Billy the Exterminator: Epic Retardation

The underbelly of Louisiana is a dirty one.  Its swamps and bogs are home to alligators, bats, rabid raccoons, and venomous snakes.  The very trees are perfect for wasp nests, its practically a death pit for the untrained. . . Luckily the world of vermin has a ferocious natural enemy with 21 years of experience under his belt:  Billy the Exterminator.  This guy:

Criss Angel meets Brett Michaels.  Yes, this guy actually exists and is one of A&E's 'reality' tv show 'stars' . . . The exterminator badge worn like Dog the Bounty Hunter, the cowboy hat, the Matrix glasses, the 'hip' facial hair, the frosted mullet, the black tee with aftermarket spikes attached with matching studded belt. . . everything about this guy screams douche bag.

Tonight's Episode:  Snakes. . . In Waiting. . .

Billy races down an empty Louisiana road, lush vegatation on one side, wretched murky water on the other.  The passenger in his black Tacoma pick up truck is Ricky, his brother and right-hand man.  Ricky, like his brother, shares a similar love for mullets and he and his brother usually get along nicely.  They both even love heavy metal, mostly Twisted Sister.

Suddenly Billy's cellphone lights up.

"Hey ma."  He says.

On the other end, back at the home base, Mom tends to all the calls from potential customers.  She's got big poofy red hair kept up by chemicals and a cheap grin caked with matching red-orange lipstick.  She's got ice blue eyes and is about as dumb as one can be.

"Yeah hon!  We-we just got a-a-"  She's horrible at reading her lines.  "A call from a crematorium place, 'bout a snake - you gotta get there right away!  Right away!"

"Yeah ok ma."

" . . . Remember now," she says.  "Don't get bit!"

Billy hangs up the phone and scoffs.

"I don't know what mom is worried about (yeah you got them sick shoulder spikes to protect you) like. . ."  He throws up his arms as if he were suddenly frightened.  "Oh God!  Gotta get down there lickety split!  you know?"

Ricky nods and smirks.  Ricky aint big on words. . .

"Prolly just some snake got in there. . . It did storm yesterday.  You know how they like to move indoors when its cold and wet out."  He pauses, giving the viewer ample time to register the wisdom he just imparted; cold bad - he strokes his soul patch - heat good.

At the job Ricky and billy take to the building and utilize long sticks and tongs to poke and prod everything in their search of the snake.  Its a sweeping tactic Billy developed when he was a hired exterminator for the United States Air Force.  Aside from prodding around billy is also wise enough to get on all fours to peek under a cabinet elevated by its wheels, and if he didn't feel vulnerable enough, he decides to turn and focus his attention on his brother Ricky so that he may once again mention how dangerous venomous snakes can be and how this meant one must always be alert and cautious. . . Any second now the bastard is gonna get it, just you wait and see. . . Any second now. . . After a sweep of the area, no snake is found, but Billy, with his keen expert eyes spots out a grate near the ground unprotected.

"Yeah, snake definitely got in here.  He opened it to show how easy it must have been.  "Definitely, no grating on the outside.  Nothing. . ."  

"Snake!"  Ricky shouts and the two take off like they had just spotted a freshly thrown grenade.  All the tough talk, out the window like so much fresh air.

Ricky, Billy's brother and best bud.  According to the Vexcon website, Ricky "has proven that being an exterminator can be an act of patriotism."  God-damn terrorist mosquitoes.  Aside from being a true patriot, Ricky is also considered to be a "heart-throb" amongst strange sects of human deformity unknown to city folk and native Louisianians foreign to the deep pockets of the thickest swamps found in the area.

After a change of pants and a recooping period involving lots of Heavy Metal--to get into the mood--the boys are back in the location with a well developed plan on how to bag this particular ornery snake.

"What you gotta do is quite simple.  You gotta stuff him in a bucket." 

The bucket comes out, Ricky tight on the bucket.  He's the bucket man, ready to put the lid on the second the snake gets stuffed.  Billy, he's the stuffer, he's got a long set of tongs with an iron like grip he uses to pick up angry snakes with.  The particular rattler to be caught has been cornered, and Billy spears him with the tongs and the snake lashes out with venomous fangs dripping and wet.  A camera on the tongs shows all the close up action, and the snake fights just like a fish snagged by a hook.  The boys are tense, you can tell.  Sweat graces their brows, drips from their mullets, leaving trails like snails, greasy and the smell of hair gel and sweat.

They bark orders at one another.

The boys are tense, you can tell.

The snake is pissed, you can tell.

And so the snake is put in the bucket and the top is put on and the boys go to whooping and hollering.  They are red and sweaty and happy.  They grin like cats and spy their recently caught foe.

And that is it.  The viewer is like 'wtf.'

