The Last of The Juggalos

AUTHORS NOTE:

There have been many battles against ICP, for their enemies are many. Their most recent entanglements have been with 'the scientists,' who in their eyes ruin all the magic in the world with their logic and common sense. Many a historian has transcribed their battles in lengthy texts, most of which the ICP have never seen, for many still know not how to read.  The following tale isn't much different, though I must say its got more gusto, and pretty pictures to look at.  Its events are as accurate as can be humanly possible, for not all of the proceeding was seen with mine own eyes. Nonetheless, precautions were made to ensure the authenticity of the tale, for the sake of entertainment and history.

THE LAST OF THE JUGGALOS

The United States of America has been home to many tribes of a people with faces painted white, with noses all different but usually round and red; of a people with giant shoes, hyperbolic in every way, along with their every person: the hair flammable in color and obtuse in size, the cheeks like swollen cherry tomatoes, their shit eating grins the size of The Brooklyn Bridge.  They are the dimwits of art and theater who's calamity brings joy, who's tears bring laughter - those people who's lifestyle is so infrequent and onto itself that those who practice it can be considered their own breed; a race of people known as fucking circus clown.

Creepy. . . 

Chief among their tribes are the people of Barnum & Bailey, who in the last hundred years have formed a mutual alliance with the people of the Ringling Bros.  Other tribes exist as well, though hardly as worldly recognized as the two previously stated. Their people have taken up the names of the regions they squandered from decency, dispersed like kindling in the wind. So many of their brothers and sisters have splintered into the deepest crevices, the highest mountains, the lowest valleys and everything in between.  Though so thinly spread, the resolve and determination of each component of the whole hardened each of them, allowing them to live out semi normal lives despite being complete and utter outcasts.  However, these days deliberations are made around the campfire of Barnum&Bailey and The Ringling Bros. on an evil enemy who sullies the blood of his brothers with antics that include not pie throwing, nor the sudden loss of one's pants due to a suspender malfunction.  They speak of an enemy who though featured like them, operates very differently than themselves.  Here in the red and yellow striped tent, amongst the elephants and the smell, their people gather, for a deliberation on rather serious subjects.

Their chief had risen first silent as the multitudes waited with patience. Although he had a station of superiority over the others, he very much resembled his kin.  When he walked his shoes squeaked comically as if stuffed with dog chew toys, and the flower which bloomed from his breast pocket boasted virility without the need of water or soil.  This chief had been named Skid Mark, for his act included an over sized pair of pants hemmed for a man much fatter and taller than he, so they often slipped from his person, revealing a pair of stained drawers -- and living up to his name his pants dropped upon reaching the stage.  Picking them up he cleared his throat and spoke.

"Our brothers in Detroit have been proven to be anything but family.  They sully the name of the Ringling and Barnum & Bailey.  The black and white faces dare to say they walk with our brothers, yet they have never taken a pie in the face, and instead choose to bathe in sugars of Faygo.  They speak of Family, but there's is not our own, and is spiteful of the Shiney Red Nose in The Sky."

Sounds of agreement came up from all those listening, namely the honking of plastic noses and the ringing of bicycle bells.

"They deceive our own children with false hopes.  They sell them the defiling of the mind, body and soul. . . Many a season have our people found peace, and have pursued all avenues to ensure it, but they sing of war, and idolize weapons like hatchets.  To the juggalo the first remedy of any problem is war, and all his tales tell of blood spilled, and hatred . . ."

The wise words of one of their elders had been rudely interrupted by a recent outcast in the village, a clown with hair colored red from the blood of his kin, his garb that of a yellow one piece with sleeves striped red and white, his over sized red shoes laced in yellow.

"Eject this miscreant at once!"  Skid Mark flicked his wrist in a sign of instant disgust.  "The clown of McDonald has betrayed his people, and profits while he feeds our children poison."  The coward was dispatched of, his feet dragging as his captors took him out to rot with the dogs.

yay.

The Chief then paused, allowing the disturbance to pass under the weight of his fierce gaze.  In the silence the interruption was soon forgotten, and all eyes once again fell on the Great Skid Mark.

