green, judging the land with his expert eyes. He bends down for a closer look, hands cupping the sides of his hat to block out his peripherals. He finds the lay of the land and frowns. Getting up he circles the green another time like a vulture circling for its prey.

"So whattaya think Tiger?" His caddy asks. "Looks like its sloping down and about ten clicks to the left."

"Hmm." Tiger is distracted, is somewhere else.

"Shall I get your putter?" He asks, already reaching for it.

"Nah, I need the Blackberry."

"Ah, the Blackberry." The caddy smiles all-knowing. The side of his golf bag zips open, the signature tiger heads on the drivers dancing as he does so. The Blackberry comes out and Tiger goes to work:

"oh baby i need some of dat loving, tough hole, but i just wanna stuff ur hole, drive it home with tiger's 8 wood."

He sends the text and smiles. Somewhere, a mistress texts back:

"u knoe i luv ur up and down game. win it all babe and u can take my green"

His head tilts upwards, his features from into an expression of satisfaction. in his pants, Tiger's 8 Wood stands at attention, and Tiger goes to take his putt and makes it. Cue Tiger's famous arm pump. She had become his good luck charm, or so he thought, ever since he met her at that one Applebee's in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere. There was something about her encouraging words while on the course that always got him, that always helped him push himself to that upper-echelon of greatness very few ever reach. She made him feel like young Tiger again. Young and free, a strapping young cat with paws big enough to grab the whole world and take it by storm. . . A strapping young cat with sharp teeth still white and shiny, with a coat not yet molted by the years or a horrible relationship.

But he knew he had to keep it secret. What would they say. . . if. . . shit.

On the 7th hole Tiger hits it right in the water, -kerplunk- another drowned victim of that dreaded lake. He takes a drop, his eyes fixed on that yellow flag, nearly 150 yards away.

"Whattaya think Tiger?" His caddy asks. "I'd go with the 8-iron."

"Hmmm." Tiger says, he's distracted again, distraught by a bad shot. "Blackberry. . ."

"Yes, Blackberry. . ." And just like before the Blackberry came out and Tiger went to work:

"im in it tough, my ball just got wet, but all i can think about is you, and making you wet with mah 8 wood"

And somewhere far off a dutiful mistress texts back:

"the only balls that get me wet are urs :)"

Tiger Woods' favorite golf club.

He smiles, his face forming that familiar bliss. He grabs his club, swings away, and just like that, the diamond plops 5 yards from the cup - a damn near perfect shot. The crowd claps while Tiger's head is already living out all the ways he plans to plow her. Tiger's 8 Wood stands tall and proud, but nobody notices - black pleated pants do much when it comes to concealing boners, and Tiger knows this. The putt, a slight roll, it licks the edge of the cup and slips on in, and only for par. His anger is apparent, but only grows worse when his wife randomly texts him:

"i know ur competing rite now, i'm watching you on tv love, win one for momma!"

The next three holes are a disaster. On the green in 3 on a par 4, in the sand on another hole, out of bounds on the next. Tiger is too damned stressed, and as a result he isn't hitting flush, he isn't powering them down the fairway like he did when he was young. He's beginning to feel like that old tiger again, with dulled claws and lazy eyes glossed over by slight glaucoma. It becomes a pain to walk the greens - he no longer stalks them looking for prey, instead he strolls down fairways like a bored tourist, like a golfer only playing professional on the weekends. The next hole becomes a nightmare for Tiger, a slice at the tee lands him in the deep rough, which he digs up with a swift hack that lands him 85 yards from the cup. One the green in one, in the cup in two. A few botches later and he's at the final hole.

He wipes his forehead free of its perspiration. It has been a long day. The interruption of his wife had drained him, and left him feeling very un-Tiger.

"So whattaya think Tiger? You gonna play it safe on this one? I'd go with the 3 wood, and stay clear of the traps." His caddy says, with a sort of halfheartedness that comes from having one's own advice constantly turned down.

"Blackberry. . . " Tiger says.

Sighing the Blackberry is brought out, and Tiger once again goes to work:

"i need that 8 wood babe, u know how to get me going :)"

And his mistress:

"just think of the 16th hole babe, remember? where you took your flag and put it in my cup?"

Tiger smiles, he remembers well, and Tiger's 8 Wood once again comes out to play.

Tiger's secret weapon.

His pulse quickens, he's light on his feet, the tiger is back on the prowl. His legs like coiled springs, his neck tense with new found energy, he takes to the tee and whack one, I mean he fucking crushes it maaaaan, its a tiny rocket set off and in orbit. It soars some 250 yards and lands gracefully in the center of the fairway as the crowd provides applause. After another shot he's on the green, and damn close to the cup too. He finishes the hole with a birdie and wins the tournament, rather undramatically.

Weeks later Tiger's secret gets out, and before long all members of the PGA start sexting during tournaments. . .

Cause everyone's a much better golfer with a boner.

iR

The Dog and His Pack

*Warning, contains the racist thoughts of one Duane "Dog" Lee Chapman.