The show isn't particularly exciting because none of the adrenaline comes when watching someone else face the idea of death - its not even like you're scared these guys might bet bit - you hope for it.  You want them to get bit, and the show of course never comes through in that regard.  All 'exterminations' are successful.  Its main character dresses like an imbecile, he's all heavy metal but he's as soft as a midday candy bar.  What if you went to work like that?  Certainly you'd be laughed at - so why does he get to dress like Motely Crue?  How does a man with Master have the balls to dress like a bike dyke?

Clearly theres retardation of epic proportions involved.  How else could one explain this Bretherton Family holiday card?

And they wonder why nobody comes over for the holidays.

Though one can easily applaud this man for his unprecedented humanity in the field of rodent and pest removal, no one, no one, can ever forgive him for that horrible mullet.  The only real reason to watch the show is to try and spot his customers trying not to laugh right in his face.  You can see it, a slight smile hidden under a stern and serious face.  The corners of the mouth always slightly upturned, as if at any moment the client will lose control and burst out laughing.

And they have every right to, in my opinion.

It is for these reasons, along with his horrible wardrobe that iR declares Billy the Exterminator, epically retarded.

Further Retardation

Billy Bretherton has a Masters Degree from LSU in Termite/Pest Control

Billy carries with him a certain philosophy of life all of his own, and has been reported to say "education never stops as I grown in my job and my life."

Billy is a prominent guest speaker who's speech includes "scary/fun/bizarre" stories about the extermination business and his time filming for A&E, his understanding of nature - "mean but green" and the intricacies of the extermination business. . . His schedule is currently wide open.

Billy's extermination company is family owned and operated, it is called Vexcon.

Billy's outfit is actually sold on the Vexcon website:

• Vexcon cowboy hat: 36 dollars
• Vexcon studded fingerless leather gloves: 24 dollars
• Vexcon tee: 25 dollars
• Vexcon spiked studded leather belt: 59 dollars
• Vexcon studded wristband: 49 dollars
• Vexcon sunglasses: 28 dollars

Grand total: 224 dollars. . . looking like a d-bag has never cost so much.

Billy the Exterminator is produced by September Films, who's body of work includes such trash as The Pregnant Man, 650 lb Virgin, Boys Joined at The Head, and Bridezillas.

For more retardation feel free to visit Billy the Exterminator at his website on aetv.com or vist the Vexcon company website itself at Vexconinc.com

iR

The Unfunny Bitch in The Room: Sarah Silverman

A lot of people have said that Sarah Silverman is where she is today because she is one of only a handful of women willing to drop to her knees and suck Jimmy Kimmel's dick. . . This simply is not true: she's willing to suck anyone's dick for a job.

Born December 1, 1970, Sarah Silverman is a "comedian," "writer," "actress," "singer," and musician (the upright skin flute.) Her career started after meeting Lorne Michaels of Saturday Night Live - but to her credit she didn't know she was blowing the father of SNL, she believed him just to be another average Joe willing to shell out fifteen bucks for a blowie. She was brought in as a writer, though how much writing she actually did is not known. Her onscreen contributions however were limited to background work, as Sarah doesn't do characters or voices, or comedy for that matter. For instance she was one of the dancing foods during Adam Sandler's "Lunch Lady Land" song, the skit making up most of her onscreen time with the show. A whole 4 minutes. Needless to say the unfunny Sarah Silverman was fired after a year of her "services," and like Marty McFly in Back to The Future 2, it was done by fax. BURNNNNN.

Note: Websites actually sell replicas of this fax to Back to the Future Superfans. . . spending 20 bucks on a photocopy never felt so good.

From there it was off to other forgettable roles for television shows that either went on successfully without her, or died silently in her very hands. A hand job got her on the sketch comedy show Mr. Show, but that gig only lasted 2 years. She appeared on Seinfeld, as Kramer's girlfriend - she had to eat Larry David's asshole out for that part. Double penetration got her a spot on Star Trek: Voyager for a whole two-part episode, a demonstration with sex toys was needed for a regular role on Greg The Bunny, and of course a blow job for Mr. Jimmy Kimmel was given in return for a part on Crank Yankers.

Her movie career is equally as forgettable and epically retarded. For instance, Silverman played Mary's friend in There's Something About Mary, what? Yep. She was also in Evolution, and I've seen that movie more than David Duchovny has, and I don't seem to remember her in that either - she's like some kind of Jewish specter. School of Rock, Bulworth, School for Scoundrels, and I Want Someone to Eat Cheese With are also included in her filmography, but none of these are more offensive than Funny People. Being rather unfunny, the sexual acts she had to perform on the producers of that movie to get the part are so vile--so illegal-- that I can't bare to mention them aloud, let alone put them in text for all of eternity on such a reputable and tasteful blah-g (blog) as mine.

