Looking at 2011

December 24, 2011 6 comments

Oh the weather outside is frightful, but the fire is so delightful…unless you happen to be a burn victim, in which case being even remotely close to an open flame will bring back traumatic memories of a vicious blaze devouring your flesh and burning your skin like unrecognizable melted wax. If that’s the case, you’d probably prefer to be outside in the freezing winter cold. But then you might contract hypothermia. So either way, you’re fucked. Not literally mind, because as a burn victim you probably don’t look human anymore and it’s highly doubtful you’ll ever get laid again. But, er, merry Christmas and stuff.

Around this time of year various groups celebrate in different ways. The Christians congregate in churches and commemorate the birth of a make-believe baby carpenter, singing joyful hymns at the top of their voices so as to drown out the droning whines of molested choirboys in the backrooms from any authorities that might be passing by. Jews throughout America refuse to acknowledge the validity of the Christian Messiah and instead celebrate Hanukkah as they tuck into greasy Chinese food while admiring the crispness of one another’s dollar bills and discussing how to further their nepotistic supremacy. Muslims and Atheists meanwhile continue to spend December attempting to change the name of ‘Christmas’ to something less Jesus-y. That’s fine, as long as the Islamic holiday ‘Eid’ is legally changed to ‘Batshit crazy raghead day’ and every time a smug, uber-liberal atheist exclaims “Oh my God!” they have to get their tongues superglued to the Pope’s anus during ‘Vatican Vindaloo Week’.

Meanwhile black Americans enjoy their Kwanzaa festivities, honoring their African heritage by performing traditional dances, refusing to work, inhaling large quantities of marijuana and presenting each other with glocks as gifts before shooting each other in the chest with them. I once asked a black friend if he wanted to join me on a cruise ship over the Xmas holiday and bring his retarded robes and Kwanzaa celebrations to the sea, but he declined and told me his people “aren’t going to fall for that again”. I still don’t know what he meant.

Since Christmas is a time of giving, I’ve decided to finally let little Madeleine McCann out of my basement. I only purchased her from that weird Portuguese fella because I thought she was a midget, anyway. By the time I found out she wasn’t, the media were already all over it. Maybe if I sneak into the original hotel and hide her under the bed everyone will think she’s just ridiculously adept at hide-and-seek. That’s if she’s still alive – I haven’t actually checked up on her in three years and I can’t remember how many boxes of Cornflakes I had stored down there. I guess if she’s alright it’ll be a real Christmas miracle. Thanks in advance, Santa!

After Christmas of course comes the new year, but before 2012 rapidly approaches, we should look back upon the year that was. There was an Arab Spring, a phone hacking scandal, more economic woes, Arnie got divorced after secretly fathering a lovechild with the ugliest maid in existence, and the Chuckle Brothers continued to work, despite being about 92. Oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear.

2011 was also a year of high profile deaths. The fact that Gadaffi, Bin Laden and just recently Fearress Leader himself Kim Jong Il all died this year makes me wonder if Team America actually does exist. Then there was Amy Winehouse, Steve Jobs, Charlie Sheen…well, somehow the bi-winning warlock narrowly escaped existential expiration despite at times looking like a walking corpse, but there was plenty of bereavement elsewhere this past year. Much of which was caused by an unprecedented amount of geological and meteorological disasters such as earthquakes in Japan, New Zealand and Turkey, flooding in Australia and Thailand, and at the beginning of the year snow in London. Snow! In London! How did anyone cope?!

Still, since the Japanese tragedy the citizens there seem to have got back to their regular lives and some are even letting their hair down again. A Japanese friend of mine must have been out clubbing because he kept talking about “a big rave”. Good to see a few shakes can’t stop people from having a good time. Well, unless your name’s Michael J Fox. The Japanese economy seems have to have improved too. I saw a Japanese guy talking on the news and he had two boats in his backyard. If they can afford that then they’re doing just fine. I shouldn’t make jokes about Japan’s catastrophe though, the country is a mess. Hiroshima in particular, it looks like a bomb’s hit it.

The land down under was hit pretty badly too from the flooding. But at the very least, the Australian inundation has produced a profound gem to be passed down to generations to come:

Give a man a fish and he can eat for a day.
Give him a fishing rod and he can eat for a lifetime.
Give an Aussie a fishing rod and he can find his drowning kids.

No year would be complete without an awards ceremony, and as the upcoming months will deliver a litany of awards shows from the Oscars to the Golden Globes to the International Midget Awards, I feel they will all pale in comparison to the inaugural edition of my new concept, the new 2011 Cunt Awards, aka the Cunties. You see, unlike these tedious exercises in fawning sycophancy that bestow awards upon those that have achieved something positive, the Cunties are awarded to the biggest cunts and the cuntiest things of the year. And considering the year 2011 was one long cunty journey into the cunty centre of Cuntsville, there’s plenty of nominees.

If these undoubtedly prestigious awards were to become a live televised event, I’d want Karl Pilkington to host. Since Ricky Gervais is doing the Globes, I’d like his hilarious Manc twonk sidekick to do me the honour of hosting mine. Because as terrible and unenthusiastic as he’d be, he’d still do a better job than James Franco and Anne Hathaway.

In the next part of this 2-part article, I’ll list the cunts, I mean winners, of these wonderful awards. Don’t go anywhere.

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Development Hell

November 9, 2011 1 comment

What’s a Jew’s ultimate dilemma?

Free pork.

Or in the case of the bloated, dishonest and disingenuous Hollywood bigwig Harvey Steinweinberg, it’s a good screenplay. Good scripts and Hollywood go together like black guys and Fathers Day — a massive rarity. For every Source Code, there’s a hundred Twilights. A good script is a dilemma for the studio heads, because it has the potential to attain significant box office revenue, but Hollywood wouldn’t be the Dream Factory if it didn’t get it’s grubby little hands on it and rape and pillage the screenplay of what makes it special, thereby damaging it’s appeal.

