Because The Apple Doesn't Fall Far From The Tree: Jamie Lynn Spears

If you peel back the yellowed pages of history, you will see that sometimes human seed shouldn't scatter about like blown dandelions (make a wish now;) sometimes it shouldn't scatter about at all.

Look:

Mr. Barney O'Field Bridges hugs the damp earth of a foxhole as all the world shatters around him, scattering in explosions of sulphur (red-orange,) of dirt (brown,) and of human bone (white, dust.)  In homes along the horizon, riddled with bullet holes, some with bombed in roofs for the sun to peak in, the enemy reigns down Hell in tiny little metal cannisters. Furniture still occupies the impromptu bases of fire.  Dinner tables still house plates and forks set up for a meal that never comes, chairs still wait for expected guests that won't be visiting anytime soon, that is if at all. . . And calenders on the walls all flap the year: 1945.

And the whole damn world is burning.

Mr. Bridges and his squad has been directed to cut on through the occupied town; another mission vital to the destruction of the Nazi Menace.  Hitler's grip on Europe has been slowly peeled back since '41, one greedy finger at a time, and although the war is nearly almost over -he could feel it- he is still worried about dying.  So damn worried about dying in fact, that he gets himself shot.  Like a needle shot from a blow gun, a bullet skated the air, and some how he could see it, the muzzle flash, the bullet exiting, its path, heading, heading, heading right this way!, and entered his chest. . .

The rest Mr. Bridges doesn't like to talk about much -not that he really could anyway- thoughts of the war leave him so choked up he often wonders if he'll ever breathe again, and in in a way, looking at him, you can tell sometimes that he wishes he wouldn't.  When he's finally dried his eyes, he always picks up his story at the London hospital where he received care for his wounds.  After many weeks, his reverie there was broken by the joyous whisperings of an end to the war, and though his shoulder still burned with a hot coal the doctors seemed to have missed surely they missed it? and his head pounded, there was only one thing that cut through the pain finer than any concoction the modern medicine world had to offer: and that was Lillian Irene Portell.  She was a nurse there, and Barney just couldn't get enough of her.  After caring for him, she too, had developed a connection with him (as is common among wounded soldiers and the nurses who mother them,) and he felt she was a beautiful export of a bird he just had to have.

And when they were wed, he bought them a nice home in Mississippi with money from his G.I. Bill.  It was a nice little place, certainly a place to raise children, with a yard and a nice white fence lining the property. And like so many couples after the war, they proceeded to produce offspring.  Their work between the sheets would give them Sandra (1947,) Barry (1951,) and Lynne (1955.)

See the pages of history, crummy and yellow as they are?  Sometimes you've got to trace the retardation back to its source.  History stacked like rocks, one leading to the next, on to the next:

These offspring would migrate all over the country, heading off to wherever reason may take them, or fortune, or family, or simply fate.  In particular, Ms. Lynne Bridges would venture out to Louisiana, where on a hot day with an orange sun that floated in a blue river sky, she would meet for the very first time, a Mr. James "Jamie" Spears.  She found him charming, and enjoyed that he had a certain look to him; that of a total D-Bag.  This smooth talking douche of course, she would wed, and their wedding would be an extravagant affair that many of the people who had the luxury of attending would talk about for many years after; would be romantic enough to turn already bitter not-yet-wed fat chick into sobbing, guilty, eating machines; and most importantly, would be bright enough to put even the sun itself to shame.

With her maiden name shed, Lynne Spears' vagina would open like crevice of Hell and plague the world with three of the Devil's own Hell-spawn:

Bryan Spears

Britney Spears

and

Jamie Lynn Spears

Bryan would go on to live in obscurity, unknown to you until just now. (You're welcome.)  Aww shucks ma, 0 for 1.  Maybe the next one will give some pride to the Spears name? 

Britney of course would be an ex-Mouseketter with a mild singing career drowned head first in a sea of tabloids too retarded to even mention by name.  Nonetheless all corners of the world are still dripping wet from that printed nonsense, as nearly everyone already knows the whole story: a retarded husband, a couple of kids, a psychotic episode, and a battle lost to some electric clippers, oh and a divorce. . . Did I miss anything?

Maybe Jamie Lynn will be the good one?  Kids can be a roll of the dice after all, and some are privy to this, so they just spawn them a bunch of kids as the odds get better with more kids right?  If not this one, perhaps the next or the next?  We're eight mouths strong as it is dear!  Any more mouths and we'll starve!

Maybe?  A good start with a movie role. . . some time spent on Nickelodeon

Stacked like rocks, one leading to the next:

Maybe?

And as such, the failures of the first rock lead into the failures of the second, and the third, and so on and so forth. . . Until finally you reach the top, the whole hill of beans ending up with Jamie Lynn Spears:

How bout not at fucking all?  At the young age of sixteen, seemingly upset that her sister would have more attention that her, Jamie Lynn Spears gets herself pregnant, the father being a young man (Casey Aldridge) three years older than her. . .   And with that bun in the oven she effectively destroys all ties with her and Nickelodeon, and becomes a practical spokesperson for teen pregnancies. . .

Stuffed somewhere underneath her bed in her childhood room, her worn diary still lays, its secrets concealed behind a tiny locket:

 August 27th, 2007

Dear Diary,

Now that summer is ending, I worry about being able to spend more time with Casey.  He'll be heading off to college once summer is over, and I'm always busy over at Nick.  I'm just trying to get the most of him while I can.  I had sex with him last night for the first time.  We didn't have any protection, but we did it in a jacuzzi and it was my first time, and thats like 2 of the million ways you can prevent a pregnancy.  So we should be fine.

It was a magical night, we went and saw The Simpson's movie, and after we went to TGI Fridays and he paid for the whole thing!  Even with me around!  After that we went back to my house and somewhere in there we ended up in the jacuzzi.  Where he just stuck it in.

It was so magical.

(She drew hearts on the page, big blooming ones, and were drawn with such dedication that she had even picked out a separate pink pen for them.)

I think I love him. . .

Other ancient secrets, written in the clear and concise penmanship of a young teenage girl, told of Mother's silent depression (from raising nothing but hopeless, scum filled children,) of Sissy Britney's public image problem and the sisterly issues amongst herself and Britney, but never could she go a day without talking about the dream boat who totally knocked her up:

November 2nd, 2007

Dear Diary,

The father of that little bundle of joy growing inside of me, Casey, got a wonderful job in the city as a pipe layer.  He decided not to continue college at the start of the year, and got that job instead.  He says it pays well and I'm excited for both of our futures.

They seem really bright.  (lawl, yes Jamie, reaaaal bright, but I've got the pages of history before me, I can already see your future.  Should I tell you?  Shhhh, you'll have to wait.)

Even though that whole jacuzzi/first time thing didn't really work out.  I'm glad it didn't.  I want to be a mom.

On the other hand the paparazzi caught wind of the child.  I don't know how they found out or who told them.  They are really making quite a fuss about it.  Gosh, you'd think they'd never seen a pregnant 16 year old before!  I use to see em all the time at my school, when I use to go.  Brit says I'm lucky that Mom never forced me into a music career like Mom did with her, cause Brit always wanted a baby at 16 too, Mom just wouldn't let her.  Watched her 24/7.  I'm beginning to think she's right, you know what they say "nothing like a baby to bring a family together."  (Obviously she's never seen an episode of Maury, and besides, I would think that saying applies only to ADULTS.)

Casey is going to make a good daddy.

I love him.

Each and every disgusting entry ending with that tagline, "I love him." Until things went sour. . .

