Bas Rutten: Dangerous Retard

Bas Rutten is 205 pounds of dangerous retardation. He's a human Swiss army knife with an array of tools all designed to hurt other men. He can dull meat and tear tendons. He can make a man tap in seconds - he can also ignore it and squeeze the life out of him, right to his very last breath. He's a 2nd degree black belt in Tae Kwon Do, and a 5th degree black belt in Kyokushki Karate, but most importantly he's King of the Cuckoo's Nest, the proverbial craziest nut in the whole coop - and not just because he can kill any naysayers - he's really deserving of the title. Too many fights, too many brain jolting shots to the noggin finished where poor parenting and a troublesome childhood left off; he's totally bat shit crazy. . . Listen:

BONG BONG BONG!

The average person with fight experience limited to school yard bullies and the occasional punk have zero chance against a guy like this. He's been in enough fights to not be afraid of getting hit, and lacks that certain desire to not want to hit someone, the fist is the all-mighty answer. Someone say an off the cuff remark? DANGA-DA-DANGA-DA-DANG! Someone look at you wrong? BING BANG BANG BONG! Perhaps you're in a club, a guy spills his drink on you. . . I hate that. BANG BANG BANG YOU ARE DEAD. To him the idea of "talking this one out," doesn't even register - its 'gay fag language' for 'sissys and ladies.' He lacks that certain receptor in the brain, like a hammerhead shark he simply roams around, looking for anything he can maim or kill and everything in his eyes looks weak and ready to be eaten.

His charisma and bloodthirst reminds me of another dangerous retard, a similar hammerhead, one Mr. Brock Lesnar. Like Lesnar, Bas Rutten also has tattoos, but his are less for intimidation. Bas Rutten actually believes his tattoos have special powers that can make him fight better, and extend his life, no joke. His right palm features a chi symbol meaning life. After receiving the tattoo, he never lost a fight, which he claims was the workings of the tattoo. His left palm says xiao, meaning long life, and Rutten continued to live after the tattoo, so he naturally assumed it was his new ink that was keeping him alive. He has tats on his knees and elbows to keep him calm, a buddhist on his left arm said to protect people like him; people born the Year of the Snake. . . And when he was born 44 years ago, God peeled back his skull and tattooed a wolverine onto his brain so he'd know how to act when he grew up.

Like a snarling beast.

Like Lesnar, Rutten was an MMA fighter, with a career record of 28 - 4 - 1 with 12 knockouts. He even finished his career going 22-0 with out losing a fight. Now that his career is over however, he lends his voice, and retardation to K1 fights and Japanese MMA fights, with some of the worst commentating ever. It can best be compared to a drunken twelve year old with a knowledge of fighting, mildly tending to the details of the action before veering off the course and saying strange and outlandish things - things he seemingly says for his very own enjoyment. For instance during a showdown between two competitors, he once said: "Talk about a stare down. . . I hear voices in my head, and they. . . don't. . . like youuuuu!"

Its obvious what needs to happen.

Hammer head vs. Hammer head.

Rutten will gladly come out of retirement, bloodlust never really leaves an animal like him.

Whattaya say UFC?

The fight would probably go something like this:
Brock and Rutten meet in the center of the ring, for a stare down of snot and sweat and stifled homosexual tendencies. Michael Buffer announces the upcoming blood bath. Celebrities and big wigs around the ring chat and joke and make movie deals - they pay big money to see Rottweilers tear each others throats out. The ring swells with anticipation, the wild beasts held back by invisible leashes to be let loose only after the resonance of the bell ringing. Tense. Still. Brock smirks, Rutten smirks, everyone watching smirks, even the ref smirks but hides it of course, to be professional. They are all thinking the same thing, and it excites them a little, no matter how much they may try and deny it- somebody is bound to die, and its bound to be bloody.

Ever seen a bull charge a bulldozer head on? Watch. . .

They take to their corners and the bell rings. The beasts are let loose. Brock's mind is vivid with images of college wrestling, jock straps and man junk but it blurs red with steroids and rage. He pictures cows being slaughtered and cut up into steaks for him to eat, to build muscle and in turn help him mangle men in the ring. Rutten's head is alive with memories of when he was 16, when he'd go out onto the bluffs and kill lizards and beetles with a sharpened projectile he'd shoot between his teeth. . . The crowd of vultures is buzzing, but the fighters hear nothing but the sounds of cows being slaughtered, of beetles and lizards dying -zap-zap-zap-, until the first punch is thrown. . .