Her movie, Sarah Silverman Jesus is Magic is a movie/rock opera/stand-up special, and all three facets of the movie suck bawlz. Its 109 minutes long, but seems more like a three hour epic. The songs aren't particularly funny, nor is the stand-up, the majority of which discussed 9/11, AIDS, Cancer, Jews, Blacks, racial slurs, and the Holocaust just to a name a few. I don't know what is more surprising, that this woman actually sold out a theatre, or that people actually found her funny. Her jokes are more offensive then anything. . . For instance:

• "I told my niece everytime she loses at tag, God gives someone AIDS."
• "Being first is important. . . If American Airlines was smart, their motto would be 'American Airlines' because we were the first to hit the towers.'"
• "No no, 9/11 was a tragic day, for me personally. . . It was the day I found out soy chai lattes are like 900 calories. . . And I had been drinking them like everyday."
• "I'm gonna feel like such a Jap for saying this. . . But this diamond I want to get is so pretty. . . And by Jap I mean Japanese. . . Its made from the tailbones of Ethiopian babies. . . Soooooo cute."

Deadpan line after deadpan line, and somehow the audience finds it funny. Occasionally you're given a break from the comedy, with a cut to a pre-recorded music number. "You're gonna die soon, you're gonna die soon." She sang to a group of elderly people at an old folks home. It seemed like hours had passed. To my dismay I had only watched 30 minutes worth of "funny material," I found myself thinking "If only Jimmy were here." For if he was Sarah's mouth would be full, and I would no longer have to hear her try and be funny.

Shit Central, looking for its next offensive unfunny show (MIND OF MENCIA) saw Sarah's special and undoubtedly found it funny. A golden shower later and Sarah Silverman had her own show - The Sarah Silverman Program. . . It opened to 1.8 million viewers, a record at the time, but this isn't at all surprising, The Jeff Dunham show opened to record breaking numbers too, but thankfully drowned quickly soon after. Yet, somehow Sarah's show has managed to make it passed episode 3, in fact past even season 1. The Sarah Silverman Program has had three seasons worth of episodes, so naturally one might assume that she is perhaps funnier and less offensive than Jeff Dunham... right?

Yeah, Sarah Silverman fans are the type of youtubers who film copyrighted material on their televisions: in short they're retarded. . . Horrible sound yes: The Young Sarah Silverman has some dog shit on the end of a stick, and is standing on the sidewalk saying Doodie at every car that drives by, while her mother slowly dies inside. So funny. . . like omg!

Despite her popularity among the Shit Central crew, the Emmy's did not share their love of Sarah Silverman. Although she was nominated for Outstanding Lead Actress, she did not win, losing instead to Toni Collette from the miniseries Tsunami: The Aftermath.

So what's in her future? Well she's no longer dating Jimmy Kimmel -- his connections can no longer get her anywhere. She's now dating one of the writer/producers of Family Guy and therefore an asshole by association, Mr. Alec Sulkin. Perhaps a spot on the similarly unfunny show is in her future, perhaps Sarah has finally found her home among similar clowns with no sense of humor whatsoever.

Due to her ability to turn whatever she touches to shit, and similarly her ability to never ever go away, Infinitely Retarded declares Sarah Silverman: Infinitely Retarded.

FURTHER RETARDATION

Was placed #50 on Maxim's Hot 100 list, which isn't all the surprising, as I'm sure Maxim 'readers' are hardly interested in a woman's personality, or whether or not she possesses a humor or even a voice worth listening to. The following year she moved up to #29 and appeared on the cover.

The Observer in the UK had an article naming her "the world's hottest, most controversial comedian."

Doesn't consume alcohol, it 'nauseates' her.

Started some controversy after telling a joke involving a New York radio and TV personality named Joe Franklin. She claimed he raped her. She told it very straight faced, very dead pan, almost as if it were a fact. People found this offensive... Also Joe Franklin, who had never met her before, claimed he was going to sue her for defamation, but never followed through.

Struggled with bedwetting when she was a teenager.

Plays Scrabble on the internetz.

Currently dating Family Guy producer/writer and therefore asshole by association, Alec Sulkin.

Sold an idea of a book of humorous essays to HarperCollins for 2.5 million. Holy fuck hook it up.

She's the unfunny bitch in the room, that is unless Andy Samberg walks in.

iR.

The Legend of Shaqsquatch

Lumbering through the brush, a giant among insects, the beast looks for a meal. It knows no fear, for its strength is unmatched, and it knows no other creature to be stronger. All enemies have fallen, and all prey has served to further its blood lust. As strong as it is, within it a sadness swells, a certain humiliation which it tries to ignore, but it cannot. Like a lump it sits in its stomach, and all the blood and flesh cannot quench it, cannot make it subside. The beast has tried, and to no avail. . .