"The severity of the situation has required the wisdom of our eldest father, who in his many years has gained more knowledge than we could ever hope to obtain.  He was around when our people emerged from the bosom of the earth and only the white face carried the distinction of clown.  It is a rarity that one of our own should live so long, it is the workings of The Great Spirit. . ."

It was then the ancient clown emerged from his caravan, his likeness on the side fading, the paint having chipped in a disordered fashion from the vigors of passing seasons.  In short, his vessel appeared more to be a tomb than the home of a great chief.  Age had eaten away at his hair, though he still possessed red tufts of matted fur on both sides of his head.  His frame seemed crumbled as he walked a parade that more resembled a death march than a procession worthy of a dignitary. Painted black eye brows gave the appearance of perpetual shock, though his features beneath sagged and were life less.  Upon reaching the spotlight, he stopped to regain his strength.  It was then that he made an effort to stand up, and it was then, with the sound of old and cracking vertebrae that the tribe looked on their most knowledgeable - a clown simply known as Bozo.

He spoke, his words dry and papery.  Every word an effort.

"I have seen many things."  Bozo said, deep in thought.  "Yet I have never encountered beings such as this."  A gasp arose from his collective listeners, as it was believed Bozo knew everything, especially all matters regarding clowns.  "Their tongue I find unrecognizable.  They bring no joy - they make a mockery out of the time honored tradition of making a mockery of oneself!"

Sounds of approval.  Horns and whistles.  Bozo struggled, breathing heavy.

"In short, they're. . . they're. . . retarded."

And with that he spoke his last word, one which serves greatly as an umbrella term for all that is stupid, and breathed his last breath.  His head dropped, his eyes void of any life.  Lifting their fallen comrade, the clowns carried him out of the tent in a somber procession fitting of a funeral. Reaching their destination, they dumped him in a grave fit for any clown - a ditch not far from their camp, where bones mingled with garbage and noisy flies.    

Scaring children since 1928.

"Brothers, we must avenge the death of Bozo, our wisest chief.  It was thought of the black and white faces that seized his mind and stopped his heart!"  Skid Mark said.  "Our Fathers will never be at peace until they have been avenged and the blood of the Detroits flood their cities and drown the seeds of their fathers Chief Violent J and Chief Shaggy 2 Dope!"

Loud whoops erupted from the crowd, and with newfound tenacity they emerged from the tent a mass of angry clowns wielding crude weapons of their own creation.  With determination they met their enemies who were already expecting them, as word from their scouts reached their lands before their enemy.  Chiefs fought among their men in mass - the clash of opposing forces was so great it resembled the crash of the surf.  Shaggy 2 Dope and Violent J appeared amongst their kin, and as clowns and juggalos fell about their feet, they were content to spill blood.

Skid Mark found the opposing forces and with the skill of a marksman beheaded a juggalo with a sharpened pie tin, the head falling clean from its body.  Shaggy 2 Dope on the other side had taken one of his CD's to the face of a clown, and with pressure popped his eye out of its socket.  Still Skid Mark pressed on.  Violent J had found a target and was unleashing his kicks on a fat clown's nut sack.  Still Skid Mark pressed on. Killing enemies on his way he met Shaggy 2 Dope, who welcomed him with eager eyes, and quickly they were engaged in a struggle.

"Whoop whoop."

The war cry of the juggalo rang out as they witnessed one of their leaders engaged in deadly combat.  Encouraged by the vision the juggalos fought on, killing many a clown with a veracity that matched their hatred.  The battlefield became one of mixed emotions, a thousand dead clowns lying there on the ground, their happy painted faces contorted into expressions of pain and shame, cemented in death.  Colors were everywhere, but predominate was the color red; the color of blood.  Skid Mark had engaged in a struggle with Shaggy 2 Dope, the both of them wrestling in the mud as men from both sides fought and died for their side.  Choking Shaggy, he gained control, and taking a sharpened horn from his back pocket he raised it and buried it into the Juggalo Chief's chest.

The impulse to honk the horn was strong, and as Skid Mark gave it a couple of squeezes, Shaggy 2 Dope died.  -honk honk-  Rising in victory, his eyes then met those of Violent J, who had lost some vigor in light of seeing such a loved brother slain in battle.  Skid Mark advanced slowly, Violent J back stepping as he did so, to prevent his enemy from gaining any ground.  The circus clowns seemed to be winning.