In 2007, A&E, desperate for ratings decided to sign with Duane Chapman, Dog the Bounty Hunter. What followed was years of success, as epic retards flocked to their televisions and watched white trash hunt white trash. What makes Dog so successful?

Well, lets take a look at the family tree, shall we?

There's Dog, the head of the pack, aptly named because his main interest in life is hunting down other men, sniffing them out in their crack dens, in their girlfriend's homes after jumping bail, in forests, in bushes - where ever they may hide. He likes it when you run too, his tail goes to wagging like mad and he takes to barking out taunts about the proficiency of his nose and in turn, his ability as a tracker. He's as headstrong and sure as a bloodhound.

But what about his history? Well its as white trash as his hair cut - in fact his hairdo is really a representation of his entire life. . .


a. He's got that Vanilla soft-serve swoop at the top of his head, formed with the expert eye of someone with real taste and an excess amount of hair spray. It represents the reformation, the wave of horrible deeds (the decline) that lead him down the primrose path to destruction that suddenly broke back and changed itself (the upward swoop). For in his past he had been a convicted felon, a suspected murderer, and a well known racist (well that part never changed,) but after all of that, he saw the light, he became a man of God and took to hunting criminals as a soldier of Him, the Lord Almighty. . .

b. There's the long golden tendrils with a slight curl like Shirley Temple. They represent his 14 children, for his locks are as long and as vast as his retarded inbred clan. He's got short kids, fat kids, tall kids, skinny kids, young and old, and all of them work for the family business: bounty hunting. For it is the rule in the Chapman family, that if you are capable of holding a gun, then you are capable of working for the family business, even if your only eight, or pregnant* (*As seen in Season 6, Episode 1.)

c. The combed sides, the beginning of the hair-waterfalls. They represent his "caution to the wind" life style; that need to run headlong into danger and live day to day. That certain manliness that comes from threatening people with a paintball gun, knowing full well they just might have a real weapon on them at any time. . . That sort of fool-heartedness that lead Duane to drop out of school while he was only in the 7th grade.

d. Although it is not a part of his hairdo, his bounty hunters badge is a big symbol for the Dog as well. He keeps it around his chest at all times like a crucifix, in case you mistake him for the Cowardly Lion from the Wizard of Oz "Fuck you*, the Lion didn't wear no badge!" (*Fuck you is Dog's only response when it comes to any challenge or adversity, as seen in Seasons 1 through 6.)


Then there's the second in command - his wife. She's the pig - she can sniff out truffles buried deep under rotting stumps in even the deepest of bogs. When she was younger, she was a real eighties queen, with chemical hair and bleached roots and a fashion sense unrivaled by even the trashiest of trailer park chicks. She was rescued by Dog, who sniffed out her tainted vagina and plucked her up from the dusty bowl of nothing she was living in, just picked her up like an angel with majestic white wings and a deceptive mullet the color of corn. From there, it was off to a better life. She's his right hand man, the holder of the leash, the one who gives it a tight tug when Dog becomes too beastly. Aside from that most of her time is spent trying to contain her ginormous tits, which she could conceal with whole sheets of canvas and still struggle to contain. She has also done great work shitting out puppies for the Dog. Like this guy:


The Office Manager - the paper pusher who's only needed on hunts when the shit gets thick. His name is Duane Lee Chapman Jr. - another fitting name for a member of Dog's pack, for he's like his dad, only before all of the drugs. He even looks like him, he's got the same love for tough guy stances and grizzly beards. His 34 years of existence were shaped and molded by the Dog, who has taught him everything he knows. There is a particular memory which remains clear in his mind, one of his father Dog teaching him just the right way to hook a man by the knee and take him down.

"Now see what you do boy is you grab the spic by the leg right here like so. . . And then when he's down you stomp him out, just like the little black cockroach he is." He illustrated the stomping motion he liked to use. "But not until you cuff em first." A slight wink. "And never show fear, fear is what gets you killed, and no boy of mine is getting snuffed out by no colored miscreant."

It is advice like this, that all Chapman boys can expect growing up. . . boys like this fellow, one of Duane Chapman Jr's 9 brothers.


Leland - the prized jewel of the pack. He's given the job title of Foreman, and is considered to be the most successful Chapman, in that he is the only one out of his 13 other brothers and sisters to have graduated from high school (The Great Suck.) With this precious jewel of education embedded in his academic crown, he took crime and spent time for mugging a tourist. Soon after he shaved his head, but only on the sides and started training to be an MMA fighter. A couple douchey tattoos later and he was out of the MMA game and back with the pack, where he belonged all along. . .


Then of course there's Wilson Chapman, Head of the Guns Division. . . The youngest pack member to ever hold such an important position.

But I digress. . . why is Dog the Bounty Hunter so popular?

Because its genetic retardation at its best.

iR

I would do a Further Retardation, but I'm tired of writing about this fuckwad.