Many other entries chronicle her daily life, as somehow she managed to write in it daily, busy as she was.  More on Mother's depression, on Brits troubles with sanity, but none of these without mention of the Great Casey Aldridge, a proverbial knight in shining armor, and every entry ending with that same old and tired tagline.  Poor girl was just setting herself up for heartache. . . But maybe?  Her entries followed her life all the way up to the birth of her child, Maddie Brianna Aldridge, born on June 19, 2008  Babies havin' babies.

Like stepping stones, another stone to add to the stack:

A screaming bundle of joy the media and paparazzi absolutely had a fucking field day with.  OK! Magazine being the utter piece of shit that it is, paid one million dollars for the very first photos of baby Maddie. (Perhaps they should have named the baby Ka-Ching.)

Look a pregnant, stripper!

So life would be for the sinfully young couple.  Tangles with paparazzi and the media, as if raising a child while being a child wasn't hard enough. Jamie kept up with her diary entries, though she shed the old Hello Kitty one for a much more mature notebook, one befitting of a mother, and most of her daily ramblings consisted of constant updates on the baby, written with all the love a mother has for her child. . . Yet somewhere, things get hairy, and the usual uplifting feeling of being a mother succumbs to a much greater darkness, a hidden worry concealed somewhere deep down, where not even the media can touch it:

November 4th, 2009

Dear Diary,

Maddie said her first words today!  Dah-da!  I'm excited and thrilled, as is Casey.  Its such a joy to have her in our everyday lives, and I'm grateful to have my entire family behind me, helping take care of little Maddie.

I've been trying to get back with Nickelodeon, but they don't seem to be returning my calls, nor those of my agent.

I'm getting worried.  Casey is hardly around anymore, and it seems that he's not grown up enough to have a child. (No Kidding.)  I just don't know what to do anymore, but I'm sticking with my faith and my family.  He's always out there laying pipe.  Always laying pipe.  ALWAYS.  He never seems to have any time for me anymore.  I don't know what to do.

And I feel fat.  And I feel ugly.  

Despite the feelings of self-loathing most new moms feel, looking at themselves in the mirror and seeing where supple flesh gave way to extra weight and stretch marks, Jamie hinted on a calamity that at the time, she had no idea was slowly growing.  As it turns out, Casey, after donating his genes to the creation of new life, found that he was certainly big and manly enough to rape, fuck, make love to a sixteen year old, but his nuts weren't hairy enough to face the consequences and raise a child.  And so is the calamity that is being 19 and fucking retarded.

Naturally the relationship would slowly deteriorate, and talks of an engagement were muddled by exclamations that "We're both too young," (a little late for that kind of talk, don't you think?) and before long the two weren't even being official seen together.  Nine months after their baby, the two would call it quits, and Jamie would leave Casey for ever:

February 8th, 2009

Dear Diary,

I've had enough of Casey.  I'm absolutely tired of him.  I hate to think that I ever thought that he was 'the one.'  He hasn't taken any steps to become a mature adult about this, and he's older than me!  He still just wants to lay pipe and doesn't want to commit.

(Ask any man that age to do the same, and he'll look at you ask if you're asking him to put a gun to his head.)

I'm glad my family has supported me through all of this, and besides I don't really need Casey any way.  I've found myself a mature man, a man who's got a real job, and REAL goals.  And he cares about me and he treats me good, and doesn't care one bit that I already have a kid.

He's twenty-eight and he owns a big entertainment company in Kentwood, Los Angeles.  He's a real nice guy. . .

And as for Casey

I hate him.

The bliss shattered, that sickeningly sappy tagline traded in for one of hate.

With her relationship with Casey over, Jamie set her sights on a different kind of guy, a much more mature sort of gentlemen, so she started hooking up with a twenty eight year old guy named James Watson. . . He owns a company that installs multimedia (they install t.v's for corporations.)  Way to go Jamie, dumped you a plumber and hooked up with a high end T.V. guy.  Way to go. 

And so, the pages of history are always being written, one gummy page at a time. . . What comes next for little Jamie, and what of her daughter Maddie?  Will James finally realize the error of his ways and dump a bitch?  Will Maddie grow up to sell her body for hard drugs?  One can only wait and see, on our next episode of As The Retarded World Turns. . .

Jamie Lynn Spears suffers from a calamity that fortunately, the majority of the populous does not need to suffer under: she's been born a Spears. Somehow that name has come to mean some sort of a curse, as anyone bearing the last name 'Spears,' whether related to Britney and her clan or not, are considered poor mates in regards to genes, and are therefore are avoided at all costs. . . Even remote tribes in the thickest of jungles hear tales of the 'Spears Tribe,' and although by the time it reaches their ears Britney is a giant bald headed lizard monster, and her sister Jaime, a Tiny Yet Ferocious Baby Eater (by way of gossip of course, and the inaccuracies man is victim to whenever he speaks;) and know to keep as far away from them as possible.

It is a curse forged with a name, and made stronger by the calamities of each heir, generation after generation.

For surely Britney had a bright future, as a Mouseketter, until she got into her teens.  A time when it seems, all Spears women's brains go haywire, as if some important module burns out, that ever important regulator that keeps all the chemicals on an even keel, and after all that follows is utter retardation. . . For how else could one explain Britney's early work - a teenager selling sex to old men, and her later work, a retarded selling sex to retards. . .  How else could one explain the insanity, the head shaving, the husband, the kids, the poor parenting, the, the everything?

And surely Jamie had a bright future too, or at least not yet tainted by any wrong doings of her own.  A respectable career in kids television, and then teenager television (such strata exists these days,) and then what next? Maybe movies, maybe singing?  Who the fuck knows?  Coulda, woulda, shoulda.

No one knows because that old and rotten Spears retardation had to creep up into the picture, and little Jamie had to spread her legs and gets herself pregnant, at sixteen.  That same old rotten retardation that started way back, even before world war two, even before Mr. Hitler and Mr. Bridges.  Traced all the way back to a single drop of blood, to a single blood line of regal, yes regal blood.  Back through history, through inbreeding and war, all the way back to a family of English and Maltese blood.  For yes, Lynne Spears, mother of Britney and Jamie Lynn, had a paternal great grandfather who apparently was a big deal in England and had such blood running through his veins.

As such it all traces back to regal blood.  The blood of yes, royal retards.

It is tragic to think that such a calamity can strike an entire bloodline, and furthermore that said bloodline can somehow find away to survive over the centuries, but it seems the only good thing the Spears clan is good at, is getting pregnant.  

Was it all really a mistake?  Perhaps.  People make mistakes, but to give this explanation would be to allow the poor girl to make yet another mistake, to have yet another child, and perhaps yet another one. . . For as retarded as they are, they still are competitive, and I've got a slight itch that says lil ole Jamie Lynn Spears is gonna out do big sis after all.  A massive train wreck years in the making.

And it is for these reasons, in particular her diluted  royal blood that iR declares Jamie Lynn Spears, regally retarded.

*Due to the gonzo nature of iR, it is necessary that we straighten out the facts. . . I guess.  Anyway, other lulz can be found here.

Jamie was born April 4th, 1991.  That makes her, uh... 19.

She was on Nickelodeons All That when the show totally sucked balls, and was the main character in Zoey 101.

When she was impregnated she was only 16, at the time, whereas Casey was anywhere from 18 to 19, which stirred a lot of debate, and made many people particular of the details. . . If they had performed the deed in Casey's native state of Louisana, and he was 18 at the time, then its all good. . . However if he was 19 at the time, its considered a felony, and for such a deed he could face up to 10 years in prison.  LAWL  

People gave up however when they found most people just plain don't give a shit.