Yet amongst the din, a piano began to play over the frightful music of men dieing.

I dare yah. . .

Family. . . 

JCW. . .

Family. . .

I'm a bad, bad man. . .

Imagine the clowns surprise when an eight year old emerged from the destruction. . . whoop whoop:

Riveted by the appearance of the Last of The Juggalos, Violent J charged his enemy with the pride of a father content to eliminate the evils in his son's world.  Charging Ski Mark he was met with little resistance.  After the clown was slain, his red nose was taken as a trophy and raised above the head of the victor for all to see. It proved effective in rallying his troops, even the young Violent JJ, who proceeded to hurricanrana clowns and elbow drop fallen foes, much to the juggalos enjoyment.  Once again, the war cries of the juggalos rang out: whoop whoop, whoop whoop in a savage cry they alone posses.  They continued killing circus clowns, lead by their only head chief and his prince.

When victory seemed apparent the sirens rang out and painted the landscape red and blue red and blue.  The combatants scattered like cockroaches when the lights come on.

The cops opened fire, guns blazing through the night in tiny explosions of death, and often they didn't miss.  The casualties were great, far greater than the combat that had ensued prior.  Violent J had fallen, and so had many of his comrades.  The circus clowns too, suffered many a casualty, many still crawling on the ground with holes in their bodies.

All that remained was Violent JJ, who's small person deemed more difficult to hit.

Twas the day I witnessed the last of a vile and retarded race of the Juggalos.  

The clown is a descendant of the jester; a creature so small and feeble he would be killed on a whim.  And often for a laugh.  To pursue to be one is retarded, even if you try and deviate it with rap music and weapons.  In the case of Violent JJ, it is apparent that juggalos, though they claim to be a loving bunch just looking for acceptance, are very much indoctrinated in violence. . .  You can't tell me this Violent JJ kid isn't going to grow up to be the biggest piece of shit to ever walk the earth.  I mean, he's already made of poor stock (I think he's Violent J's kid, I don't care enough to get the facts straight,) but now they've already got him 'wrestling' and walking around emulating the bullshit actions of the 'grown ups' around him.  Sure, you may claim that ICP and all of that shit really has a good message to preach, one which only juggalos seem to be able to decipher, and hey, lets assume for a second that this is true, but this kid doesn't understand it.  He's just a kid.

Let him be a kid.

Seeing as how this is all the same garbage over and over again, I have but only one diagnosis to give.  Thickheaded as they may be, surely I must be making some ground, right?

Due to the nature of ICP and its recurring retardation, iR declares ICP and Violent JJ, repetitively retarded.

The Last of The Mohicans was a book written by James Fenimore Cooper.  The Last of The Juggalos was a shit blog written by yours truly.

John Wayne Gacy was a serial killer who gained the nickname "Killer Clown" after he made appearances at children's events dressed as a fictional clown he created himself....

Killer Klowns From Outer Space is a shit movie about. . . killer clowns, from outer space.

Pennywise is the name of the monster/clown in Stephen King's It.

Coulrophobia is fear of clowns... if you have it you probably never made it through this shit.

Logophobia is fear of words... if you have it you definitely didn't make it through this shit.

love,

iR

Nikki Cox: Tragic Retardation

infinitely Retarded, now with more pictars!

Today kiddies, our fable is about beauty. Specifically how it fades.  A harsh working of nature, it is a calamity we all must face, but for some vanity cannot be so easily shed. . . as you will soon discover in a tale of tragic retardation I like to call (for the sake of time under such uncreative circumstances):  'Working Title.'

Remember Nikki Cox?  That bimbo from that Married. . . With Children rip off show called Unhappily Ever After?  The one with the red hair, the massive tits, and the inversely minuscule brain?  This chick:

Jugs McGee

Ah yes, now its coming back to you.

Yes, well we are gathered here today because these days she looks like this:

Yes.  Another victim of the surgical blade.