Not far from it, a scout troop hikes through the forest looking for level ground to set up camp. Noticing they're losing light, and, having spent the entire day camping and swimming in the river, they're exhausted and want to rest. They find a suitable place and it isn't long before they set up camp for the night, with the help of their scout leader. A fire is built, and the 6 scouts, along with their leader have a dinner of hot dogs and roasted marshmallows. After the meal jovial talking commences about the day, about the many things they had seen, but soon they bore of it and want to hear a scary story. It was a practice which their scout leader was quite famous for and often on trips like these it was expected, so with full bellies they gather closer around the camp fire as their scout leader finishes his coffee, easing himself. He looks around, biding the time, and finally begins his tale after many requests.

"The Legend of Shaqsquatch." He begins. "Many men have heard of Sasquatch, but I tell you boys, there's a far more ferocious beast out there, and he's much bigger too. His name is Shaqsquatch. . ."

Somewhere miles off the creature stops its search, its ears perk up. Its head turns towards a word it had not heard in many years - a word which shot across the forest like a bullet and hit it right between the eyes. That word. That haunting word "Shaq . . . squatch." Immediately it turns, its belly growing red hot once again: embarrassment, and it feels it must face it. . .

"I know about him because my Dad was the last one to see him. . . Right before he died!" He says, the shocking revelation bringing gasps to the mouths of a few scouts. They cup their mouths: a scout should never be afraid. "Yes, right before he died. . . That rotten beast, created in the depths of this very forest, on a cold and stormy night, when NBA Star Shaquille O'Neal gave his seed to the demon beast: Sasquatch." The leader continues, and tells the children all about the late 90's when a shooting guard and a center hooked up and became a dynamic duo for a team out of Los Angeles called the Lakers. The scouts, having been too young to be cognitive of a silly trivial thing like professional basketball know very little of Kobe Bryant, nor Shaquille O'Neal for that matter and sit dazed, waiting for the scary part. He details their three-peat, those three years when Kobe and Shaq got along well enough to bring the team to the finish line on top, and tells of their falling out, when they parted ways and the 'dynasty' was broken up.


The beast moves on, driven by the names. . . Shaq. . . Sasquatch. . .

"Soon Shaq would leave the team, and go to the Miami Heat, where after two years, they won the NBA Championship. They were pretty happy about it, most of all Shaq, who had received criticism from the sports world who had said that Shaq could never win it without Kobe. Shaq gloated, and even publicly dissed Kobe Bryant after winning the championship, in some NY bar. . . " The scout leader swallows hard, remembering the next part, which seems to still disgust him. "Asked Kobe how his ass taste... "

The beast draws closer, working its way through a forest it knows well, nimble, quick.

"But 3 years later Kobe won a championship of his own, and Shaq felt real embarassed. So much so that he went into hiding for a while, which is where he met Sasquatch and impregnated her: for there's no piece of pussy a basketball player wouldn't touch, I tell yah!"

The story was indeed true. After leaving the Lakers, Shaq went to the Heat and won a championship, and he did make a fool of himself in a night club, it went like this:

Love how the crowd in this N.Y. club supports Shaq after each line, and then he drops this lyric: That's like Patrick Ewing having more rings than me - and the crowd goes silent. . . Bad move Shaq, you do know Ewing played for the Knicks right? Right, well don't you think reminding New Yorkers about their lack of championship titles would be a bad move in the middle of New York no less? You're lucky you're so big. . .

Shaq truly did not know how his ass taste, but he did know the sweet taste of victory, for this video came out after he won the NBA Championship with Dwayne Wayne and the Miami Heat. . . His bragging however, would be soured many years later, for Kobe too won the NBA championship, just last year. His fourth ring and my money is on him getting another one this year.

The shame got to Shaq.

The realization that he was no longer the player he once was, got to Shaq. The "Man of Steel" had turned into the Man of Aluminum over the years, a fragile slow moving imbecile, chugging up and down the court like a train that was always starting up but never had enough time to really get going, had to stop, change directions and get to starting up again. It got to Shaq. It really did. He was on his way out, Kobe was still kickin'.

So he took off. Left the NBA, disappeared for awhile. He went up to Big Sur, where he spent time amongst other giants, namely the red woods which densely populated the area. The child in him lead himself to believe he were a desperado, or some western bounty hunter off chasing some snake in the grass gambler who ran off with all the town's money. He went everywhere really, and at times wrote rap songs about the red woods, or the forest, but none of the songs were as good as his early stuff, which admittedly wasn't very good at all in the first place. He wandered like this for nearly a week, until one cold stormy night in the woods Shaq sought shelter. Thunder cracked the sky, lighting ripped across the black night, a jagged wound. He found the dripping mouth of a cave, which he entered fearlessly, for in recent weeks he had felt big again. It is there in that cave that he met and shared a bed with Sasquatch. Despite popular belief, she is female, not male.