Mild action, fists and kicks and blood and sweat.

At the end of the round Brock goes to his corner to take instruction from his crew while he eats the heads off of live chickens. Rutten in his corner admires himself in a mirror provided by his corner team. He sings Little Bunny Foo Foo. Joe Roegan has already jizzed his pants. You Dana White, are already counting the money. . . That fresh green blood money. . . Smell it. . . Peel off the bills like rose pedals.

She loves me. . . She loves me. . . She loves me. . .The bell rings, they take to the center of the ring again, Brock's chest matted with bloody red feathers, Rutten smiling about the damage he's already imagining in his head. The moment is brief but they are like sprinters at the starting line, coiled tense like springs, waiting for the gun to go off. . . Waiting for the gun to go off. . . Waiting for. . .The bell rings! The sprinters are off! Punches and kicks galore! Its a real pony show! Rutten with the palm strikes. And here comes number 2 on the outside! The Chicken Eating Mother Fucker! Lesnar with a thunderous take down! The Swank Swede far behind! They're rounding the bend! Its The Chicken Eating Mother Fucker! He's turning his face into hamburger meat! This one aint even close folks! Around that bend and down the home stretch! They're off like Israeli rockets! Jostling for postion! More hamburger meat folks! He just won't go down! The Swank Swede! He staggers! -ding- Saved by the bell!

As for the rest. . . well you'll have to see when it comes out on Pay Per View.

iR

The Savage Assault of Ben Savage

A strange party in the dust bowl that is Bakersfield, California, where dreams come to die. Its a town of a certain breed, too retarded to realize their lands bare no fruit; to legalize gambling like Vegas and realize desert people are generally deranged. Although its not quite a desert, its far from the lights of Hollywood, the genius of Silicone Valley, and even farther from liberal San Francisco. On this night of nights, its home to a strange party, one of like minded individuals over the hump and out of sight, the forgotten forlorn stragglers left after a dream fizzled out in their hands with the clink of ice and soothing burn of yet another drink.

I was there.

I saw it all. Every brutal second of it. It was like a funeral procession.

And listen:

I'll tell it to you now.

When I arrived I believed myself to be hallucinating - finally flipped your wig this time boy-o. There were people already dancing and taking in the merriment of drinking with fine friends at a social gathering. But these were no normal people, they all seemed to be T.V. stars who were once hot shit; third rate actors from movies you could hardly remember the names of; comedians who were once funny but somehow faded into the void; porn stars that were only recognizable to obscure heavy masterbators; odds and ends of the entertainment world, sprinkled out carelessly like matchsticks all about the room and in every corner. Had it been the 90's I probably would have found myself in a sweet little loft somewhere in the hills, but no, this was 2010, and all these people were now over with or clinging desperately to some sort of fame, and partying in fucking Bakersfield, California. Fucking Bakersfield, where whole neighborhood blocks are made up of circus performers, where LARPing is considered "a fun thing to do," where not even the hookers have the heart to play along and act like they are interested. . . I wondered whom it was who attracted these people like cockroaches - would they scatter if I turned on the lights?

Was it Johnny Knoxville?

No. . . No signs of meth and heroin addicts around. . . No burned furniture, no Bam Magera and his infinitely retarded friends running around from room to room, cackling like banshees and causing drug and alcohol fueled havoc. There was no destruction, no upturned furniture outside on the patio, nothing torn from its foundation, and none of the surprised frightened faces of onlookers resulting from such acts. Nope, it couldn't be Knoxville. But who then? The decor of the room suggested a certain sort of taste, yet it all seemed too formulaic. It seemed phony, as if the head of party wasn't even the owner of the home, but rather a renter, and the building itself often found itself in style and decor magazines. . . But who the fuck would wan't to live in Bakersfield? . . . Someone wanting to hide, but who? Knoxville is too retarded to realize he should be ashamed of himself. . . But who? I was beginning to absorb the dread of the place, and got to feeling that the very dust of this rotten town was made from the bones of men, when my answer came, from the second floor.

It was muffled by cookie cutter middle class walls, and though it was distorted by insulation, it still had a slight twinge of drunkeness which fell heavily on M's and O's.