When she was pregnant, paparazzi did go crazy.  Lots of haters said it was like promoting teenage prenancy, but they just hatin' - they wish they could get laid at 16 and get preggers.

9 months after the baby came, Casey and Jamie really did break up.  Surprise surprise.

Later, she really did hook up with a 28 year old.  Ha - take that Casey, I'm with a dude ten years my senior, what you got sukka?  The Spears family had only this to say about it "He seems like a nice guy.

You can read Jamie Lynn Spears blog, if you want, but for some reason there's no mention of banging old dudes and raising a baby. :(

And what of this?

I've seen porno's that start out like this.

love,

iR

The Deaths of Young Girls; The Birth of Justin Bieber

The collective nothingness that is Canada breathes in; cold air. Breathes out; warm, white like cotton candy. . . A lone Canadian in jack boots stands in a foot of muck rigid as a flag pole, saluting his great nation's flag with a pride that can only come from a true hockey-loving Canadian with maple syrup running through his veins. . . A dying bar serves frothy beers to ugly men with ugly teeth, who bitterly drink their hops with a sort of disdain resulting from being known as America's little brother. . .  Off in the distance, under the shade of a few wilting pines, as conspicuous as a band-aid on a dinner plate, two polar bears fuck. . .

Its another boring day in Canada. . . but wait.

Listen:

The dullness of the day is cut through by the screams of an eighteen year old girl.  She lays in a hospital bed, her hands clenched against her supports, her voice spouting out terrible groans and noises that only women in labor and dying cows make.  The woman is Ms. Pattie Mallette, a devout Christian who had dreams of becoming an actress, dreams which were shattered after she, like a good Christian, got knocked up by some random dude at the ripe old age of eighteen. Despite the unexpected circumstances of a child, Pattie followed her faith, and prayed to God every night.  By her third trimester her prayers became more and more specific, and by the time that little Justin Bieber was born, on March 1st, 1994, she had asked God to "use her son as a modern Prophet Samuel, a voice of a generation."  (source)

Pattie would need her faith, for surely raising a child can be rather difficult for a single parent, especially one that is only eighteen.  She worked odd jobs and she and her son some how got by, and Justin was raised to be normal enough.  For Pattie her faith wouldn't be tested again until a Jewish man with a head for making money and an ear tuned for the songs of tiny birds, came to cage her son and put him in the music business after hearing one of Justin's youtube videos.  Despite being a kid who played sports, Justin also posted youtube video's of him singing Usher songs and dancing, and until Scooter Braun saw them, Justin was performing purely for an audience of tweens around the country whos chemical driven crushes they easily confused as true love.

That day with Scooter Braun, was one which Pattie both celebrated and loathed.  She was happy that her son had been discovered, she was happy that perhaps this could be his chance to become a prophet. . . That perhaps God was indeed doing his work, through her son, Justin Bieber. . . But she was troubled by the fact that this man, Scooter Braun was a Jew.

"God," she prayed.  "you don't want this Jewish kid to be Justin's man, do you?"

She was further perplexed by the fact that he was from an Atlanta based rap label. . .

"God, I gave him to you.  You could send me a Christian man, a Christian label."

But then Scooter Braun threw some money in her face.

And just like that Justin and mommy packed their shit and moved to Atlanta.

And just like that Justin starting doing some demos.

And just like that Justin had a date with his idol, Usher.

The two of them went to a carnival, and ate cotton candy, and Usher even won Justin a giant stuffed lizard when he knocked down all the milk bottles at a carnival game with one throw.  (Justin still has that giant stuffed lizard. . . )  They had a great date, and even sealed it with a kiss at the top of the ferris wheel.

So in love.

So with a boyfriend in Usher, and a daddy in Scooter Braun, Justin Bieber really only needed one more thing to become the next closet fag adored by tons of pussy (albeit young, retarded pussy):  a swagger coach. Luckily his boyfriend has been in the business for awhile, and already had the perfect guy in mind: the same man that shaped and modeled him as a teen pop star: Mr. Ryan Good.  Ryan is responsible for Justin's mannerism on and off stage, right down to every annoying hair flip.  Collectively, it is the duty of all three of them to take care of Justin Bieber, even if this means occasionally 'tag-teaming' him in the hotel room.

Aside from these three men, Justin also has a personal tutor, and a whole team of adults who monitor his every action and make sure he maintains his marketable image.  With these adults on his side, Justin released his debut album, My World in 2009, and it immediately was sucked up and adored by preteens and their crazy egocentric mothers.  The album sold 137,000 copies alone in the first day, and peaked at number five on the Top Ten Billboard List.

At this time the balloon was just begging to swell, or perhaps it was already swollen.

Justin was big on Radio Disney I suppose, he was big somewhere, amongst some people.

Swelling. . .

The success of Justin's My World can be proven easily by the number of deaths his performances generate.  There of course were those three young girls who were hospitalized during a Bieber performace at The Battlecreek Mall; that mother who broke her spine chasing Bieber for an autograph (she fell and was trampled by the following stampede of other autograph hungry fans;) and of course those foolsih girls who asked Bieber for a hug, and when he didn't comply, promptly killed themselves, being unable to live in a world where Justin Bieber didn't want them. . . And on the outside of these concerts, right there at the fringe, are fathers (the only ride the girl could get) standing amongst one another, sipping beers secretively, as to not be conspicous, and they're all grumbling...

"I just don't like it."  One spits.  He shakes his head.  "I just don't like it."

All of them staring out at the sea of girls, watching like surfers watch a dangerous tide, all of them conscious of that fact that those waters just may suck them under, just take their lives if they aren't careful. . .

"Yep. . ."  A contemptuous snort.  "I just don't like it."

Swelling. . . like the tide.

The mere presence of the boy is a powerful thing; sight of him turns young girls into ravenous beasts far too overcome by a sudden surge of inexplicable feelings to do anything other than belt out ear splitting screams and intense sobbing. . . But why do kids feel so strongly about Bieber?

Well, he is said to be made by his YouTube fan base, or so they will cross themselves up and down and swear to.  This has resulted in many Justin Bieber wars, by the twelve year girls who love him, and the twelve year old boys who hate him, because they AREN'T HIM.  Case in point, this little doucher:

So his video is out, and he's walking around the elementary yard, and he's noticing something. . . All these girls ignoring him. . . It becomes clear, hating on Justin Bieber doesn't get you pussy, at least in the fourth grade it doesn't. . . So what happens months later, as soon as he's saved up enough money?  He gets himself a Justin Bieber haircut and his name in The New York Times in a puff piece about a sudden trend amongst young teens, that trend being: Justin Bieber haircuts. . . A tasteful interview he did over the phone in the kitchen to a woman all the way over in New York. . . (Would have loved to hear that retarded interview by the way. . .)  He's totally changed his opinion about the guy, and can't stop fucking with his hair.  Now he's totally Pro-Justin Bieber.

Way to go asshole.   I hope that one kiss you finally got from a girl is worth looking like a total douche bag with a haircut that is basically a bowl cut.  If anything, its only made you more annoying, as if the obnoxious red hair and the abundance of energy wasn't enough, now you've made yourself to always be forced to carry around a comb.  Way to go.  But I'm ahead of myself.  I keep forgetting he's just a kid, a retarded little kid. . .

Hypocrisy is just a big word when you're only 12, like onomatopoeia, a word you don't even know the meaning of, but sure sounds fancy and sophisticated.

And so the wind is blown out of iR's sails:  "You wouldn't make fun of a bunch of children, now would you?  Surely you had an irrational crush all of your own, right?"