How haunting success can be. . . How dangerous in regards to looks, for as so clearly stated earlier, beauty like the tide will rise, and a person so accustomed to the delight of such waters will frown when in time, as it must, it begins to roll back.  Some will do anything to obtain it.  No doubt Cox got many jobs based on her looks because a) she had no talents other than looking pretty or b) men refused to see her as anything other than a sex object.  I'll quickly change the subject, for such a serious debate has no place on such a retarded blah-g.  The fact of the matter is had she other talents, she would have been able to assault the seasons and still bear fruit despite it being fall.  Besides she's not very bright either.

I mean she married this guy:

Bobcat Goldthwaith

Talk about no self esteem. . . She did however divorce him six years later and promptly married this douche:

Jay Mohr in douche mode.

And meanwhile, she was beginning to look more and more like the Creature from the Black Lagoon, her lips resembling those of some disgusting fish creature.  Paparazzi didn't help either, as they at times caught photographs of her looking a lot like those ugly people in that Twilight Zone episode "Beauty is in The Eye of The Beholder." That episode where they make it out to seem like this poor woman is ugly and trying desperately, through operation, to to look beautiful like all those around her, but at the end when they unwrap all the gauze from her face she is a classic beauty with flowing blonde hair and jewel like eyes but she screams, and the nurses scream and she's still ugly, because to them she looks so hideous.

Seriously, wtf?

Don't think for a second that I am being cruel or superficial, but there is very much to be said in that episode, ideas expressed no doubt more poignantly than I ever could.  My point is she's only thirty two years of age.  Such a young face so afraid of age lines that at twenty-four perceived age was conjured where there was none.  It brings to the skin a blemish of the soul, a dysfunction of the mind, the confusion of the heart kept concealed under emotion --  made visible by the naked eye with the help of plastic and foreign collagen.  Tis a strange scene that is becoming more and more popular.

Women walking around like monsters.

And thats all I have to say about that.

Happy Halloween

Imperial Stars; The Dumbest Thing Going

Sit your child upon your knee.  Warm by the comfort of the fire.  Hear it crackling?  Its almost as if upon the edge of its warmth one finds safety, whereas outside of its reach, in the dark, there exists only cold and discomfort. 

Move closer.  Keep safe.  Don't worry little lass, ICP won't get you, they're scared of the dark too.  Better still.  Better move close. Safe.  The young mind and its imagination can create a great deal of evils, evils which grow with the mind and over time, become very real things.

But hush.

Hush now, let me tell you a story.  Drink your milk and eat your cookies.

Listen:

Drink your milk and eat your cookies!

Listen:

Dearest Little One, With Eyes So Bright and A Heart So Pure,

. . .

Grandpa is talking now.

. . .

That's better.

There once was a shit band called Imperial Stars, that was made up of nothing but a bunch of total losers pushing thirty years of age.  Quiet now, while Grandpa wets his lips with some adult juice.  All the better to remember with.  Don't say anything, you'll understand when you're older. Yes I know it smells something awful, but it isn't consumed for the smell young one.  Besides, why do you think your parents left you with me? They hate you, as they hate me.  You better get use to ghosts. . . Now may Grandpa continue?

Where was I?  Ahh yes yes, my finger tells me I was right here, right on the pulse.  These Imperial Stars fellows were somewhere else, their hands probably rested firmly upon their genitals, or perhaps on the genitals of their cell mates. . . A quick laugh and I realize that perhaps I'm getting ahead of myself, and surely in such a case I must be getting ahead of you, for although an old man has a brain made of mush, it is still more functional than that of a witless child!

And I'll prove it damn you, I'll prove it!

Listen now, listen to Grandpa:

Yes well, there once was this band called Imperial Stars, and since their name made mention of some sort of status, these men walked around believing that they were of such a distinction that they deserved to be called stars, but not just stars, Imperial ones, as retarded as that may seem. . . No dear, not supernovas, that would be silly.  Just stars. Well anyway. . . yes, oh yes, they would frequent bars and clubs and speak of their musical talents and rope in young blind girls with copulations and fake fancy suits and a little bit of money.  What they did with these women you're neither old enough nor wise enough to understand, but what they did is fuck them. . . Oh yes. . . Well pardon me. . .  I probably shouldn't have said that.  Don't ask.  Just listen.

*The sound of the chair rocking, the wood squealing, the fire sucking in air, warming the room and lighting the both of them.