I recently had a script I’d written purchased by the Steinweinberg Company and entered into pre-production. During this time, myself and Harvey sent a series of back and forth emails to one another discussing the ongoing process. I quickly learnt that in the smog-infested streets of Hollywoodland, the artifice of the movies pales in comparison to that of it’s most powerful overlords. Here is a transcript of those emails.

Dear Adam,

We all LOVE your script, ‘A Challenge to the Dark’. Love, love, love it. I think this is going to be huge for us. I’m not overstating things when I say this is the most original and exciting piece of work since ‘Cops and Robbersons’. However, as I’m sure you understand, filmmaking is a collaborative process and it’s inevitable that some slight alterations will have to made in order to maximize the potential profitability and make us all a lot richer. My shriveled up dick ain’t gonna suck itself, and these black hookers are getting more expensive by the day. Anyway, right now we’re taking the script to some Creative Advisors for some input.  Speak to you soon.

Dear Harvey,

It’s good to hear from you, though I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a tad apprehensive about these alterations you mentioned. But as long as nothing major is changed, I can live with it. Remember, it’s imperative that we try and cast Ralph Fiennes in the lead. He’s who I envisioned when I wrote the character and I can’t see anyone else in the role.

Dear Adam,

I’ve just had a meeting with my nephews, I mean, my creative advisors, and they’ve informed me that the audience simply won’t buy the idea of Ralph Fiennes breaking out of prison and avenging the death of his wife. He’s British, right? You limey’s aren’t tough enough to do that. All you guys do is drink tea and watch Benny Hill on the tube or whatever the fuck. Plus we can’t hire an Englishman because no one here will be able to understand his accent. We’re going to have to look at someone else for the lead.

Dear Harvey,

Forgive me for questioning someone with such extensive experience in the field, but I feel like you’re forgetting a few key points, mainly, that the protagonist is American and Ralph Fiennes would be putting on an American accent. You know, Brits play Yanks in Hollywood all the time. Hell, about half of the actors there are from the UK. Ralph Fiennes was made for this role.

Dear Adam,

These fucking black hookers stink my office out every time I bring them in. Soon when someone asks for directions here all I’ll have to say is “drive down Ventura Boulevard and turn left when you smell the cocoa butter”. If I didn’t love the feel of those fat jungle lips around my helmet I’d have to quit them. Plus they’re so much better than fucking Jewish women. Every time I try to kiss my wife I get poked in the eye and I’m 20 dollars lighter. Anyway, Scarlett Johansson has just walked in, got to go. She’s going to let me snort coke off of her cunt so I cast her in the next big superhero bullshit. Later. 

Dear Harvey

I’m starting to get concerned. You didn’t address the casting issue at all and just mentioned screwing women. I understand that black whores are important, but can we get back to the matter at hand, please?

Dear Adam

We’re in negotiations with Justin Beiber for the main role. We didn’t think Fiennes was right for the part, and we’re all super-excited about Justin getting involved. Someone told me Fiennes played a Nazi in some other movie too. What’s up with that shit? I ain’t hiring a fucking Nazi. As for Justin, he even agreed to let us use his music in the movie so we don’t have to pay for a composer. What a guy, huh?

Dear Harvey,

You’ve got to be kidding me. Justin fucking Bieber? For the role of a hardened and vengeful husband that’s been framed for murder and struggles to keep his sanity during an international conspiracy? Has the kid even acted before? And as for his music, if they would have played that in Auschwitz, the Jews would have raced for those ovens. This could ruin the movie. Please reconsider this!

Dear Adam,

How’s things over there in jolly old Europe? I just had lunch with the rapper Lil Wayne and his people, and he’s agreed to join the cast. I don’t get these black bastards. Every time they find something funny, they run half a mile away and back. It’s fucking nuts.

We’re also in talks with one of the homo’s from Glee to join. We need to be more ethnically diverse in order to appeal to the widest audience possible, so that’s the niggers and fags sorted. And don’t worry about Justin, he did a read-through yesterday and he knocked it out of the park. He insisted on amending a few pages to make the character more “banging” (his words, not mine), so we’re waiting for him to return the script. Also, my creative team think no one will understand the title, so we’re changing it to “The Revenge” so people know what’s going on.

Dear Harvey

The title was from a Charles Bukowski poem and — never mind. I’m extremely confused as to how a gay character is going to fit into the film? Maybe I shouldn’t even ask. Next you’ll be telling me you’ve added a comedic monkey sidekick.

Dear Adam

How the fuck did you know we just did that? Are you speaking to someone else here? If anyone here is giving away secrets I’l fire their fucking ass in a heartbeat. Yeah, we added Bobby the celebrity monkey. Justin felt the piece needed some comic relief, so we’ve changed the plot to accommodate the animal. Now, the monkey is the one that helps Justin escape from the maximum security prison by stealing the guard’s keys and slipping them through the bars. Genius, right?

Dear Harvey

I can feel my baby slipping away from me and I beg of you to stop making wholesale changes. A comedic monkey? This is a serious drama!

Dear Adam

Funny you should bring that up as I was just about to tell you — we’re turning this into a comedy. We all loved your original idea but we felt it needed a comic repackaging. We all especially thought the main character needed to lighten up a bit.

Dear Harvey

Lighten up a bit? HIS WIFE HAS JUST BEEN BRUTALLY MURDERED AND HE’S BEEN FRAMED FOR IT! What do you expect him to do?!