Nope.  I was never a child.

If you think about it, being Justin Bieber totally sucks balls.  You've got a mother who's a total Jesus freak and has delusions that perhaps you are just the thing that this world is looking for (and not another product.)  Your father is an adopted one, and the only real resemblance of a dad, in that he's always there to scold you and remind you that there is business to be done.  But he's not your real dad... Your real dad you only talk to on occasion over an impersonal phone.

You're deeply in love with a black man, but you can't love him openly, because doing so would ruin your image, and you'd no longer be a useful object to use to sell sex to little girls.  You've got a whole image team that follows you around to make sure that you don't slip up, because slipping up would be the worst thing you could ever do.  Failure, is not an option.

And when you fuck up, you get scolded every damn time.

Its not life for a boy.

No life for a boy in love with a grown black man.

Its like caging a bird.

And on top of that you have to pretend you like all these girls who rave over your laboriously. . . Throngs of retarded fans that steal your shit and try desperately to hug you.  Stupid bitches like this:

Look ma, we're dumb!

Emah Hira Maito, aged seventeen and her friend (nameless,) who ran up on Bieber and stole his favorite hat, and yes although it is quite retarded to have a favorite hat, this young little lass though it would be a good idea to hold it for RANSOM, yes RANSOM, yet she was not looking for money. . . She was looking for a hug.  Needless to say the COPS had a thing or two to say about it, and the BITCH never got her HUG.

And if this wasn't a good enough representation of that craze that runs through these young girls minds, when they returned that hat, the two of them included their phone numbers and their twitter accounts with the vague and utter retarded notion that, MAYBE, just MAYBE Justin will forget about all the crazy stalker antics and chose them, just pluck them up like daisies amongst the millions of throngs of young girls who all hope for him to do the same to them. . . just pluck them up like daisies.

Emah is still waiting by the phone. . .

Patiently. . . waiting. . .

So where does this place Justin Bieber on the iR scale of retardation?  Well considering the fact that he's already gone through puberty, and his voice has indeed changed, making some of those higher notes impossible to reach, and the fact that pop music flows regardless of a person's hardwork, that Justin Bieber is deserving of an all new definition of retardation.  Further compounded by the fact that he is litterally one major slip up from completely polarizing every young girl's feelings about him, fickle as they are, Infinitely Retarded declares Justin Bieber, finitely retarded.


finite retardation - n - retardation in an individual that is not constant and eventually ends.  Although this retardation may span a longer period of time, it does indeed have a starting point and an ending point, quite unlike Infinite retardation, which is perpetual.  Victims of this retardation are said to be "finitely retarded."

And Justin's case, he'll find himself a bottle, grow old, and wither and die in one.

Just like the worm.

*Due to the gonzo nature of iR, all facts surely must be straightened out.  Here are really the facts, really...


Justin Bieber is Canadian.

His mom is a Jesus freak, did pray to God to make him a Prophet Samuel, and was distraught when a Jewish man came to try and represent her son.

Usher finds Justin Bieber to be like a son.  They are not actually lovers... (At least not publicly.)

Justin twitters a lot, and its all retarded dribble.

Justin has been nominated for many awards, but all he's ever won is a moonman from TRL Italy...

He's only had one album reach number one, and that was only in Canada alone.

Bieber's got a team of what looks like over 50 people, who handle everything from writing his songs to managing the money to yada yada and etc etc.

Bieber's concerts and appearances do get out of hand, many goers report minor injuries with all the scuffling and hub-bub going about, no deaths reported however, :( sad face.

Bieber is not gay, although if you ask 12 year old boys they will all say that he is, and that he sings like a girl "And that is why I hate him."

Bieber really is a youtube sensation, was before Scooter ever scooped him up.  There really are pointless and mind numbing war videos between Justin's lovers and Justin's haters. . . Just look it up if you believe me not, but I warn you, though there are bits of hilarity, much of is retardation.

Bieber wears ball caps all the time. . . I don't like this style, cocked to one side, this I like not.  And this, yes is irrelevant.

Did I mention he's Canadian?

love,
iR

The Many Faces of Tony Danza

The feeling of gloves was a welcomed one.  The sound they made, his hands taped and inside them.  Nice.  Tight.  Quick.  His walk out to the ring was slow and deliberate, and at the moment those gloves felt just like sledgehammers, and he was ready to do some damage with them.  Be cool now.  Along the way he'd hop about to get the blood flowing.  The crowd acknowledged him and cheered him and he smiled his usual trade mark smile.  Come on now, cool your jets. Down the aisle.  Up the steps and into the ring.  The smell of a boxing ring can be an incredible thing.  Its just another fight.  Come on now.  Be cool now.  Cool.  The crowd hummed as the ring announcer went to work.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, the Diner's Club of Dubuque, Iowa proudly presents tonight's main event. . ."  His voice amplified out over the speaker system, loud but only slightly louder than the crowd.  "Presenting first, the challenger, fighting out of the red corner, weighing in at 245 pounds, a local boy straight out of Dubuque, Iowa Ronald "Head Cheese" Williams!"

The crowd roared appreciation for their fellow Dubuquer, and for once Tony Danza felt that perhaps the majority of the crowd wasn't behind him, even though he was, indeed Tony Danza.

"And in the blue corner, hailing from Brooklyn, New York, weighing in at two-hundred-and-fifty pounds. . . Tony "I'm the Boss" Dannnnzzzaaa!"

The mild crowd of some hundred or so Iowans cheered as Danza juked and moved for the crowd, his strutting punctuated by occasional hooks and jabs.  He met his opponent in the ring, and although he was no longer the young man that he was when he first got into the boxing game, he was confident in his body and his skill, if not as a boxer, but as a well rounded individual with his hand in nearly everything.  Tony and Ronald touched gloves in the center of the ring.

"Remember its for charity."  Tony said, with a smile.  The bell rang and the match began.

Tony came out defensive and smiling, thinking that the match would just be a little exhibition, an opportunity to further his name and showcase a little bit of his boxing skill.  He knew if anything, it was an opportunity to definitely get laid, as chicks often go for the big buff guy involved in violent sports (see Jenna Jameson/Tito Ortiz).  Yet his opponent came in with other plans.  He wanted to win, he wanted to dominated - and he fucking hated Who's The Boss? and furthermore couldn't stand 'grown men with monkey' movies like Going Ape!  He came out swinging and hit Danza square across the jaw with a right hook.  Danza had his bell rung and went down with his head still ringing.  He heard the counting.

1. . . 2 . . .

He got up and kept fighting.


3. . . 4 . . .

He was fighting Earl Harris in his first professional fight.  He was fighting in his first match and was full of jitters.  Although he had been knocked down, he didn't feel any pain.  He was far too excited.  He got back into the match, by defending him self and even tagged Harris with a few good shots.  He followed his boxing style - he swung away and caught Harris in the jaw and knocked him out.  His first match.  His first win. . .

5. . . 6. . .

His parents were so glad after the fight that he wasn't hurt.  It didn't even matter that he won.  But this wouldn't always be the case for Tony and his short boxing career.

7. . .

Danza got to his feet, angered by his opponents nerve; nobody messes with the boss.  The crowd cheered at the notion of more violence.  The referee checked him out, and the match continued, the first round not yet over.  The fighting continued and Danza held his own, though his opponent was obviously more skilled than him.  Ronald controlled the round, taking Danza all over the ring.  By the end of the round Danza's face had begun to swell, and a cut had developed over his right eye.

The end of the round came with the ring of the bell and Tony went to his corner with spaghetti legs.  He felt woozy.  Water from a sponge went cool down his back.  He wiped his forehead.  He saw blood.