Their sound dear, can be described as borderline retarded, often spilling over into dubious bouts of utter bullshit and douchery.  Shield your ears young one, no new soul should have to listen to such degradation and vague, empty notions of celebrity.  For you others, watch  and listen closely. . . As I put on this video :

Wait is that Carlos Mencia?

Yes, little lass, apparently these guys did a video with the same director that did the Miracles ICP music video: Windows Media Player.  Where does the story come in?  Where does the story come in?  Oh you young ones and your constant questions, your jumpiness, your lack of patience. . .  Where does the story come in. . . why this is the story! Now be quiet and drink your milk and eat your cookies and listen to dear Grandpa:

Due to their general suckage and pending decline into the waking void that is the music industry, these D-bags felt the need to get their names a little press.  Oh how they were successful in this endeavor, for the assholes, writers of a song called Traffic Jam 101, felt it was necessary to start a traffic jam on the 101 during peak hours of traffic by parking ACROSS the freeway in their giant SHITMOBILE.  They then proceeded to perform a mini concert of their song 'Traffic Jam 101,' from atop their shitmobile, with their speakers blaring on out at everyone within a 200 yard radius.

*The chair rocking and the smell of booze.  Boozey ole grandpa.  Hell yeah.

Oh you fools, hell hath no fury like a California native stuck in rush hour traffic trying to get to work.

*speaking to no one at all

Oh you fools. . .

Not only did the coppers show up and impound their shit van, but they also arrested the members of the band and put a hefty bail on each and every one of them.

Talk about total fucking morons.

In case you didn't know, I'm sure you don't know lass, you're still young yet:  highway 101 serves as one of the main nerves connecting the Northwest to the Southwest, spanning 1,500 miles.  Its a veritable vein draining from Seattle, Washington down into the muck of Los Angeles.  And these assholes clogged it up.  For a song.  For a real shitty song.  And they're a band.  A real shitty band.

*The chair rocking and the smell of booze and the fire, lighting the room and warming all around it.

Now one can assume that they have tremendous balls - you know for getting arrested promoting a song that generally sucks to begin with.  On the other hand, lass, one can assume that they are tremendously retarded - you know, for getting arrested promoting a song that generally sucks to begin with. . .  Its one or the other, depending on how you see it, for although having balls sometimes results in stupidity, it only delves over into retardation when the individual (i.e. owner of said balls) is already retarded to begin with; the brain is only willing to take as much damage as it perceives it can take, especially when testicles are involved.

But you wouldn't really get that, now would you lass?

So what am I saying?

Your average man wouldn't willingly stick anything into a bear trap, let alone reproductive organs.

A retard, however, would.

Like these Imperial Star guys.

And thats precisely what they did, snagged their testicles in a steel bear trap.

You see, in Los Angeles traffic is a bitch, especially in the early mornings when people are going to work, and again, when they are coming home. Tis why they call it the rat race lass, so many years of their lives spent going SOMEWHERE in the hopes of becoming SOMETHING, just like everyone else.  Everyone biting at everyone else's heels and no one ever really getting anywhere.  The second they interrupted that race, they incured the wrath of all those mice, appalled that they should be so bold as to claim they were anything but the average fur covered vermin, and further angered by their interruption of their race with such an extravagant and foolish display of arrogance and douchery.

Naturally its only time before they disappear, some sort of career perceived in their heads due to 10 minutes on the local news being described by d-bags as being d-bags.  So let it be know lass...  Let it...

*The chair and its rocking ceased, Grandpa's chest heaving and spewing clouds of gasoline out into the air in easy. . . steady. . . beats. . . Let Grandpa sleep now... Sleep.

The Imperial Stars have really made a name for themselves.  For all the wrong reasons.  Not only do they generally suck, (making one wonder how they ever got an album deal to begin with, moreorless their own tour bus,) but they're total assholes on top of that.  And now I know who they are.  And now you know who they are.

Fuck.

But at least the internets has willingly dispatched its own bit of justice: the trolls have come to feast.  Not only has their phone number been posted for angry commuters to bitch and generally flood their voice mail, but they've also received and outpouring of hate -the majority of which they have censored, yeah cause not only do they like traffic jams and general douchery, they like censorship too.  