Dear Adam

Sorry for not replying back for 3 days, I’ve accidentally killed one of these black hookers and had to drive out to the mountains to dispose of the body. I just hope sniffer dogs don’t have a knack for following the scent of cocoa butter and crack.

Big news on the picture — Justin had to pull out due to scheduling issues so we’ve decided to replace him with a CGI animated character. He’s still letting use his music though. Awesome, huh?

Dear Harvey

So my serious drama about a man pushed to the edge amidst a grueling conspiracy is now about a CGI cartoon and a monkey sidekick getting into comedic hijinks to Justin Bieber tunes. Tell me Harv, is there any way this could get any worse?

Dear Adam

If by worse you been MUCH better than yes — we’ve decided to take the revolutionary step of adding the first ever live movie audience. It’ll be just like watching a sitcom! I’m concerned viewers won’t know when to laugh unless we have a laugh track, so now we’re including one. 

Speaking of funny, earlier today I pissed on a hobo asking me for a dollar. I’ve been giggling about it all day.

Dear Harvey

What in the holy fuck is happening to my movie?

Dear Adam

Bad news, kiddo. We gave a series of questionnaires to an audience of middle aged women asking if they liked the plot and characters, and it scored terribly. They hated it. We’ve decided not to pursue with The Revenge. Instead we’re going to focus our efforts on a remake of The Terminator. But it’s not all doom and gloom, because Justin Bieber agreed to move a few things around and he’s back on board for this new picture, thank God! Justin will be playing both John Connor and the Terminator, using split screen. And for only 40% more than he was going to make on The Revenge. I’m getting my cousin to work on the script. As for your script, we’ll put it on the shelf for now and think about developing it at a later date. Oh, and don’t tell anyone about any of this, otherwise I’ll sue your limey ass into next week.

Dear Harvey

Go fuck yourself you obese Yiddish cunt.

Ah Hollywood. Where dreams come true.

The Ridiculousness of Steven Seagal Part 2

August 17, 2011 198 comments

This is the second and concluding part of my comprehensive list of the most ludicrous aspects of Steven Seagal’s life and career. If you haven’t yet read segments 1-5, read them in PART ONE. Otherwise, here’s reasons 6 to 12 of why the fatman is the most ridiculous man in the world.

6- His terrible movies

Aside from Seagal’s first few efforts, which were genuinely good action movies (‘Out For Justice’ is a classic), the fatman has amassed a filmography worse than Ed Wood’s. With the aforementioned ‘Today You Die’ and the ‘has to be seen to be believed’ atrocity that is ‘Attack Force’ leading the pack as the very worst (and most funniest) of Seagal’s rotten output, reading through the list of his films on Imdb is akin to perusing a record of Holocaust victims — absolutely tragic.

Even when Seagal was younger, thinner and gave a modicum of a fuck, he still had all the acting ability of a roadkill badger. Frown, squint, mumble, kick, repeat. For my money, nothing comes close to ‘Today You Die’ in terms of execrable acting/directing/writing and pure unintentional hilarity. One of the funniest scenes from that contagious anal rash of a movie is when Seagal is sent to jail but isn’t required to conform to prison uniform regulations like everyone else, and is allowed to constantly wear a massive buttoned up overcoat that is never taken off, including when he wakes up fully clothed from an insinuated sex scene (the actress must have thanked God when she found out the sex scene wasn’t going to be filmed). Covering up Seagal’s porcine figure is evidently more important than the most basic forms of realism.

With his insipid films mostly taking place in Eastern European shitholes on typically low budgets, Seagal is renowned for putting in less effort than a narcoleptic snail. With an unprecedented level of lethargy, Seagal usually makes up about 2% of his fight scenes, being doubled for everything but the close-ups. Frequently, he is doubled for even the most physically trivial of endeavours, such as walking through a door or the complex act of standing. The directors and fight choreographers share Seagal’s apathy considering little is done to hide the fact that the double’s are usually half Seagal’s weight and are sometimes even wearing different colored clothes.

It’s come to the point where oftentimes Seagal even has to have a VOICE double because his hushed, mumbled and often improvised (didn’t read the script) dialogue is regularly indecipherable. Here’s a scene from ‘Attack Force’ with the worst dubbing since 70’s kung fu flicks:

For sheer comedy, if you haven’t already, seek out a Seagal DTV flick.

7- His pathological lies/delusions

It would take a month to extensively list all of Seagal’s copious lies and deranged delusions, so I’ll stick to a select few, the biggest of which is the nonsense Seagal long spewed about possessing a mysterious CIA background. He once said:

“You could say that I became an advisor to several CIA agents in the field and through my friends in the CIA, met many powerful people and did special works and special favors.”

In actuality, as you’d expect, that’s a steaming pile of horse shit. Seagal never worked covertly for the CIA or anyone else, and Gary Goldman, an ex-mercenary (for real) and former business partner of the fatman revealed a hilarious story:

In an interview with Spy, Goldman says he had long known that Seagal tends to tell grandiose tales about himself. Late in 1988, a former soldier of fortune and treasure hunter named Randy Widner invited Seagal, Goldman and another man to hunt for treasure off the coast of Barbados. At that time, Seagal had been telling Goldman that he’d been a U.S. Navy SEAL. Evidently this was one frogman who did not take well to water. As Goldman recalls, “Randy was driving [a Zodiac raft] in circles while Steven and I carried the gear out to him. The surf was unbelievable, really tough… He started screaming and panicking and was sure he was going to die and all that crap.” Goldman says Seagal had to be helped onto the vessel. “Wildner had to pull Seagal by his hair; I pushed his ass onto the boat with my shoulder.” Later that evening, Goldman says, he realized that Seagal could not read a compass or a map. (Seagal describes himself as “autistic with numbers.”) With that, Goldman says, he totally dismissed the notion that Seagal had ever been involved in any covert operations. In his letter to the Times reporter, Goldman wrote that Seagal “would surely die of starvation if he was given a compass and a map that led to a restaurant five miles away.”