"You know whoooo I ammmm?" It came, with feet stomping down the stairs: -THUMP-THUMP-THUMP- "I ammm the oooone and ooonly. . . ." Muffled, -THUMP- THUMP- THUMP- THUMP. He came around the corner, into the kitchen, where Snooki from the Jersey Shore just so happened to be hosting her own little dance party. The following video was then recorded:

But what happens? What changed this video from a 3 minute dance fest into an abrupt public message? . . . Ben Savage finally noticed the camera:

"Is your mom going to see this?" And then the camera suddenly cuts to Snookie with the camera in her face, a voice in the background saying "There we go."

But what happened in between the cut? I know, I was there. . .

Listen:

"Is your mom going to see this?" He walked toward her and she shut off the camera. "What the fuck were you thinking? Just who do you think you are?" It seemed that Corey Matthews in fact grew up to be a horrible mean mean man, with an ego inversely as large as the shortness of his temper. "Do you know who I am?" He started to shake her. "Do you know who the fuck I am?! I'm Ben FUCKIN' Savage - which means not only am I hot SHIT and FUCKING famous but I am the one running this little party going on around you." He he waved his arms around to illustrate, they made circles over dead beats drinking and forgotten stars mingling with forgotten personalities, and me in the corner, totally flipping my wig. . . I had never seen Corey Matthews curse before, especially with such gusto. . . I expected Mr. Feeni to come out at any minute, to escort him out of the room so that he may be berated in private. "And in turn, that makes me the owner of this FUCKING home, making it my sanctuary, my nest free from the public eye. . . And I'd like to think that I should be able to throw a FUCKING party with my friends without having to put up with cameras. . . But oh no I guess I was wrong." He was becoming more and more angry - each curse word cutting through the air with certain insolence. They seemed foreign. Out of place.

"I'm sorry, I just- I just. . ." Snookie said, frightened.

"You just what?" He boomed, the percussion of which had seemed to interrupt the party. Now i was no longer alone, transfixed in a shocked gaze. Snookie floundered as if pinned to the counter by his gaze, and there was no way for her to escape it, boxed in like a caged animal. "Just thought you'd prolong those five minutes of fame that got you here. . . You're lucky I even let you stay - my parties are for a certain class of people - people that don't include orange skinned Oompa Loompa Jersey trash like you."

It was one of the most creative insults I had heard in a long time.

Snookies mouth popped open, to be called an Oompa Loompa not only implied that her tan was fake, but also that she was portly, perhaps even down right fat. The former eating disorder reared its ugly head again; surged through her body and up her spine in lightening bolts - worming up into her face making it scrunch up, and into her eyes producing a torrent of tears. They rolled down her face trailing black clown make up streams of salt and bitterness.

"Yeah thats right." Ben continued. "Just another Hoover vacuum come to get a little of ole Ben. Come to suck a little life and a little recognition out of me. Just another vulture."

He then went on about ethics among celebrities - using the destinction in Snookie's case rather loosely - and about how paparazzi are scum, and in turn it is frowned upon to whip out a camera and start filming away amongst other celebrity friends. He spoke calmly but you could tell there was a certain anger boiling away somewhere underneath the surface. At any moment it looked as if he would pop, cartoonishly shooting out steam from his ears. He went on about the priveledge of being allowed into such parties, but I missed most of it. I had to piss and clear my head. Was it all a hallucination brought on from all the drink? A mild fantasy sprining up from insanity like bubbles amongst a fog of terror filled confusion?

Perhaps.

But as I left the bathroom, the spectres were still all there, as clear as day, as ugly as sin. Ben was ending his tirade, Snookie had stopped crying and although the tension had waned in the room, it still clung to the floorboards. It seemed hard to walk, maybe it was all the drink.

Maybe.

"Good - now why don't you film yourself and not me. Mmmkay?" He lifted her camera. It went on. "There we go."

"You see the fist pump everywhere. . ." She said but lost her spirit. The entire video had been ruined, for what started out as an attempt of shameless self promotion became yet another reminder of her adequacy. The joy had evaporated, she had once again been defeated - and by Ben Savage of all people. He was always somewhat of a hero to her, for he was the only one who would always be there for her, when no one else would. . . Yes, under the warm glow of the T.V. she found comfort in his show and wondered what it would be like to be so normal. He's no hero anymore, not to her anyway. She lowered her camera like her own personal axe as her eyes glared with a certain hatred towards him. "Well I never liked Boy Meets World anyway." She lied, and then stormed off through the house - all heels -clackclackclackclackclack-. She went off to gather the courage to come back and really tell the bastard off. Her retreated defeated left Mr. Savage the victor, and in his victory he took to gloating about it to everyone around him. He even toasted to the bitch, as her sobs echoed out through the hallway. It was wicked, I thought.