Never mind the people who were late to work that day, or the people who fired, or who never got that job interview because they showed up late, or even worse the real emergencies that were put to a hault by your antics; a real shitty concert was totally worth it.  Yeah, totally worth all the money its gonna take to bail your asses out of jail and get your SHITMOBILE out of the impound lot. . . And yeah, its totally gonna make you guys famous.

And it is for these reason alone: that your music career is effectively over before it ever started, that iR declares 'Imperials Stars' finitely retarded.  

The best part?  These assholes are supposedly working towards ending children's homelessness - by stopping traffic - commerce.

The Imperial Stars is also a science fiction novel.  

These d-bags aren't even on wikipedia.

Totally unrelated, but check out this retardation:

No wait, like really?  Owen Wilson wanted to kill himself BEFORE Marmaduke was ever released, or even offered to him?   Weird.

iR

The Tragic Retardation of A&E's Teach

We be spendin' most our lives livin' in a gangsta's paradise

Aristotle. . . Paulo Freire. . . Confucius. . . Michele Pfeiffer. . .  All of them teachers, all of them with their contributions to generations of young minds fertile yet not yet planted with the seeds of wisdom.  Some had to overcome a government wanting poor people to stay illiterate and in turn powerless. . . Others had to listen to rap music and wear leather jackets to reach students dabbling in gang life and endangering their lives. . .  But none of them have ever had to face the hardships that face Mr. Tony Danza, yes, Tony 'Who's The Boss' Danza.  Not only is he going to teach a classroom of high school students English, but he's going to do it with a bunch of television cameras and no teaching experience whatsoever (yeah he has a college degree, but he's never taught before.)

I present to you, A&E's Teach, with Tony Danza:

Pompous asshole am I right?

Its not a role, its reality. . . Well unfortunately, the only person who doesn't know this is Tony Danza himself.  He sincerely walks into the room like he would any role, and assumes that due to past 'successes' that teaching wouldn't be any different; the door to the classroom would swing open and the spotlight would shine down upon him, his audience some thirty odd youngsters ready to absorb every word that came out of his mouth, to praise his genius, to provide applause with astounding test results.

Yes a crowd of all your usual high school stereotypes: the sports jock who excels in sports but is too busy thinking about scoring on and off the field to bother paying any attention in class, the annoying nerdy kid who takes nothing but A.P. classes for the extra GPA with a tongue about a mile long and a fondness for licking the teachers ass; the weird lesbian chick with spiked greasy hair and a rainbow colored necklace, the stuck up cheerleader chick who knows she's pretty and therefore will forever be retarded. . .  All of them exhibiting that same glare in the eyes, like those of a man looking but not looking, their eyes connected to a brain that is not entirely thinking.  Just buzzing away if you listen close enough.

buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

And despite his efforts to come into the ring, so to speak, and knock out yet another opponent, here in the teaching arena he has failed, miserably. Surprise surprise.  Things are woozy.  The ref is counting ten.  Has he counted to ten yet?  It seems so long ago, that I once was standing and cocky and full of shit.  Funny how a stiff right can really sober a man up. Yeah.  Maybe because teaching actually requires effort, you fucking jack ass.

The episode I happened to watch went something like this:

Tony reads aloud Of Mice and Men, and proceeds to tell the class that its a book about a retarded guy and a guy who takes care of him.  That it is a love story.  These two love each other.  Immediately students are repelled by the book.

The students complain they don't get the book.

Tony decides to give a quiz the next day, regardless of his students apprehension. 

The next day the quiz is given.  Tony is as happy as a pig in shit.  His first quiz!  His first quiz!

Tony grades them.  Half of the class fails.

The next day Tony walks into the class and starts dogging on the kids.  Blaming them for it all, even making one girl cry in the middle of class. To Tony, the kids aren't reading.  To the kids, Tony isn't teaching, and quite frankly, the Principal feels the same way:

"You are multi-talented, you can do everything, you dance, you sing, you play instruments. . . And I would never think that I could just stand beside you and just put on tap shoes and do what you do. . . Well I expect that same respect for the art of education."  

Oh shit burn.  It goes on:

"Its serious work, and you don't get the tag of teacher, you know. . . you don't get the tag of teacher, until your students are learning. . . You got that?"