"Look now, you've got pasta sauce all over you."  Marc said.

"Well you know your dad, I've always been a messy one."  Tony smiled.

He wiped the pasta sauce from his hands with a white towel.  Discarding it he went to the pot on the stove.  It bubbled and steamed and produced a smell that filled the house.  He took a spoon and tasted it.

"How is it?"  His son Marc asked.

"How do you think it is?"  Tony asked.  "This recipe has been in my family forever.  It was shipped over from Italy!  I know you're quite the chef but this recipe here isn't taught in even the finest of culinary schools.  Not even the one you went to.  This. . . is tradition!"

"Well what do you think about putting out a Father/Son recipe book?  You and me dad, what do you say?"

"A father/son recipe book. . ."  Tony thought.  "A Tony Danza. . . and son cook book. . . A Tony Danza cookbook. . ."  It had been months without any public exposure, he felt it eating at him.

"So?"  His son asked.

"I love the idea Marc!"

"Mark."

"Mark my words, you keep this up and you are going to lose this fight Tony!"  He trainer barked at him in the corner.  "I know its just for charity, but I hardly need the bad rep.  I don't want anyone, anyone, you hear me, thinking Charlie Pinnela don't know how to train a fighter, cause I know how to train a fighter!  Now get in there and defend yourself!  Work the jab you hear me?!  Huh?"

The bell rang and the next round began.  Although his trainer had provided valid advice, Tony still struggled to protect himself in the ring.  Each hit struck him cleanly, some drumming on his ribs and turning his innards to jelly, some tending to the cut over his right eye, tearing it open a little wider reach time.  The crowd roared with a bloodlust.  Some women looked away.  Some were bored.  A man in the third row thought about fingering his girlfriend.  Violence excited him.  He was a true full blooded American.

With eight seconds left, Danza hit the mat once again.  Time seemed to slow for Danza.  He felt the mat beneath him, felt the blood dripping from his forehead.  His lungs heaved out rust.  The bell rang, saving him.

The bell rang, class had begun.  At his podium Tony Danza gazed down into a book, glasses perched on the end of his nose.  Three camera men filmed from different angles. Class had begun.

"Well class. . ."  He closed the book.  "Today we begin reading a new book.  It is by Mrs. Harper Lee, and is called To Kill a Mockingbird."  It was one of only three books Tony had ever read in his life.  "To Kill a Mocking Bird, yes. . ."  Tony said.  It was the filming of a new A&E reality series called "Teach" about Tony Danza teaching a tenth grade English class in Philadelphia.  "Yes, To Kill a Mockingbird."  He was trying to think of what to say next.  He remembered his goal coming into this thing, one he had told the media countless times: to be a good teacher.

"Mr. Danza. . ."  A boy raised his hand.

"Yes, Malcolm?"

"To Kill a Mockingbird, isn't that a movie?"

"I swear kid, this aint no movie."  His trainer said.  "You're looking like a fool out there.  Weren't you once a boxer?  Well act like one!  You're acting like a movie star caught up in the spotlight."  The sponge ran cold with water.  Danza sat in his corner, wet with perspiration.  His mangled face like hamburger meat -- its a good thing his television career is all but over.  Vaseline smeared above both eye brows in an attempt to stop the bleeding.  Danza coughed, his breathing heavy.

"You hear me?"  His trained asked.  "I swear this performance is worse than your attempt at a singing career!"

(Hell is being stuck in a dentists office, waiting impending doom, the intermittent buzz of the dentists drill as he works on another patient cutting through the sound of Tony Danza singing "The House I live In" playing over the office's stereo system.)

Tony Danza thinks he's Franky Sinatra

"I swear if you keep this crap up you aren't even going to make it to the fourth round.  You're gonna get beat, and after that you'll catch another beating -- from me for making me look so damn bad.  Now get your God damn hands up and shake out the damn cobwebs. "

Tony tried to shake out the cobwebs, but he couldn't.  It was all Who's the Boss lines and distant memories.  The bell rang and Tony slowly got up, his fists fashioned to his waist.  He staggered and fell over his own two feet.  The crowd laughed. . .

"Hi Tony Danza here, and you're watching the Tony Danza Show, live right here in New York."  He was roller blading down the street wearing protective gear (of course) filming for his daily live show.  "As you can see I'm getting a little exercise today, as this week on the Tony Danza Show we are going active!  Today we've got a great sh--"

And then it happened.

The Boss ate shit.  Tripped right over a pole while looking at the camera.

Tony got up and staggered his way to the center of the ring.  His opponent waited for him, eager to take a couple more swings at The Danza and knock him out.  The third round began, the two circling one another: Ronald Williams full of energy, Danza slow and tired.  Ronald began to toy with Danza, throwing punches half-heartedly and with a grin, as if Tony were his kid brother.  The crowd swooned.  Ton's mind still swam with thoughts, Hudson Street and Broadway, the stage and the sets, the highs and the lows.  The ring seemed to grow smaller and smaller, and to him the lights were like diamonds in the rafters, high untouchable things, but oh so pretty to look at.

To Tony, he was tap dancing again.  To everyone else, he was a fool who was about to be knocked the fuck out.

The explosive combination came soon after the tap dancing fancies - Ronald peppered him with a left followed by a right and like the whack that finally topples the tree, so was that right hand, which sent Danza to the mat, a fallen tree.  At the point of contact, there wasn't a single butt in the seats, everyone was standing to see Tony Danza get knocked out, in a brutal moment of sudden violence.

The referee counted to ten, and Ronald was declared the winner.  The fight had ended how every Tony Danza fight had ever ended, in knockout.  The loss brought his boxing record to nine and four.  After the match, after the room had cleared out and everyone had gone home, Danza was left to stand all alone on the street corner, his eyes tilted toward the sky but his soul as low as ever.

Who's the boss?

Clearly not Tony Danza.

At least he can always go back to his blog, the Daily Danza.

Has "Keep on Trucking" tattooed on his upper right arm.

Has his own rendition of "Keep on Trucking,"  "Keep on Punching," tattooed on his right shoulder, complete with boxing gloves.

Tony really was a professional boxer, from 1976 to 1979, during which time assembled a record of 9 wins, 3 losses.

Divorced his second wife, with whom he has two daughters.

Tony really does have a cook book out with his son called Don't Fill Up on the Antipasto, and you really can buy it on Amazon, used, for one cent.

In 2007, Tony really did start a music career.  He put out an album called The House I Live In, it has reportedly sold 5 copies, all of them going to Tony Danza.

In 2005, Danza crashed his go-kart during a go-kart race with Rusty Wallace.  A few month later Tony would ride again only to skid into a wall.

Tony Danza really is teaching an English class for a reality show on A&E, which may be the most retarded idea since the Pet rock.

Tony Danza really does have a blog, called Daily Danza, and its dedicated to his favorite thing in the world.  Himself.

Look at this douchey tattoo:

Lawl:

love,

iR

Furries: Blind Retardation

Wearing a fur suit use to be something pimple faced nerds and thirty something pedophiles did to entertain snot nosed kids and make a little bit of money, but these days it has taken on a perversion far worse than clown fucking, or pedophilia.  It involves fur suits, something called 'yiffing' and the people who love them both.  These retards, know as furries (or simply furrytards) are individuals who enjoy and often want to be anthropomorphic creatures, which are beings with animalistic qualities, but are still very much human; they can talk and walk around on two feet and even wear human clothes.  To become these animals, many develop 'fursonas' or alternate personalities in which they act and look (with the help of fur costumes called 'fursuits') like the animal they wish to be.