"Despite popular belief," The scout leader says, the features in his face lit by an orange glow. "Sasquatch is female, and as I said Shaq spent the night with her and spawned himself a child. . ." He leans closely towards the children. "Shaqsquatch!"

The beast could smell the flesh of men, it knew it well. It knew it was close. . . That name, "Shaqsquatch. . ." Far off a fire glowed amidst the darkness. There, there was its food, waiting for him:

"Shaqsquatch, a beast nearly eight feet tall." He stands on a stump to illustrate the massiveness of the beast. The fire lights up the scene, and his shadow dances in the light, nearly 9 feet tall. His arms are extended, fingers curled like claws. "As big as a house. . . With teeth as sharp as razor blades, stained pink from the blood of his many and numerous victims. He has huge feet like his father, big enough to squash your head like a measly. . . little. . . grape." He looks deep into the eyes of one scout, his thumb and forefinger coming together to show how easy it would be for Shaqsquatch. . .

"And I hear. . ." He looks around as if he is about to let them all in on a big secret. "He likes the flesh of children best. . ." He laughs maniacally, but the children aren't. They stare on, too afraid to listen, but even more afraid not to. Their over active imaginations perceive every rustle of brush, every snap of a twig to be no other than Shaqsquatch, coming to kill them all. They warn their leader of their probably danger, but he does not share their fear.

"Oh its just your imagination. . . There's no Shaqsquatch. Or is there? Should I call for him?"

The children beg no.

The beast smells the fire. It can almost feel it. It can hear voices. Only seconds now.

"Oh yes, to call him would be foolish." Ever hear of Troop 215?" The kids replied with the negative. "Well that's because they were all eaten, every last one of em. You don't have to believe me if you don't want to, but be careful tonight. When you're sleeping. Warm in your bags. Defenseless. That's what little Jimmy Marshall thought that fateful night: that he was safe, that he was ok. But he wasn't, for Shaqsquatch stalked him, tugged at his sleeping bag. Tug, tug, and then. . . ." The scout leader jumps down from the stump, pawing at a scout while letting out a vicious growl. Its so surprising they all scream. "He ATTACKED!" Realizing it all a ruse they fall into laughter, kicking feet and poking fun at any they deem to be 'really scared.'

"Ate him up Shaqsquatch, did. Ate him slow too, they say sometimes on a clear night, you can still hear the screams of poor little Jimmy Marshall, his specter doomed to an eternity of brutal, bloody Shaqsquatch attacks. They all pause to listen. The only sound is the wind tossing the tree tops, all is silent. . .

All is silent; the beast knows the time is be right.

The scout leader screams, and all the kids do too, but when they realize he's only fooling they laugh and so does he. But then it happens: the top of his skull is ripped clean off, as if it were a toupee. He screams again, this time for real, and all the scouts watch in horror as he drops to his knees, his shocked face trailing streams of blood, dropping to reveal Shaqsquatch. They had just watched their scout leader have his head opened like a can of Chef Boyardee, yet some how they can't think to run, they can't think. They sit and stare as Shaqsquatch scoops out his brains like nothing more than tapeoka pudding. Two kids break from their reverie, and think to run, but Shaqsquatch grabs both with his off hand and tosses them into a nearby tree. Crumbled, the boys lie at the bottom of the tree. The other scouts he scoops up like field mice, his mouth spread wide with the idea of swallowing them all in one go. He twists their heads off, one by one, popping them into his mouth like hard candies.


And after he eats all the children, one by one, he turns to the heavens and roars out a tale of his conquest for all those around to hear, a beastly growl that comes from the very depths of his putrid belly and leaves trails of something rotten in the air:

"Hey Kobe, tell me how my ass tastes."

And then he tromps off out through the forest, a man beast, a myth, a legend.

FURTHER RETARDATION:

Shaq has released four rap albums, the first of which Shaq Diesel went platinum.

His nicknames include: "The Diesel," "Shaq Fu," "The Big Aristotle," "The Big Daddy," "Superman," "The Big Agave," "The Big Cactus," "The Big Shaqtus," "The Big Galactus," "Wilt Chamberneezy," "The Big Baryshnikov," "The Real Deal," "Dr. Shaq," and "Shaqovic."

Has superman's emblem tattooed on his arm.

Is really just a big kid, with many big kid toys.

Like Seagal, Shaq is a reserve officer, for Miami.