Ahaha oh fuck.  This show is amazing!  Its not everyday you get to see a high and mighty worm get cut down by someone he thinks is beneath him.  Nope, not everyday.  

I don't know what's worse, that A&E and Tony Danza collectively thought that they could teach these kids, or that the parents of these children actually signed off on this shit.  I mean, we all know the state of public education in America is fucking bullshit these days, but there's no reason to actually prove it on a reality television show.

I swear, this is just the sort of thing a foreign dictator would use as evidence of the deficiency of America and its education system.

Yeah, if we get bombed, I'm saying its all Tony Danza's fault.

Teaching is fucking difficult.  Its a profession which reaps very few rewards, very little money, and shit tons of anxiety and stress.  Many a good soul has gone into the profession with the hopes of doing good, only to pack up their shit a year later with a heavy heart and defeated eyes.  With this knowledge one can only assume Tony Danza to be a complete and utter asshole to think that he could just waltz into a classroom, with cameras no less, and change the lives of all those around him.

Kiss my fucking ass.

Its not a movie we're talking about here, Tony, we're talking about real life.  Real students, real futures in jeopardy, and some how A&E and Tony Danza has turned it into a circus sideshow with ratings and everything.

And I thought my high school education was a joke, this shit is just fuckin' tragic.

And it is for this reason that iR declares A&E, and Tony Danza's Teach, tragically retarded.

Teach: Tony Danza appeared October 1st, 2010.

Tony also helped with the football team, the band, the debate team, and even fingered a couple of cheerleaders.  Way to go teach!

He even organized a fundraiser for school.  AWWW.

love,

iR

Yet Another Siren of Retardation: Jeff Van Gundy

Jeff Van Gundy was declared legally retarded upon birth.  He came out all cries and slime, a disgusting discolored thing sprung forth from the crevice of a woman who upon seeing him found him to be the biggest regret in her life.  He had eyes like a bullfrog, with a head squished in on both sides, and when he cried bubbles of unknown substances foamed about his curled lips; a physical reminder of the stench which crawled up his throat and came out his mouth whenever he opened it.

"Holy sheep shit," the head physician said, and he never said that.  He nearly dropped him.

The doctors found that no matter how hard they tried, no matter how malleable newborns heads are said to be, Jeff's was as hard as a rock, and was throughout the rest of his life an oddly shaped rotten egg.

Look, a shit sandwich.

Although it was 1846, it was still frowned upon to get rid of children.  At least if you weren't rich enough or if they were of the same skin color, so Jeff Van Gundy's mother took him (grudgingly,) and raised him to be the complete and utter moron he is today.  Each day, he would be served his oatmeal for breakfast, which he didn't eat as much as he drowned in, and after a good cleaning (again for the third time already), he'd skip on his merry way off into the wilderness to hopefully catch typhoid or get bitten by a snake.

His childhood really was troublesome for his mother, for Jeff kept on living. The doctors hadn't given him many years to live, due to his apparent retardation, but still the boy kept living, kept growing, to the point where each laugh became scornful in her ears, a constant reminder that he was still around and not only that but healthy enough to laugh!  To where he'd go out the door in the morning and come back in the afternoon, all scraped up and dirty from play outside, from wrestling in the dirt, from impromptu races from the shed and back. . .  It became apparent he wasn't any sickly child soon to die, but rather a normal boy, with a lacking brain and an oddly shaped head.

Darn.  No really.  Shucks.

Much to his mother's dismay, Jeff Van Gundy grew up, and without any medical scares or tearful nights 'worried' about him dying.  Not so much as a high fever.  He even went on to Yale University, where Jeff Van Gundy found his true passion: basketball.  He managed to make the team and played a few games, but was soon cut from the team.  That's right, Jeff Van Gundy was so bad at basketball, he couldn't even make a team full of nothing but a bunch of pasty white guys.  Naturally, he did the next best thing, he became the towel and water boy for the team, and proceeded to watch the rest of the games from the sideline, and the more he watched, the more he 'learned' about the game of basketball.  He began to feel that getting cut from the team was a blessing, for it had shown him what his true calling in life was: COACHING:

Thats right, Jeff Van Gundy was the original Waterboy.