Essentially there are two types of furries.  Furry Type A and Furry Type B.

Fury Type A is predominately made up of people who feel that furrydom is a chance to let out that inner beast trapped inside of them.  These sad sorry souls feel that they were perhaps a bear in a past life, or should have been born one, and the only way - they feel- to express this inner urge is to dress up in a retarded bear costume and start scratching, clawing, and roaring like one.  Others live whole lives through these fur suits, establishing their own characters and storyline, whether alone in their rooms or online with an entire community of other furrytards on forums or in chat rooms.  For most of them, its a chance to escape the harsh reality of being a pathetic nobody that no one really likes. . .

Like Wendy Brooks, age thirty-six, of Minneapolis Minnesota, a single woman who has not yet married and never really had a boyfriend.  She spends her days drawing pictures of her wolf character with a dull number two pencil.  She wants nothing more than a bunch of children, "a pack' all of her own, but in the real world she can't seem to get any man to look at her.  Her fox character, Kefi Wolf Kittens is attractive and a creature of high nobility, a strong, loving creature in tune with nature.

A creature very much unlike Wendy Brooks.

Why must Kefi Wolf Kittens roam this world alone?  WHY?!

She knows Kefi Wolf Kittens can earn her any upright walking half-man-half-wolf she wants, only there aren't many around her area - only simple Minnesotans.  She blames it on the harsh terrain.  She knows however, that one day, 'he' will come, trotting in, his tail wagging, and he will come and lick her face and they'll go and live happily ever after.

Until then, she'll just have to keep drawing. . . 

Furry Type B is far more demented.  These furries have psychological hangups after horrible sexual encounters with men/women in fur suits when they were children at carnivals, theme parks, Chuck-E-Cheese, etc.  They too have furry characters for many of the same reasons as Furry Type A - but they differ in that they prefer to don animal costumes and act like that animal, so that they may fuck other people in animal costumes, as that animal would do if it were out in the wild.  For some, their sexual perversions extend far beyond that, and for the sake of my own sanity, and yours, I'll forgo mentioning them here.  These people, however, are more like Linda Madson, age twenty-six, of Kansas.  Her inner furry isn't even a real animal, its a unicorn.  Linda likes to pose provocatively for the camera, and post them on the internet.  She gets a real kick out of it, and often finds many furry partners this way, including her current boyfriend: a squirrel.  When she's not looking for other furries to hook up with, she's checking out furry porn, refreshing up on some furry erotic literature, or gazing fondly at x-rated renditions of all of her favorite childhood cartoon characters.

Linda's boyfriend, Chip, a squirrel says that when he first saw this photo he just knew he had to have her, and quite frankly, we here at iR understand completely. . . How can you not have a massive boner looking at this?

When asked why her inner furry was a unicorn, Linda calmly paused and blinked dumbly as if it wasn't already obvious.  "I've always loved unicorns.  They're so pretty. . . I've always believed in unicorns."  She said.  "Like I think they are really real, just that no one ever sees them because they don't believe in them.  You gotta believe to see, and I think there's a whole world out there, that like, nobody can see because like, they just don't believe."  Yes, Linda Madson is a real special gal/unicorn, and her boyfriend is one lucky guy/squirrel.

Avatar

The fact that Avatar is about a crippled guy in a wheelchair who is able to enter into (by some bit of Hollywood mumbo-jumbo) a twelve foot tall blue fish person with both animal and human characteristics (even a tail) made Avatar a fucking furry's wet dream.  The entire idea of becoming something you're not, something better than you are, and better than you means some type of animal creature, is right up a furry's alley.  It dramatizes the experience, one glorious furry nut shot after another, and in glorious IMAX 3D!

Which leads one to wonder. . .

Is James Cameron a fucking furry?

City of Champions/Superheroes

Furrytards like to claim that many superheroes are furrys in spandex, as seen with characters like Catwoman and Batman, for instance.  This unfortunate connection between superheroes and furries has developed an entire spawn of superhero furries, developed by furries, for furries.  This means talking animals who walk upright and love to have sex with one another in between dangerous missions with dramatic repercussions, and they have superpowers like fire balls they can shoot out of their eyes, and x-ray vision and other silly shit like that.  These moody bastards will most often sit online playing roleplaying games, where they will just roleplay with them and their "pack" - a collection of other similar minded furry tards - and attack anyone who interrupts them with fire balls and mind powers.

Go away, mere. . . human.

Balazar barked - his tailed whipping about him like a black tail that whips with a blackness like that of a dark black night.  His pack gathered around him as gatherers do, around something, the women purring like kittens safe behind their furred protector.

Balazar growled - "once again, go away mere. . . human!"

Entourage and Television
Furries on television are not received well and rightfully so.  Entourage, The Drew Carrey Show, ER, and others have all made fun of furries with hilarious results.  It is these shows that lead furries to believe that much of their exposure has been skewed.  To them, they feel that they aren't as obsessed with sex as television has made them out to be, even though much of the furry experience is sexual, and can include such perversions as:

• vorarephilia - a sexual fetish where arousal occurs from the idea of being eaten or by the process of eating
• macrophelia - a sexual fetish involving giants
• paraphilic infatilism - a sexual fetish where arousal comes from the desire to, or act of wearing diapers (baby furs)
• pregnancy fetishism - a sexual fetish where arousal occurs from the image or idea of woman in their pregnancy (pregnant furs)
• plushophilia - sexual arousal towards stuffed animals
• infantophilia - sexual arousal toward inflated objects
• toonopphilia - sexual arousal toward anime or cartoon characters
• bestiality - sex with animals
• etc. etc. furries have many kinks

Aside from these anti-fur, furry haters, several production companies do exist, that are run and maintained by furries.  These film companies serve as a visual hub for the entire furry community.  Their films run anywhere from furry service announcements, news shows, convention specials, all the way up to straight up furry porn.  Most of their work is hardly if ever seen by normal human eyes, but if you were to see their work, you would probably find its friendlier versions on Youtube.  SEE?

Mascot folk... lawl

When they aren't making their fursuits, pretending to have claws, and/or drawing photos of their 'fursona's, furries somehow find a way to get together in such large masses that they necessitate an entire convention center.  Their conventions bring furrytards from all over the world (furrydom is apparently a world wide epidemic) to chat about the wonderful world that is furrydom.

Cities that do offer to host these conventions often report a rise in pet sodomy cases when the 'furry folk' come to town. . .

The largest furry incarnation is Anthrocon, held annualy in the shithole that is Pittsburgh.  Anthrocon is held every July and averages a little over three-thousand members each year.  The convention features many furry artists and writers, as well as furry lovers of all shapes and sizes.  It has honored such important furrytards as Dan Decario, creator of Josie and the Pussy Cats, Peter Lairo, co-creator of The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and the like.  The Anthrocon is popular because of its groundbreaking concepts, one of which is called The Zoo.  The Zoo is a sectioned of plot of the convention center, where furry attendees can just simply "lounge freely, eat and drink, rest, draw, and chat" in a sort of animal corral for all to enjoy.  Another concept is the Furry Run, where all furry contests compete in a relay race around the convention center.

Over conventions include FurCon, held in San Jose each January, and CaliFur, found right here in Southern California.  Other events include the Rocky Mountain Parade, a full length parade for furries to show their strength in the rigid Colorado Rockies.

Other less known conventions occur yearly, and are known about only by people in the community, as many of the acts that take place during these conventions are not only completely disgusting but also highly illegal.  In 2008, thirty-nine furry conventions took place around the world, exceeding sixteen-thousand attendees and more than two-hundred-and-fifty highly illegal acts.