Reality show monkey: Shaq vs. NBA Ballers, appeared on an episode of "Motorcycle Mania 2" with Jesse James, appeared on an episode of Fear Factor, Jackass, as well as Punk'd.

Kazaam.... need I say more?

Steel. . . for which he was nominated for a Razzie Award: Worst Actor

iR

Shaqsquatch concept created by: Wild Jesse.

Jon Heder: Completely Retarded

God had been kind to the Heder family, He had given them six children, two of which were particularly special. Aside from their brothers and sisters, these two were identical twins, one of whom happened to be Jon Heder. Jon was born in 1977 making him today in 2010, 33 years old, but if you were to look at him you'd struggle to decree him even old enough to drink. A Mormon and devote follower of his religion, he lives the straight edge lifestyle, one free of alcohol, drugs (one must assume he includes marijuana worthy of this category,) cigarettes, and caffeine. Its a distinction which in my eyes, makes him rather untrustworthy: just as sober men despise drunkards - drunkards despise "sober men" for often it is the case - with few exceptions - that they too possess the same ugliness, only differed in its deviation but similarly just as destructive.

His career was catapulted in tumultuous obscurity after Napoleon Dynamite - a movie for which he is most known. It is a quirky movie filled with quirky characters often imitated but never duplicated. Jon plays the main character, Napoleon Dynamite, a total mouth-breathing douche bag stuck in the empty void that is high school. The real tragic part is that Jon was 27, 27 years old when he played this part, a real mystery in that he really looks 16, with a quirky body made of skinny bones and knobby joints, and a face not yet ready to sprout facial hair. This was not the work of a razor or any make up, but rather the work of a body that still, had not yet advanced through adolescence. A late bloomer of the utmost degree, so to speak.

It was a movie that was well received, and immediately loved by some people - mostly the type of people who took to bowling. When the movie came out, I must admit I was in around the scene, the bowling scene: a wretched one occupied predominantly by fat old white women who looked like they crawled straight from the South, with tiny rat pony tales that dangled behind them and always seemed wet, by their ignorant husbands looking to blow off steam from work and by beer drinkers, and by Nascar fans (In some cases the men were all these things: husbands, beer drinkers, and Nas-car Fans.) I first heard of the movie at a tournament in the middle of Nowhere California, some place up North where the people sucked in dust and took glee in long stretches of road separating nothing but one mini mall from the next. A chick of less than average intelligence had gone on about how she loved the movie how, "I've already seen it three times. . . and, some of my cousins are in it."

Anyone who's seen Napoleon Dynamite knows this is nothing to brag about, for the mass of its characters are simple people, seemingly stuck in the eighties, with a keen eye for Native American wolf print shirts and neon hair ties.

"Napoleeeeeeon Dynamite ever saw it before?"

"Nah I've never seen it." I replied.

"Well you should! Its mighty good!"

And like any movie recommendation, I ignored it.

But the monster that was Napoleon Dynamite could not be so easily discarded. It won awards and was received well by the critics, but even worse than its commercial success was word of the movie, which spread across the country like wildfire. It lingered heavy on the air, quotations carried with the wind and seemed to be on the lips of everyone living:

"Your mom goes to college."

Discussions erupted about the existence of Lyger's, Napoleon's favorite animal. And still:

"Your mom goes to college."

Tater tots had become popular again, or at least talked about with a new found revelry vacant in years passed. And still:

"Your mom goes to college."

It was a badge of retardation, that quote, and anyone who said it was to be immediately avoided: They were Napoleon Dynamite people. The movie would come to plague Jon Heder too, for after it he was cast in nothing but similar type roles, as each movie tried to take a crack at capturing whatever it was that Napoleon Dynamite had captured - but each failed miserably, just went down in shit house history one-by-stinkin'-one. This, furthered by his Mormon values, which direct him in every aspect of his life - including his life as a movie star - left him with little choice when picking roles. When you cut out drugs, sex, rock n' roll, things that are fun, car chases, explosions, and guns, there aren't many roles left other than momma's boys (in fact Heder played a momma's boy in Momma's Boy (2007)) and total retards.

His main role in The Benchwarmers was one of a momma's boy retard (go figure.) When it comes to baseball, he is very much like the kid who sucked and had no real interest the game, but nonetheless was forced to play, and as a result was always put in right field, where he'd spend the game swinging at flies, kicking the grass or pulling up weeds; anything but paying attention to the game. He differs in that he's really 29 years old and needs to wear a helmet 24/7 to protect his soft head.