Someone should say something. I made my first movement in what seemed like hours, but I was hindered by my feet which felt like bricks, and -clackclackclackclack- Snookie was coming back for round two. She barreled through the doorway, her hair poof ruffled, her eyes red from crying. . . She may have been a hair under five feet, but she had puffed herself up so big and tall she felt she could tower above the world, and even Ben seemed frightened.

"You - you - you-" She swelled with so much anger the words choked her up as her feeble mind tried desperately to conjure up an effective enough insult. "You bastard. . . you ugly little. . ."

And then it happened. It was but a snapshot of ugliness, a brief moment, but one which carried the same weight of an all out brawl. It may as well have been a massacre.

Look:

Yes this is indeed a genuine photograph (lawl I feel like a paranormal photographer) - no photoshop went into making this photo. It is one hundred purr-cent gen-u-innne reality right dur. Always the gentlemen, Mr. Savage smiled for a photograph, even when assaulting a bitch.

Now I knew for sure that I was crazy, either that or punching Snookie in the face had become the newest trend in Hollywood. He cold cocked her one, the sound like raw meat succumbing to some great force. She then hit the floor, a sack of potatoes. Moldy potatoes. Moldy crying potatoes with cooch exposed.

Tater tots.

French fries.

I left the room and collapsed outside, tears mixing with the dirt. It was the only rainfall Bakersfield ever seems to get - the tears of tired and worn out men. I didn't cry for Snookie. I didn't cry for Ben.

I cried because sometimes you see something and are reminded of yourself. . .

iR

*Note: In reality Ben doesn't even drink. He's such a pussy he doesn't even touch the stuff. So I guess this was all a waste of your time.

Kiddie Leashes: Infinitely Retarded

*Sometimes life runs parallels. So don't get confused, its three tiers twisted together like a fuckin' Twizzler.

After the 'incident at McDonald's' involving one Ashton Kutcher throwing a temper tantrum after finding out that the soda machines were out of his favorite sugar drink, fruit punch, Demi Moore took to fashioning Ashton with his very own kiddie leash. It was the very same one she used now, pulling Ashton from the Caribbean surf one tug and grunt at a time, so that they may go and have themselves a nice nap.

(Life is problematic enough without having to watch your kids, for there's nothing worse than offspring with the feet of a road runner and the curiosity of a cat. . . If only they were tethered to me and couldn't get away. . . Why the little bastard has it coming - being so full of life and all - don't he know he took it from me? Just sucked it up like so much water till there wasn't a drop left and all that remained was a drought of wrinkled features and dried skin? It seems my only natural reaction, to reach up a snuff him like a filthy little pigeon. . . to cage him till his wings serve no purpose other than to prove that he was once free. . . ) Gloria thought wicked thoughts of her child as he tried his best to escape from his kiddie leash. He kicked just like a dog caught on the scent of another beasts odor, for he wanted desperately to be free, free from his captor, who to him, was no longer Mom but rather Attila the Hun. . . Elsewhere thought a pitchman:

"Shit, I'm fucked."

He stood in front of an entire crew of similar leather faced business men, pitching a new break-through in the Kiddie leash industry. It was a product that he thought of all on his own.

"Alright guys, I'm real excited about this one. " Douche LeDouche said. He sweated profusely, feeling as if those 10 pairs of eyes watching him were really just 10 different fires, warming up to burn him alive. "Its a new prototype, a little something I've been toying around with here in the office. . . Its, uh, kind of revolutionary in a way, but also somewhat retro. Its a sort of throw back kind of thing." He covered his mouth and laughed nervously, the joyous sounds spewing in between his fingers and into the brains of all the bitter men around him. It may has well been Jello; it was childish.

"Get on with it, Mr. LeDouche!" An angry bigwig said.

In the Caribbean Demi wiped Ashton down, taking particular interest in the corners of his mouth. She adjusted his skewed swim trunks and squeezed his cheeks. Gloria smoked another cigarette and loathed she hadn't started earlier - before the damn tike was around - when all this smoking would do her some good. Douche LeDouche sweat from the forehead and around the ears.