The closest Seagal has ever come to being a Navy SEAL is this picture:

As well as claiming he learnt blues from the masters despite only being 5, Seagal also claimed he spent much of his youth in Brooklyn (probably to augment his then Italian persona), despite probably never once going there when he was young. Then there was Seagal’s claims about daringly battling the Yakuza (the Japanese mafia) when he was in Japan, and claimed to Movieline “I jumped right in their faces. I was a tenacious motherfucker, man, and I was fearless.” His first wife, Fujitani, cleared up this nonsense however:

“It is a lie. He once chased a few drunks away from the dojo but never was involved with Yakuza.” Fujitani also delivered some insight into the mysterious attainment of Seagal’s Aikido black belt. “The only reason Steven was awarded the black belt was because the judge, who was famous for his laziness, fell asleep during Steven’s presentation. The judge just gave him the black belt.”

Where Seagal’s lies begin and his delusions end is debatable, but what’s not is the fact that it’s a fucking comedy goldmine.

8- His pseudo mysticism

One of Seagal’s most entertaining qualities is his half-baked Buddhist ramblings and assertion that he’s the reincarnation of a 17’th century Buddhist lama. Wouldn’t it be a tad more believable if it were claimed he were the reincarnation of a warthog, or perhaps a triple bacon cheeseburger? And Seagal has to be the most hypocritical, fraudulent Buddhist alive. He’s exhibited anything but the philosophy of peace and compassion that Buddhism is supposed to preach. But what’s funniest about the rotund bastard and his obsession with Eastern spiritualism is when he attempts to take on the role of ‘wise old master’, robing himself in circus tent-sized kimono’s and brainfarting gems like this:

9- Real life situations

Seagal has told more tall tales than Walt Disney but the side-splitting truth is that when the fatman has been in a position to substantiate some of his physical claims he’s usually he’s been made to look a fool. There isn’t a more amusing Seagal tale than the time he was choked out by Judo champion and stunt coordinator Gene Lebell. Seagal, who has a history of abusing stuntmen on the sets of his films, often by kicking them in the nuts when they don’t expect it, finally got a taste of his own medicine when he arrogantly declared he could never be choked out by anyone, and lo and behold, was taken down by Lebell. The reason this story is so funny is because not only did Seagal pass out, but he proceeded to urinate and defecate all over himself in the process. At long last Seagal managed to experience the metaphorical equivalent of what moviegoers had been put through every time they saw one of his films. Of course, a lawsuit towards Lebell followed, so Gene had to stay quiet about it all.

Then there was Seagal’s problems with the Mafia over a monetary dispute relating to his business partner Jules Nasso who was connected to the mob. Suffice to say, during a meeting with some mobsters, Seagal almost had another ‘Gene Lebell moment’ and was said to be completely terrified during the time spent with them. Where was Seagal’s steely poise and tough guy attitude when faced with genuinely dangerous criminals? This website  goes into much deeper detail over the whole hilarious series of events.

How about the time Seagal ran away from his eternal rival Jean Claude Van Damme at a party at Stallone’s house? Sly remembers it:

“But I remember once, at my home in Miami, I believe it was in 96 or 97, Van Damme was there with Seagal, Willis, Schwarzenegger, Shaquille O Neal, Don Johnson and Madonna, it was a heck of a party. Van Damme was tired of Seagal saying he could kick his ass and went right up to him and offered him the chance to step outside so he could wipe the floor with him, or should I say wipe the backyard with him. Seagal made some excuse and left. His destination was some Ocean Drive nightclub in Miami. Van Damme, who was completely berserk, tracked him down and again offered him a fight, and again Seagal pulled a Houdini. Who would win? I have to say I believe Van Damme was just too strong and Seagal wanted no part of it. That’s just my opinion.”

Maybe Seagal’s sudden evasive tactics had something to do with the fact that he’s never actually competed in an competitive fight. Throwing around compliant uke certainly doesn’t count. Van Damme may have been going through his lamentable drug addict phase, but what better time for Seagal to back up his lofty claims? No, Seagal would rather take cheap shots at stuntmen, or sneakily put martial arts instructor Dan Inosanto in a joint lock when he was supposed to shaking his hand. He’s like a caricature of a despicable cartoon villain, and I love him for it.

10- Terrible Products

If there’s one thing worse than Seagal’s mind-numbing movies, it’s his inane products, like Lightning Bolt, the Seagal energy drink which comes in such flavors as ‘Asian Experience’ and ‘Cherry Charge’ and include such beloved ingredients like ‘goji berry’ and ‘cordyceps’. Such mystery! Such spiritual power! Presumably ‘Obese Cunt’ is still in the early stages of production.

Since I’d rather pour a glass of Gary Coleman’s liquefied feces inside my mouth than consume a can of Seagal’s vile drink, I’ve taken other reviewers word for it when they’ve said Lightning Bolt tastes like “rancid peaches, cigarettes and vitamin pills”. Hell, it could contain Seagal’s putrid sweat for all we know. Regularly consume large quantities of this shit and you’ll probably end up looking just like Seagal, including ponytail. Avoid like the plague!

Then there’s Seagal’s line of fetid aromatherapy oils, designed to turn your skin as leathery and repellent as the stout sensei’s. The only thing that’s essential about these oils is never putting them anywhere near your body.