He got a job coaching for the McQuaid Jesuit High School in Rockefeller, New York.  Immediately the team was transformed, they even managed to win a few games without having to pay off the referees first.  Johnny Mackiwitz, his star point guard, was finally coming around and by Hanukkah he was leading the league in assists and steals.  The teams sluggish and ultra fat center Timmy Steinberg, had melted to a svelte 325 pounds, the school newspapers had changed hateful headlines into ones of praise, and all the players were happy and often sitting at kosher meals made by proud parents that towered high and steaming with all the smells of the old country.  The team however, never made it into the playoffs.  There was no victory parade for them at the end of the year, in fact when they took their final lost, there wasn't anyone there to see it, not even the kids' parents.  But for Jeff it was a successful year, it was the year he got his feet wet and finally got into this coaching game.  He knew it would only be a matter of time before he would be noticed, and asked for a better job elsewhere.

And he was right.  Jeff Van Gundy shot up like a bald turd that refuses to be flushed.

He became a 'graduate assistant' for some d-bag coach at Providence College, which I guess means he was some assistant's assistant, who assisted in the assistance of the assistant coach, implying that perhaps the assistant coaches assistance wasn't enough, and did indeed require outside assistance.  (How annoying was that, eh?)  He succeeded in his mission and took the job of the man he was assisting the next year, becoming the assistant coach of Providence College.  He would spend another year there as assistant coach before being asked to come coach for the tippy-top: The National Basketball Association.

Yep, it only took this d-bag 4 years of coaching to make it to the Big Show, where he would get a job coaching for The New York Knicks.  He would become a fixture on the sidelines there for 12 years, (although six were as an assistant coach,) with his chrome head shining,  his wind pipe always belting out arguments and complaints as his face turned into a grimace as his faucet of a nose leaked.  He actually did well with the Knicks, even making it to the NBA Finals in 1999, when there wasn't a single soul who wasn't a Knicks fan that thought they had a chance in Hell (in fact most Knicks fans felt the same way.)  Yet they made it, only to lose.

Even still, he's best known for this:

"Nothing was going through my mind."  There you have it, self proclaimed retard.

From there it was off to the Houston Rockets, where he put in four years with the team.  He only failed to make it to the playoffs once with a losing season, the other three seasons resulting in first round losses in the playoffs.  During this time he unleashed about a million tirades, one of which resulted in a one hundred thousand dollar fine, after he claimed NBA referee's were targeting his star center, Yao Ming.  It still, to this day, is the heaviest penalty ever levied on an NBA coach.  

So without a ring, Jeff Van Gundy resigned from the team, and wasn't hired by any team the next season.  By this time, everyone was sure he was going to kill himself.  I mean he looked like a miserable bastard, a guy who apparently loved the game, but all the game gave him was sourness and hole where his heart should be.  In fact, I'm pretty sure he had his toe on the trigger of the shot gun when he received the call.  

Again, his darkest days had cleared to reveal a single thread of light, this, his true calling, COMMENTATING:

Now. . . at least when Van Gundy was a coach, we only had to hear him when he was complaining about a call, about to get himself thrown out, or bitching to the media hours after a game.  Now - we've got him the whole game, throughout every NBA Finals. . . Letting Jeff Van Gundy commentate is a lot like giving a chatterbox with the intelligence of a retarded monkey a mic a stage and a trapped audience: you know you're gonna get some shit flung at you, of the retarded kind.

Listen:

Fellas, there's a game goin on here

Shit Whoopi Goldberg in 'Eddie' has better commentary then you fools... "Lets go back to the barbershop thing..."

Really Jeff you were a successful coach?  Well that must have been the work of the players or your assistant coach, because something tells me the only things you ever talked about to your players in the huddle were how much you dislike Grey's Anatomy or how much you dislike everything in general.  You'd think with all that supposed 'basketball' knowledge in your heads you'd be able to talk about the game and provide some insight, or at the very least be able to describe whats happening.  Its almost like listening to The View commentate baseball, just a bunch of women talking about anything and everything other than what is important.

These guys fucking blow.

love,
iR

Anyway, Jeff's brother Stan Van Gundy is also a coach, and he looks just like Ron Jeremy.