So it all started with Josie and the Pussycats, but it wasn't all that bad, right?  I mean they are humans, they just happen to wear costumes with animal ears and tails, and that's still mostly human right?  And they are in fact girls, so you couldn't be that fucked up in the head, could you?  But then you remembered when you were a kid and how much you liked Loony Toons, how you liked it more than most kids, and in a different way.  It made you feel warm and fuzzy inside, and safe, and happy, so much so that you still watch it today.  Watching it always helps you remember those good times you had, like that time when you were seventeen and you went with the family to Disneyland, because of the younger kids of course, and how you all took that family photo with Mickey and Minnie, and you remember how Mickey put his arm around you, and how it felt so good. . . felt so good. . . And you looked into his eyes, and you wanted to look forever.

And then there was that time with that inflatable pool raft shaped like a cow. . .

And that time when you watched Disney's Robin Hood and hoped that that fox version of Robin Hood would come and take you away. . . 

And then you started drawing fox figures, and chatting with other fox lovers, and soon this turned into roleplaying and weird sexual acts pretending to be a half human half fox named Dark Wolfe, and soon the whole thing just got weirder and weirder. . . Soon you met a friend online who knew how to make full body fur suits, and you saved up all your money so that you could buy one. . .

Do you remember that first night you put it on?  That night you really became Dark Wolfe, for the first time?  Do you remember how you just howled and howled at the moon, and found solace in being a wolf. . 

So you think you're a furry?

Well unless you've entirely embarrassed your parents and gone through years of therapy, only to still be completely fucked up in the head, and your only friends are furries too, and in the second grade you had a giant crush on Marvin the Martian, and you write poetry or short stories about you and your pack, and then rekindled in the tenth grade that cruh you had on Marvin the Martian you had in second grade, then NO, you're not a furry.

You're just some douche bag asshole.

So you're a furry, I get it.  You like anthropomorphic creatures, but why must it all become so damn perverted?  You look for acceptance, and claim that you've become misrepresented by the media, but all anyone ever sees of you is demented in every degree.  Furries are involved in strange and unusual fetishes, many of which are frowned upon because furry love could easily be considered bestality. . . and what is to stop a person who thinks they are a dog to start going around fucking real dogs?  Beyond the bestiality aspect, furries also engage in many other different sexual fetishes that should remain just that - fetishes to be kept private and concealed from the every day world.  Nobody really cares to hear about how you love just the feeling of fur, about how it excites you, nor do they even want to know that it would be possible for any person to be turned on by the idea of dressing up like an animal and rubbing up on some furrrrr....

Your lifestyle is strange, and in a world where gay men can't even get married, you want to introduce a lifestyle that includes elements from childhood and elements from the deepest and most deranged of sex dungeons.  What creativity you do have is wasted on creepy fur suits that only a complete freak would find attractive and boring long winded furry fiction complete with utterly retarded hand drawn pictures of two fox people fucking.  Not only that but you've found a way to ruin it for us all, by finding a way to make Tony the Tiger attractive, or The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, or any childhood mascot for that matter.

Wanting to be a tiger is cool, when you're like 7. . . And wanting to be someone that you aren't is fine, lots of everyday average people do it too, just most people keep it to themselves.  You guys however put all your shit out on the internet for all the world to see, and its not exactly something without any shock value  You put out video of you fucking and whining like dogs in giant dog suits, and you expect the average normal person to just accept that?  To not ponder what it takes for a person to become that diluted in life?  To worry about their children, and the possibility of furries spreading?

And it is for that reason alone, that iR declares furries to be blindly retarded.

Many furries are artsy people.  They like to draw and write stuff.  Many of them plague a website called DeviantArt.  It is a place for aspiring artists to show their artwork and maybe even make a little money off of it.  Unfortunately however, furries out number normal people on Deviant Art three to one, and are entirely responsible for most of the shit on the site. . . Shit like this:

More furry fan art can be found on Deviant Art, here.

Nazi Furs are furries who enjoy dressing up in fur suits and wearing WW2 Nazi regalia.  Although many of them do wear the Nazi arm bands, complete with SS uniforms, they claim not to be anti-Semitic.  

Babyfurs are furries who enjoy dressing up in fur suits and wearing baby bonnets/diapers.

Burned Furs are furries who have been shunned by their own community.  I shit you not, they have a term for it.

Furry fandom began became in 1980, at a science fiction convention, when a drawing of a character from a science fiction novel started a forum on anthropomorophic characters in science fiction novels.  

The beginning of the 80's is regarded as a popular time for furries, as it was during this time that a lot of anthropomorphic characters appeared in television shows and movies. . . These characters were of course targeted towards children, and not freaks with a passion for plush dolls. . . 

The furry community exists mostly online, with members only going fully into their fursona at conventions and parades.

Furry haters are called 'anti-furs'

Furries even have their own wikipedia, called wikifur. . . Because apparently even furries have no idea what they're are all about.

Some furries "may view animals with a kind of religious reverence, reminiscent of Buddhism, Shamanism, or Otherkin. . . funny I don't remember anything about having sex with animals in those religions, but then again I'm not what you would call a 'religious person.'

thats about it.

love,

iR

Crybabies - an NBA/TBS Production

In an effort to branch out and showcase the everyday lives of NBA stars, the National Basketball Association felt it fit to select a certain number of superstars and film them and their activities.  TBS graciously offered a time slot, and soon a loving relationship was born.  The show in question, titled "Crybabies" will be coming to TBS: Very Funny, this summer!

Lets meet the cast of Crybabies, shall we?

PAUL PIERCE - CRIES UNTIL HE GETS HIS JUICE

Whaaaaaa

The quaint little one stands, illuminated by the sun coming from the playroom window.  He looks out it, sipping some "apple juice" out of a juice box.  He is smiling and thoroughly enjoying himself.  He seems nice enough.  His juice box empties--SLURP--the juice is no more.  Little Paul Pierce smiles and keeps drinking, but when no more juice comes he realizes his dilemma and begins to cry, a fierce cry that annoys anyone within a fifty foot radius.  Paul wants his juice--he wants his Goddamn juice!  He cries and cries until he gets his juice and then he is fine again, as if nothing even happened.

WHY HE'S A CRYBABY:

Despite being a Boston Celtic, which alone makes him a crybaby, Paul Pierce gets "injured" more than most players do, but he seems to have a body which heals at super human rates.  That is to say that by the time he gets his way (2 foul shots) the "injury" is gone, and so are all the tears.  His main offense came during the 2008 NBA Finals, against the Los Angeles Lakers.  During one transition during Game 1 of the Finals, Paul Pierce was "injured."  He was "injured" so bad that he had to be carried off the court by his teammates, as he grimaced and acted delirious.  Where am I Kev?  One would think he shattered a leg. . . no.  Not quite.  He came back 15 minutes later and proceeded to drain 3 threes in a row.

His bitch out had earned him a standing ovation from the Boston crowd, as they no doubt saw him as a real warrior, and not a real whiny bitch.  How did he come back from such a horrible injury so quickly?  I mean he couldn't walk before, but now after just 15 minutes he can run up and down the court and drain threes like he wasn't even hurt at all. . . How did he do it?

Simple, because baby Pierce wasn't hurt, he just needed his "juice," thats all.

GLEN "BIG BABY" DAVIS - HIS HUGGIES ARE THE MOST FULL OF SHIT

Is KG comin?