Seagal also has the distinction of having the single worst ever video game in existence, The Final Option for the SNES. Believe me, I’ve played it. And you thought his movies were bad! Sheesh! The fact that this digitized anathema was never released is akin to if the Holocaust had never taken place. It was that painful. As the titular fatman, you shuffle around a warehouse in search of keycards, punching scientists and kicking guards that look like mailmen, falling off ledges with the gayest screams ever recorded and struggling to work around bizarre controls and nonsensical level design. And if in any circumstance this fat fraudulent fuck were truly the final option, you know you’re in some desperate fucking times.

11- Seagal as a cop

“I only did this for the free donuts.”

Thought Seagal was done pretending to be other people? Think again! Now he’s a cop! His recent reality show Steven Seagal: Lawman will have to go down as one of the most unintentionally hilarious shows of all time. Whether it’s Seagal transforming into ghetto-mode every time he encounters a black person (and he’s a cop, so it’s a lot), waiting back and screaming “WHERE HE AT? WHERE HE AT?” while real officers chase after criminals, or Seagal explaining how due to his magically heightened perceptive ability (I like to call it, ‘Seagal Vision’) he can tell if someone is about to commit a crime simply by a flick of the wrist or a turn of the head, it’s vintage Seagal comedy the whole time.

 

“WHERE THE CHOCOLATE AT?! WHERE THE SUSHI AT?!”

12- Rebirth as an MMA grandmaster

Lastly, there’s Seagal’s recent claim to fame as a mixed martial arts Mr Miyagi, somehow weaseling his way into UFC fighters Anderson Silva and Lyoto Machida’s training camp and forming part of their fight training, infusing it with some of his Aikido knowledge (despite most Aikido being either illegal or impractical under MMA rules). Other than the introduction of his latest retarded appearance (yellow glasses, all the time), the lulz have flowed like a fine wine thanks to Seagal’s typically bullish claim that he taught Machida and Silva the basic front kick, which he also supposedly invented, and that no one else knows. A basic front kick.

Grandmaster Fatman, with those patented yellow shades.

Also according to Seagal, Anderson sent him a memo saying “will you please teach me your deadly stuff?”. In one of his sessions with Machida, Seagal implored that Machida should “Use your mind. Use your mind! I don’t care if you kill him. I don’t care. You fuck him up. You take him out.”. ‘Deadly stuff’ and disregard for the death of an opponent — that definitely sounds like Buddhist compassion.

The greatest thing about all this madness is that both Silva and Machida won their last fights with front kicks, so Seagal has genuinely somehow had an impact on them, even if it was just emphasising the use of front kicks. Now every time they fight in the octagon, Seagal is sitting there in the front row (taking up 4 seats, naturally), wearing his now trademark yellow shades and providing constant entertainment for us all.

—–

In all honesty, Seagal is a serial con artist, a pathological narcissist, an insecure misogynist, a cowardly bully and a self-aggrandizing, deluded, languid, physically grotesque, psuedo-mystical madman. But most of all, he’s the most ridiculous and entertaining man in the world, and for that I will always be an ardent fan. Never change, Steven. Never change.

The Ridiculousness of Steven Seagal Part 1

August 17, 2011 130 comments

Ladies, gentleman, hermaphrodites, mongoloids, midgets and the Welsh, I have something heinous and shocking to admit to the world — I’m a Steven Seagal fan.

Now that you’ve thoroughly cleaned your keyboard from the abrupt shower of vomit that I just caused you to disgorge, allow me to explain. I’m not a fan of the obese, squinting, washed-up action star for the same reason that the majority of his small, loyal fan base of muttonheads are. No, I love Steven Seagal because he’s the most unintentionally funny man on the planet. There is literally no one else on God’s green earth that is more ridiculous, absurd and mind-bogglingly delusional than the beached whale bigamist. So I decided to catalogue the most ludicrous aspects of Seagal’s cookie crumb-laden life and career and provide a comprehensive list, narrowed down to 12 segments. Because of the length of this post, I’ve halved it into two parts.

1- Seagal’s Weight

Evidently fond of copious trips to All You Can Eat buffets, with his countless layers of flab in 2011 Seagal closely resembles a bloated, leather-skinned Michelin Man. With an enduring love for stuffing cheeseburgers down his gullet with all the verve of a crackhead at a Colombian coke lab, Seagal hasn’t worried about his widening girth affecting his status as an aging action hero. Closely resembling Mr. Creosote from ‘The Meaning of Life’, Seagal’s bulbous mammaries, quadruple chins, sagging jowls and a gut that looks like it’s impregnated with triplets tell a tale of a man that clearly stopped giving a fuck a very long time ago. In fact, if Seagal were to explode like the aforementioned Monty Python character, there would be enough ‘second helpings’ discarded in the close vicinity to feed the entire population of an average Indian village.

Prone to wearing long overcoats in his movies in an embarrassing attempt to mask his repulsive corpulence, Seagal has all the carnal appeal of a three hour rectal examination. For someone to have made a living as a superstar in the action genre to show such laziness and flagrant disregard for his body in nothing short of hysterical. Yet in his mind, he is a self-proclaimed ‘sex symbol’. I’d imagine 9/10 women would rather fuck a rhino, plus it wouldn’t smell as bad.

2- Seagal’s Ego

The only thing that can legitimately rival the size of Seagal’s belly is the enormity of his egotism. In this man’s deranged cerebrum, he is an undefeatable demigod, incapable of being physically bested in battle by any man (Gene Lebell disagrees, but I’ll get to that in part 2). To exhibit his supposed invincibility, Seagal has always ensured that he barely receives a scratch from his enemies during movie fight scenes, where he almost always destroys foes without succumbing to a solitary punch. There is never a struggle, because Seagal’s ego won’t allow it.