The Benchwarmers, a movie with a star studded retarded cast: Rob Schneider, David Spade, Jon Heder, and Jon Luvitz. . . My God its like a iR wet dream. This steamy piece of toilet paper cinema failed to capture the true hilarity of the movie: that these were old men who's lives were so shitty that they felt beating kids at Little League baseball would redeem all the years of failure they had accrued up to that point. Why not challenge em to a game of checkers, maybe you can get back some of the joy you lost during that failed marriage? How tragic must a man be to find validation in beating underdeveloped seven year olds in games of physical prowess? Pretty fuckin' tragic. And that, in my opinion is where this movie failed. There is however one exception, Mr. Nick Swardson. He's the only one in the movie that brings the lulz. Very unsurprising the results: the movie actually turned a profit, despite being horrible. . . I mean you know a movie sucks balls when Rob Schneider is the 'cool guy.'

Where's David Spade's helmet? Well he doesn't need one... Rob Schneider is wearing one because he happened to have just finished an at bat... Jon Heder is wearing one because he's retarded, it only happens to double as a baseball helmet here. For instance when skating its a skateboard helmet. All other times its a "life helmet," because life sure is dangerous when you're retarded.

Aside from supporting roles in Monster House, The Sasquatch Gang, and that sappy love story Just Like Heaven, nothing he starred in was ever really critically acclaimed, or well liked by anyone for that matter, and he was destined to become a one hit wonder. His movie School for Scoundrels, did horribly, and although I didn't personally see it, I must assume it sucks in that Sarah Silverman is among the cast (Note to self: do story on Sarah Silverman.) For surely, any movie that hires not only Jon Heder but Sarah Silverman isn't setting the bar very high, if at all.

Jon felt the grim reaper, he could hear him breathing through his mouth -tots-. He pictured his tombstone, that idiot engraved on it, glaring out for all eternity at everyone who came to visit his body, that idiot above him leering like a raven why the worms had their way with him. . . But through mud and through the casket, with arms extended, Will Farrell pulled him from the damp earth, saving his life. His gift: Blades of Glory. A movie which saved Jon Heder and revitalized his career: he now had two hits! Or so some douche bags say.

But really, it was a Will Ferrell sports movie, one of many (Semi-Pro, Talladega Nights, Kicking and Screaming) Jon Heder just happened to be literally along for the ride:


In the expert grasp of Will Ferrell Heder serves as the perfect whipping boy for the former to work off of, and is perhaps the only reason this movie is funny. But regardless, the best part of this movie, as well as the best part of Jon Heder's career (he later recalled) was this and only this moment:

As for his future, when he turns 40 Heder plans on playing a 25 year old, as by then he'll have a certain "raw wisdom about the eyes that a 25 year old would probably have."

FURTHER RETARDATION:

Heder is a scouting enthusiast: he and his brothers are all Eagle Scouts.

Napoleon Dynamite has made more money than any other Sundance movie, how much did it make? 46 million dollars.

Won MTV Movie Award for Breakthrough Male Performance and Best Performance.

iR

Paparazzi: Shamelessly Retarded

From coast to coast, through the empty lands in between, a human tide rolls despite the wind, the season, despite the very year, rolls on pigheadedly with weapons that can gleam like diamonds with the press of a button and have the power to capture souls -- or so the Indians thought. These men, this human tide, differ from others in the 'soul capturing' business, in that they have no morality nor any real interest in the subject they stalk, which they do mercilessly, day and night, rain or shine. Collectively, they are know for their parasitic ways, and equally their lack of remorse, and when alone, each person making up its ripples, its crests and frothy tides acts much like a filthy worm, too ignorant to know right from wrong.

They are known simply as:

The Paparazzi.

Individually they are known by many more names, many of them expletive, for even pigeons find these guys a nuisance.

They are supposed photographers, who stalk celebrities with a ferocity unmatched by even the most devoted of men. But do not let the term 'photographer' fool you, these men are no artists, and similarly aren't anywhere as talented, for surely neither art nor talent has anything to do with getting a cooch shot of Britney Spears: its more a matter of being in the right place at the right time. By 'right place' I mean any club deemed fashionable enough for Hollywood trash, and by 'right time' I mean any time after 2 am, when intoxication would most likely be toward those toxic -I'm-Gonna-Puke-Levels.

In regards to technique, its less 'aim and shoot' and more 'spray and pray,' let loose on the sucker, let the lamp flicker and light up the place like muzzle fire. If lucky, you'll get a good shot of your victim - a death wielding blow, one capable of destroying their image and reputation like so much glass . . A good shot, a fresh kill, to be fed into the gears of another machine, to be ground up and churned out with hack writing and pure bullshit, one sheet at a time - collected and bound with cheap staples, and doled out to supermarkets for swine old ladies to gaze at; to swoop up; to soil with sweaty pruned fingers; to leave left out on the table; to line the bird's cage with. . .

Pure fuel for the furnace.