In the center of the room a drooling giant man baby sits alone.  The mild smell of shit emanates around him, a faint rotten smell that comes up when you least expect it.  His name is Glen Davis, and nobody really likes him.  He thinks and drools and thinks about how nobody likes him, so he cries.  He cries and shits his diapers, which makes everyone dislike him even more.  

WHY HE'S A CRYBABY:

He actually cried.  

On T.V.  

During a game.  

One game Kevin Garnett, his teammate (who isn't exactly the most frndly guy in the world) had some harsh words for Davis during a timeout.  Davis didn't like it much and responded by walking away and throwing a temper tantrum on the bench, complete with cursing, violent towel abuse/manipulation, and actual man baby tears. . . Man baby tears that must have tasted so sweet, mmm yes.

STEPHEN JACKSON - GANGSTA BABY

Even the playroom has its dangerous areas, and mostly because of little baby Stephen Jackson.  He's claimed his territory and walks back and forth, a gun sticking out of the back of his diaper.  He's also claimed all of his toys, and if anyone thinks about taking any of them, not only will he cry, but he'll blast you in the face a couple of times with his 9 millimeter.  He's good bud's with only one other crybaby in the room. . . 

WHY HE'S A CRYBABY:

Aside from whining on the court, off the court Stephen Jackson whines a shit load lot too.  After not getting his way at a club he got into an altercation with some of the staff and fired several shots from a gun he kept concealed on him.  He claimed it was self defense, but a jury saw it differently.  He was found guilty of reckless endangerment and was suspended 7 games from the NBA season for his retardation involving the law.  Later that year Jackson was involved in the infamous brawl with NBA Fans, an act of bitchery that only got him suspended for 30 games. . .  His behavior on the court has also earned him more ejections than I care to try and remember, but two of them are worth mentioning in that they both came during the playoffs, both occasions costing his team a victory.

RASHEED WALLACE - BABY BALD SPOT

I can count to dis many!

In one corner of the playroom baby Rasheed Wallace and lil Stevie Jackson stand in the corner, sneaking hits from a spliff during an imaginary game of Cops and Robbers.  They like their version of the game, because in theirs there are no cops--only spliff smoking robbers.  Sometimes Stephen doesn't play by Rasheed's rules, so Rasheed cries, and refuses to share his sticky icky with him.

WHY HE'S A CRYBABY:

In 12 minutes of basketball, Rasheed Wallace does 10 minutes of complaining and whining, wondering why it is he got a foul when the he didn't even touch the guy - why is he bleeding?  I dunno, a cut just spontaneously formed on his upper lip. . . Not to mention Rasheed Wallace leads the NBA with a record 304 technical fouls, and has set a record for most technical fouls in a season with 40.  

Rasheed was also suspended 40 games for threatening a referee after a home game.  It is reported that he followed the man, and threatened him with physical violence if he "didn't shape up."   But Rasheed's criticalness of refereeing is no secret, in Game 5 of the 2008 playoffs Rasheed Wallace went off on a tirade that would make any sailor proud: "All that bullshit-ass calls they had out there.  With Mike and Kenny--you've all seen that shit, you saw them calls.  The cats are flopping all over the floor and they're calling that shit.  That shit aint basketball out there.  It's all fucking entertainment.  You all should know that shit.  It's all fucking entertainment."

Dis cat got more whine than Napa Valley.

AMAR'E STOUDEMIRE: THE SHIT-TALKER

Another baby sits by himself in the playroom.  Hes got a fire truck and dinosaur.  They are his two favorite toys and he likes to make them charge one another head on.  He also likes to make the noise the carnage would make if such a beast were ever to crash with a fully equipped fire truck.  He does it again and again.  the dinosaur always loses, and he always says "Fucking fire twuck. . . you just got lucky.  Bitch-ass fire twuck. . ."  He likes cursing out the other crybabies too, especially if he feels like they are out performing him.

WHY HE'S A CRYBABY:

After losing game 1 of the 2010 Western Conference Finals to the Los Angeles Lakers, Amar'e stated that Lamar Odom (who had a great game) had a "lucky game," and that talent was not involved in his performance whatsoever.  He further stated that he "use to handle him before big brother came along," 'him' being Andrew Bynum, 'big brother' being Pau Gasol.  What a poor sport.

And like a true bitch he followed suit, and was handled once again in game 2, yet when asked about the Lakers performance he had nothing but nice things to say. . . Perhaps he received a time out/good smacking after game 1.  But bitching is no new thing to Amar'e Stoudemire, he has a long extensive history of it, all the way back to his school yard days playing on blacktops.  And the Lakers certainly aren't his only target, after losing The Spurs, he cried to media that both Bruce Bowen and Manu Ginobli were "dirty players."

TIM DUNCAN: EVERY MOTHER'S DREAM

Hewwo?

On a chair sits a crybaby with enormous ears.  they stick out and are the size of a full grown man's ears.  They don't look like they belong on the baby, but nonetheless he finds a way to live with them.  The baby's name is Tim Duncan, and he's actually quite boring.  Especially for a baby.  He doesn't do much, so when blame is pointed in his direction he raises holy hell and pleads the fifth.  He makes a look as if he were the most innocent angel in the room, which is clearly, not always the case.

WHY HE'S A CRYBABY:

Picture in your mind for a moment, Tim Duncan of the San Antonio Spurs.  What is he doing?  Complaining.  He's got his arms extended, his shoulders up in a perpetual shrug, his eyes bugged out and his mouth wide open. . . He's pleading his case, for the millionth time.  When he gets called for a foul he acts so shocked you would think the referee just accused him of raping some white women.

During the playoffs his bitching is only intensified, as this big bastard has to content with yet another year of critics saying he hasn't got the stuff to win a champion, not without 'The Admiral' David Robinson.  My favorite move of his is when he grabs the ball as if it were the head of the referee - his knuckles are white, his fingers extended - if only it were your throat you bastard - his eyes bugged out, pleading his case as always. . . I got all ball, see all ball!

What the hell my name aint Kobe!

SHAQUILLE O'NEAL: BIGGEST CRYBABY IN THE GAME

Another massive baby takes up a whole corner of his own.  He occasionally runs around pretending he's flying around like Superman.  When he's done he sits down and stares at you for minutes on end.  If you ask him what he's up to, Baby Shaw will tell you he's using his "x-ray" vision.  Everyone tends to his needs, because when he gets upset, a lot of things tend to get broken.  

WHY HE'S A CRYBABY:

The entire Shaq/Kobe thing toward the end of their falling out.  Not only did he whine and complain about Kobe Bryant but after he was gone, he often made fun of his former teammate.  On some occasions, when asked about Bryant, he acted like he did not even exist.  Kobe who?

He's been described as a big kid - he's got lots of toys and money, and like any kid with lots of toys and money Shaq is a selfish, spoiled, little brat, who just so happens to not be very little.  This can be seen on the court during any game, regardless of the team he is playing for.  He cries yet he gets away with more shit than he's ever caught for, simply because of his massive size, for upsetting Shaq is much like poking a large gorilla with a stick: it isn't going to end well.

Yet the collective minds at NBA TV and TBS are no fools, they wouldn't let a whole show rest squarely on a bunch of cry babies. . .  Oh no they have their own nanny, if you will. . . This guy:

PHIL JACKSON - THE MENTOR

The man's resume speaks for its self.  Phil Jackson is a fucking winner.  With his degree in psychology and mastery of dealing with big whiny babies and massive egos makes him perfect for the job.  Will Phil be able to turn around these crybabies, or will they forever be sniffling little bitches?

Tune into to TBS, Very Funny, this summer to find out!

iR

Get it?  Its a muppet babies spoof....