One of his most hilariously narcissistic episodes involved Seagal refusing to film a death scene for his character on the set of Executive Decision, claiming that his fans wouldn’t accept such a monumental event. He held up production for days until finally acquiescing after being threatened with contractual breach.

John Leguizamo, who co-starred in the film, said that during rehearsals Seagal sauntered onto the set and arrogantly declared “I’m in command, what I say is law, anyone not agree?”, which understandably led to Leguizamo cracking up with laughter at this absurd pomposity. Seagal then took it upon himself to cheap-shot Leguizamo, a guy half his size, and slam him into the wall for his insolence. Leguizamo also said that when the fatman finally relented for his big death scene, “It was 6am, he was supposed to die… and we shot his death at 8 p.m”. Not only is Seagal’s ego the size of his gut, but he has all the class of a pubic louse.

Another priceless example of Seagal’s ego was when he hosted Saturday Night Live and demanded that the cast perform sketches that Seagal himself had written rather than the material they already had. One of these masterful ideas, according to Dana Carvey, involved Seagal playing a psychiatrist that talks to a rape victim, and while she tearfully explains her experience, Seagal would feel her up and attempt to rape her himself. Lorne Michaels spent hours explaining to Seagal that the concept wasn’t funny nor even if they made a rape sketch funny, they would never be allowed to put that scene on the air, but Seagal thought it was comedy gold.

When Nicolas Cage said that he could be the biggest jerk to ever appear on SNL, Lorne Michael’s replied “No, no. That would be Steven Seagal.”

3- Seagal’s Misogyny

Which transitions succinctly to the next chapter of Seagal’s ceaseless hilarity — his horrendous treatment of women and deluded belief that he’s some kind of sex symbol. It seems rape scenes aren’t something the fatman likes to remain simply in a fictional realm.

Numerous reports have been made by women that claim Seagal asked them to take their tops off for him to grope their breasts, which according to the stout sensei was done so he could show them where their “spiritual meridian points” were located, as well another woman saying that he claimed he was “looking for lumps”. Man, Seagal really is a charitable fella, huh? The same woman also claimed that “Seagal reached his hand down my pants. He said, ‘I just wanted to touch it for a second to see what it felt like.’”

Ironically these days it would be more entertaining to motorboat Seagal’s man-breasts than a female assistant’s. And if Seagal said to you “I want to eat you out” he’d probably mean he’s about to put your ass on a barbecue. But it’s not just unknown women that have complained of Seagal’s molesting malarkey:

Jenny McCarthy was one of Seagal’s casting couch victims. “They were casting Playmates for Under Siege 2,” she recalled. “I was the last audition, dressed frumpy and plain, the way I usually go, and I walk into his office and it’s only Steven. His office has a huge shag carpet – shag, I’ll repeat that, shag – and a huge screaming casting couch. Casting, casting, casting, casting couch. And he says, ‘Listen, I can’t tell what your body looks like with what you’re wearing, so why don’t you stand up and take off your dress?’ “I started crying, and I said, ‘My video’s for sale for $14.99, go buy it if you want to see.’ And I ran out to my car, and he grabbed my arm and followed me and said, ‘Don’t ever tell this to anybody.’ I was like, ‘Dude, you are gonna regret this one day.”

She was a handful.

Ticker actress Jaime Pressly also claims Seagal tried to give her an “unlicensed massage” during some downtime on the set in 2001. Speaking about an appearance on Howard Stern, she said:

“I got back at Seagal on Howard Stern, I didn’t press charges against him for violating my privacy. I never had that happen to me before, inappropriate behavior. He crossed the line. But I got word from his lawyer that Seagal doesn’t want me saying bad things about him. I told my lawyer to tell his lawyer to tell him that I wouldn’t say another fricking word about it because I already got back at him on the Stern show, but people wouldn’t say bad things if he didn’t do bad things. “

But there’s MORE! Julianna Margulies worked with Seagal on Out For Justice, and said:

“His trailer is around the corner from mine on the Warner Bros. lot, and I was walking by recently and he said, ‘Margulies, come over here and show me some respect!’ He’s not someone I keep in touch with.”

As you’ve probably gathered, Seagal has about as much respect for women as he does for his own physique, and his rampant bigamy further suggests that’s the case.

While still married to his first wife Miyako Fujitani (whom he was obviously just using in order to stay in Japan) he married former Days of Our Lives actress Adrienne La Russa. During his time with her, he met Kelly LeBrock, who he began a relationship and had a child with. His marriage to La Russa was annulled, and he then married LeBrock, but then divorced from her while having an affair with Arrissa Wolf, a nanny to his children. He’s currently with a fourth wife, who must spend every waking day worrying about what’s going to occur first; Seagal’s inevitable affair with another woman, or waking up inside a large cooking pot with Seagal pouring salt on her thighs.

Yet another report was made about his treatment of women, by former CIA employee Robert Strickland:

Raeanne Malone, one of four women hired by Warner Bros. to serve as Seagal’s personal assistants, is in the bathroom of his trailer, brushing her teeth. Strickland watches as Seagal begins loudly calling for Malone, saying he needs her immediately. She emerges still brushing her teeth. “Gee, Raeanne,” says the man of honor and protector of the weak, “You look like that when I come in your mouth.”

In May 1991 all four assistants – Malone, Nicole Selinger, Christine Keever and another woman – quit because of Seagal’s continuing piggery. Three of them threaten to bring sexual-harassment charges against him. Malone and another of the women, in return for a pledge of confidentiality, are paid in the vicinity of $50,000 each.