These paparazzi have their own social strata, as lopsided as any other. At the top, at the very peak lay the big shot paparazzi, who are commissioned for photos for big international stars, namely Angelina Jolie. These paparazzi live in nicer homes, up in Beverly Hills, with big white gates to keep all the riff raff out, and rightfully so, for often nice cars and obstinate wealth is kept within their iron doors. Beneath them exists a group of mid-level scum, who dislike those above them, and the feeling is indeed mutual. They are the hounds who's sole preoccupation is to follow tail with their uncanny sense of smell. They've most often got leeches in their ears, Bluetooths and cellphones that slowly suck out their brains like soggy oatmeal. These are the types who take to the clubs, and snatch shots of snatch for 260 bucks a pop, who wait tirelessly anywhere and everywhere, like some undying weed that just springs up at a moments notice. They live in moderate homes, with nice squared off lawns, and well paved driveways; still quite well-to-do, but not quite upper crust. Beneath them exists an even greater scum, who's work consists of mostly blurry shots of actors nobody cares about anymore (i.e. Tara Reid,) or something everyone's already seen a million times before and is therefore no longer "gossip worthy" (i.e. Tara Reid drunk in public.) They are generally disdained by the rest of the paparazzi world, who see them as "amateurs," and the ones responsible for giving them a bad name. They live in rented apartments, or bunk with friends, some even live in their cars, which hardly function as transportation anymore, but rather as a trashcan on wheels with plenty of room for fast food wrappers and beer cans.

But then there's always an instance when every paparazzi is looking for that 'money shot,' that six figure photo that practically every magazine is looking for. What makes for a 'money shot?' Well it seems mostly photos of babies, or photos taken of celebrities seconds before/after death, wedding photos, you know the usual vulture type shit.

People for instance paid 4.1 million dollars for this shit:


Even more appalling OK! Magazine thought it necessary to drop 3 million dollars on photos of a retard marrying an old witch:

The underlying reasons as to why this is not only frightening, but also retarded, should be apparent, for there would be no way for any magazine trying to keep from going under to spend that kind of dough on a photo alone, unless they had the revenue to back it up. People has a expected revenue of 1.5 billion dollars, a circulation of 3.75 million - its teenage variation Teen People hasn't done too bad either. . . OK! Magazine is the UK's top selling trash magazine, and also has branches in the United States, Turkey, and Azerbajian, so one must assume they aren't struggling either.

A lot money floating around, yah dig?

And like snow it all comes down from the top, sprinkling down from the magazines to the editorial staff and the writers, to the secretaries manning the phones, the janitors flogging the toilets, down through the building and out to the lonely paparazzi, left to feed like vultures on whatever remained of the pot.

So who does this leave to blame?

Well paparazzi are driven, like most bad things, by money, but their photographs are only valuable because magazines and tabloids make them valuable. And why are they made valuable? Because of you of course. Without customers, there wouldn't be any hub bub over Angelina's swollen belly, nor when it deflated and a baby came out: for it is indeed logical for a woman to be able, with the help of a man to produce offspring. Yet this in no way forgives paparazzi for some of their deceitful and intrepid ways. Regardless of the first amendment, these men and women operate on the fringe of business and morality, often throwing morality out the window for the sake of a quick buck.

Celebrities are douche bags, tis the very theme of this site, and paparazzi for their willing devotion to tap the blood lines and feed the growing retardation of entire races of human beings, makes paparazzi, in the eyes of iR, shamelesly retarded.

FURTHER RETARDATION:

Celebritah Scuffles with Paparrazi:

ALEC BALDWIN - In March 1996 he allegedly gave a photographer a black eye after he swarmed he and his wife and their new born daughter.

GEORGE CLOONEY - Organized a boycott of Paramount Pictures for their use of paparazzi footage

JOHNNY DEPP - Chased off paparazzi outside a restaurant, reportedly having "flipped out."

SEAN PENN - Spent 1 month in L.A. county Jail for assaulting a photographer whose presence annoyed him and then wife, Madonna.

ROBERT DeNIRO - In 1995, was accused of pinning a photographer to a car outside of a Manhattan Bar, requesting the footage he had acquired.

WOODY HARELSON - Went to court for allegedly assaulting two cameramen during Ted Danson's Wedding, set in beautiful Napa Valley. Confessing he was merely trying to protect his daughter from being photographed, Woody nonetheless still lost the case and had to pay 80,000 in lawyer's fees.

KEANU REEVES: Was claimed to have hit paparazzi with his car after leaving a friends house.

SIENNA MILLER: Won an injunction preventing paparazzi from following her or gathering outside of her home.

AMY WINEHOUSE: Won an injunction preventing paparazzi from following her or gathering outside of her home.

LILY ALLEN: Won an injunction preventing paparazzi from following her or gathering outside of her home.

iR