"Well, I was thinking of Michael Vick the other day." He swallowed, pure limestone. "And I got to thinking about dog fights, a natural sort of progression when considering Mr. Vick's history, you see. I thought of them dogs. . . Those viscous things, praised for their blood-lust, and much like most dogs, forgiven for behaviors deemed inappropriate; a priveledge that is also given to children. . . And so, gentlemen. . ." He smiled again, half in fear and half in total pig headed confidence. "May I introduce to you - " . . . He pulled a blank sheet of canvas paper from its giant pad . . . " - The Muzzle!" . . . Revealing a diagram that looked like this:

Yes that's right. . . THE MUZZLE! Child too wacky and hopped up sugar to watch all the damn time? Too busy trying to pick up boyfriends? Is your son also a biter? Well with HASBRO's new product, The MUZZLE, you'll be able to pick up Johny Hot-Pants without having to watch your child - or having to worry about him releasing the pent up aggression that is often associated with being ignored, in the form of a savage bite that takes someone's ear off! If it's good enough for Dr. Hannibal Lecter, surely it's good enough for your child!

Gloria spat, indifferent. Demi tended to Ashton, preparing him for bed. Mr LeDouche took to sweating some more. Gloria's child started wearing himself out. He ran in place, tethered to the immovable object that was his mother. LeDouche stood in front of an audience of silent onlookers. His neck seemed to be swelling, or rather his collar seemed to be shrinking (Maybe all that damn sweat - I never was one for public speaking. . . I always got nervous, I always would sweat, I always turned red. I'm probably red now.) Right about now he was looking like a bright apple.

"Alright. . . Park it." Gloria said, looping the handle of the kiddie leash around a concrete pole painted a dull yellow. "Momma needs some whiskey to get her through the day. . ." The door to the convenient mart opened with the ring of a bell, and shut with a soft hiss. LeDouche still stood in front of his clients, already preparing to be fired. Gloria's child kicked nervously outside the market, even snarled at a stranger, growling a guttural mutt language that in its native tongue, means "fuck off. . ." Demi Moore peeled back the sheets of the bed preparing it for Ashton.

"I fuckin' love it!" Shouted on of LeDouche's potential career killers.

"A pint of whiskey." Asked Gloria.

"Come now, beddy-by time Ashtie!" Advised Demi.

"Really?" LeDouche nearly choked on the words the relief was so great.

"Abso-fucking-lutely." The man said. "Greatest idea since the introduction of the backpack buddy. Genius boy-o, genius. How they gonna say the kiddie leash is restrictive and treats kids like animals now? We're saving lives boy-o, saving lives. . ."

The backpack buddy, in case you were wondering as to its look. . . Yeah a friendly beast with its arms and legs wrapped around you, its "junk" poking you in the back. . . Many heroin users say the addiction is much like a backpack buddy; you've always got something on your back and although you're happy, everyone around you is pointing and laughing their asses off.

Gloria left the store with the same ring and hiss, opening her bottle for a quick swig. She took the leash from its pole and began to walk the boy. He took straight off, tugging away at the leash, his mother behind tending to the rope and her newly acquired pint. LeDouche and his men packed up their things and made their way through the office, ready to go home and fuck their wives - today was a good day. (Ok, lets go, a head nod was all he needed.) Demi Moore tucked Ashton into bed, kissing his cheek before slipping under the covers herself.

"Aww you little fucker, you'll take my arm off." Gloria said.

"You think it'll sell?" LeDouche asked.

"Nightie night." Demi said, eyes already closed.

Gloria's child wormed his way around the corner of a building, his body at a 45 degree with the ground. Gloria didn't notice, she was too busy drinking, but her son noticed them right away, and took off like a rocket down the sidewalk. He shot off so fast the leash slipped through Gloria's fingers, and followed behind the boy like a long tail. LeDouche and his cronies had exited the office, there was a certain calm in the air - a certain joy that no doubt emanated from this new idea. Success was at their fingertips, and yet there seemed to be a strangeness in the air. . . The kid drew closer, one sidewalk square at a time. LeDouche felt uneasy. Closer. Demi dreamed of bunny rabbits and lilac. Closer still. Ashton dreamed of basketballs. Closer. . . He pounced.

Douche LeDouche turned his head just in time. Demi rolled over in bed. Gloria screamed. Douche LeDouche screamed. Gloria's son didn't scream, he growled and dined on LeDouche's ear - ripped it clean off his head.

"Yeah. . . I think it'll sell. . ." The blood poured from his ear as the boy was pried from his head.

In the Caribbean Ashton woke suddenly from his bed.

"Just a nightmare, thats all." Demi said.

And put him back to sleep.

iR

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

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*And so I half ass yet another project.