But the coup de gras of Seagal’s sexist belligerence was the revelation that he had been trafficking sex slaves after a former assistant, Kayden Nguyen, alleged that he sexually assaulted her and kept two young Russian girls in his residence to indulge in his every sexual need 24/7. The whole case happened to mysteriously fade away with no conclusive ending, which means Seagal once again paid out a fuck-load of cash to keep her quiet. Either that or he revealed to her why Richie did Bobby Lupo, and that knowledge is priceless.

The highlight of these wacky shenanigans was the accusation by Nguyen that Seagal exhibits a “unique physiological reaction” to sexual arousal. While possibly the most revolting, vomit-inducing imagery that could ever be conjured up, the idea that Seagal probably develops lactating nipples every time he gets an erection just furthers his status as the world’s most ridiculous man. He could probably breastfeed a whole preschool with those things.

His feelings towards women are highly ironic when he himself exudes a much more feminine presence every time he attempts to run:

4- Seagal’s Hair

Completing his look as the most hideous man in the world, it looks like Seagal exhibited some of his mysterious “Ki-power” on an unsuspecting skunk and killed it before proceeding to place the dead animal on his head as a makeshift toupée. Whether it’s a wig or hair plugs, the thing resting on top his cranium resembles a rugged piece of old carpet or the fuzzy material they used to use for GI Joe (or Action Man as it was known here in England) doll’s hair. It never moves (much like the man it’s sitting on top of), and even in the windiest of gales would remain as stiff as a corpse.

Early on in his career, Seagal’s hair was balding significantly, as the below picture shows:

Rapper DMX (who unsurprisingly had nothing but negative things to say about his experience with the fatman — “He’s a dickhead” said Mr. MX) claimed Seagal has spray on hair. Whatever it is, that Dracula widows peak and trademark girly pony tail ensure Seagal never leaves the house without looking like he belongs in a circus troupe.

5- Pretending to be black

Either Seagal is the biggest fraud on the planet or he genuinely happens to transcend race and transforms into new ethnicities over time, kind of like a fucked up Dr Who. Shockingly, it’s actually not the latter. In the past Seagal has enjoyed pretending to be Italian and Japanese respectively, but his current adopted cultural persona is that of the black man. Just when the sight of a bloated, squinting, pony-tailed douche bag couldn’t get any more ridiculous, Seagal decided to try his hand at “Ebonics”, the language of the ghetto. All of a sudden Seagal was “gangsta” and seemingly under the impression that he was from the hood.

In the majority of Seagal’s direct to DVD era filmography, Seagal has portrayed this insane ‘black man’ version of himself, most hilariously of all in the abominable ‘Today You Die’, an unintentional comedy classic where Seagal mumbles out ‘thug talk’ with all the street credibility of Bill O’ Reilly. Seagal even ensured that one of the black characters remarked that he “walks like a black man and breathes like a killer.” Absolute madness.

Das mah nigga rite dere!

But it wasn’t just in his movies that Seagal asserted that he was a genuine brotha, oh no. Seagal took it one step further, and took on a second career as a black bluesman from the deep south, surrounding himself with actual black people for authenticity and releasing two hilarious albums with his band Thunderbox, including such hits as “Talk to my ass”. But according to Seagal, he’s just as valid a bluesman, who in his own words said:

“I came up in Detroit and there was a lot of blues. I didn’t learn blues from a fucking record; I learned it from the front porch. There were all these people from Mississippi, Louisiana and Texas and I learned from them.”

Now, Seagal and his family moved from Lansing, Michigan to Fullerton in California when he was 5 years old. So according to the fatman, all these old black blues players taught a 5 year old boy everything they knew, as if he was some spooky infant prodigy with the soul of a struggling black man (note: Seagal is half Irish and half Jew). Quote the Seagull:

“Little Milton hadn’t heard me play before. I was doing this Lightnin’ Hopkins thing. Milton looked at me and nodded, like he was trying to say, “This mutha ain’t white.”

No Steven, what he was trying to say was “this honky needs to lose some fucking weight and stop acting like he’s got a year long tan”. Fraudulence or insanity? I’d say a healthy dose of both.

That’s all for part 1. Next up are segments 6-12 in part 2 below, complete with accidental typo:

https://theflyingguillotine.wordpress.com/2011/08/17/ridicuousness-seagal-part-2/

The Comeback of OJ Simpson

July 31, 2011 Leave a comment

For the last few days, every time I’ve switched on the TV I’ve been bombarded with reports of death, murder and bereavement. Over the last week it’s been nearly impossible to avoid news of Amy Winehouse’s untimely demise in her Camden abode or the horrific killing spree in Norway by Anders Behring Breivik, a far-right gunman responsible for wiping out 77 people. There’s been more death than at a party at Sharon Tate’s house (too soon?). I’m genuinely flabbergasted that Winehouse croaked before everyone’s favorite celebrity cretinous crack whore Lindsay Lohan, who is somehow still in this mortal realm. I wonder what the odds were on that?

But while I keep hearing about the tragedy of all those lives taken away by the crazed Norwegian murderer, no one even takes a solitary second to ponder my problems. I just came back from the fridge and I’ve been mentally decimated with the harrowing realization that my bottle of rosé wine isn’t ice cold, but merely slightly chilled! Now I’ve been forced into the unenviable position of having to decide whether to consume my beverage at a disagreeable temperature or place the bottle back into the fridge and postpone my drink by ten, possibly twenty minutes. And the grieving families of Amy Winehouse and those Norwegian victims think they’ve got it bad! Sheesh.

But alas, I soldier on. Because in times of tragedy, that’s all you can do.

As Breivik was arrested and charged with acts of terrorism with what can only lead to lifetime imprisonment, I got to thinking about another killer currently serving time, albiet for different crimes than the one a large proportion of society loathes him for supposedly perpetrating, the legend that is OJ Simpson. Presently completing a 33 year term (with the possibility of parole in 9) in Lovelock Correctional Centre in Nevada, The Juice is already over two years into his sentence and has probably learnt his lesson, so I think it’s time he was released with a slap on the hand, a stern warning of “now don’t you ever do that again, mister!” and sent on his merry little (alleged) head-severing way.

With all the death and destruction currently attacking newspaper headlines with the relentlessness of King John attempting to invade Rochester Castle in 1215 (too soon?), now’s a better time than ever for OJ to slip out the back door without anyone causing too much of a fuss over it. One murderer in, one (alleged) murderer out. It evens itself out, you see.

And the reason I’m so insistent on OJ concluding his days of using that trademark yard-rushing speed to evade sodomy from Aryan skinheads, hiding month old fried chicken in his asshole and digging a tunnel with a rockhammer behind a strategically placed poster of Raquel Welch is because quite frankly there is potential profit to be made in the long-awaited comeback of a former hero. Look at Mickey Rourke and Robert Downey Jnr, both with embattled and chequered pasts, who revived their careers with a mighty resurgence. OJ Simpson can do the same. And who knows, maybe together, with just a modicum of patience and a sprinkling of earnest detective work, we can finally find the real killer.

OJ really knows how to carve up white meat.

Once OJ is released, we’ll start with the inaugural ‘Freshly Squeezed: The Juice is Loose Tour 2011’, with OJ traveling around American cities giving speeches about the most efficient blades in slicing up no good bitch wives  the importance of turning over a new leaf and making a change for the better. He’ll make a dramatic entrance in his white bronco, entering the stage to Rod Stewart’s ‘The First Cut is the Deepest’. It’ll be guaranteed to make us a real killing.

Then there’s the little issue of reversing OJ’s Hollywood blacklisting. Not to worry — it’s nothing a few well-placed bribes of free delivered Chinese food and diamond-encrusted dreidels (specifically made by freezing the tears of Palestinian orphans) can’t alter. First up will be a long-awaited spinoff from The Naked Gun. Since the great Leslie Nielsen is now using his fart machine in the sky, the only way the franchise can continue is by reviving the greatest comedic creation ever put to celluloid — Nordberg!

Sorry Peter Lupus, but the world wants, nay demands a return to the silver screen for the version of the injury-prone detective that uses cocoa butter. The plot could involve Nordberg being wrongfully accused (another great Leslie Nielsen movie) of the murder of Jane Drebin, and show how he journeys on a valiant quest to clear his name and find the real killer, all the while slipping, falling and experiencing other entertaining pratfalls.

Once that’s being developed, it’ll be time to adapt OJ’s beloved and bestselling memoirs ‘If I Did It’ into a motion picture. OJ will of course play himself, and we could attempt to cast Lisa Lampanelli as Nicole and Woody Allen as Ronald Goldman. We’ll also contact Paul Hogan for a tongue in cheek cameo reprising his iconic role of Crocodile Dundee for a scene where he sneaks into the house during the crime and asks “You call that a knife?”. Oh, hilarity will certainly ensue.

New York Times Bestseller

As the level of OJ’s popularity will at this point rival his days as a ’70’s NFL star, the world will be ready for some OJ merchandising. What better gift for a loving wife than an OJ Simpson bobble head doll? “Look how it’s head bobbles!” (unlike someone else we know), they’ll exclaim with glee. Then there’ll be some patented OJ insulated oven gloves, which will all be made too small for average-sized hands. Can you hear that? It’s the sound of $$$, baby.

Then, with OJ’s acclaim and approval building to an unparalleled crescendo, the icing on the cake will be revealed when the Republican Party request and nominate OJ for their presidential candidate to take on Obama in the next election; largely because he’s pro-torture, and partially because since the Klitschko cyborgs put a tedious stranglehold on heavyweight boxing, white America has been desperate to watch two black guys beat on each other. And then the next President of the United States, OJ Simpson, completing his awe-inspiring return to the hearts and minds of American citizens, will lead the country forward into a new era of prosperity and improved stabbing techniques.

Either that or he’ll fuck it all up again by getting arrested as soon as he’s released. Anyway, must dash, my wine should be cold enough now. Let me know if someone else dies.

The anti anti-defamation league.

July 11, 2011 4 comments

Yesterday I was pondering a few topics to myself and posing some questions. I wondered, do fat people find other fatties attractive? Does being grotesquely overweight mean you’re attracted to other morbidly obese people? Answers on a chocolate-smudged postcard, please. I also speculated, do Asian people have peripheral vision? I genuinely don’t know. Again, answers on a postcard, slanty-eyes. Preferably with a fortune cookie attached.

Then I got to thinking, completely at random, about GLAAD, the ‘Gay and Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation’. They’re an organization that monitors speech and actions primarily in the media. Those involved in its operation consider themselves to be on a valiant “mission” to highlight instances of homophobia and offensive anti-gay remarks in order to pressurize the management of media groups into taking punitive measures against the offenders, as well as aspiring to increase acceptance of homosexual and transgender people everywhere.

And the overwhelming thought that kept vigorously bouncing back to the forefront of my cerebrum when I analyzed the nature and work of GLAAD was: what a complete bunch of faggots.

Zoinks! I just said the ‘F’ word, and I don’t mean fusilli! That must mean I’m a vicious, bigoted homophobe, right? If GLAAD were made aware of this, they might wish to somehow have me reprimanded like the mischievous miscreant I am! And if they did, I’d think to myself, man, GLAAD really ARE a bunch of faggots. Not because many of their members enjoy shaking their anorexic hips to repetitive euro-dance or happen to gleefully spread around AIDS in regular bouts of drug-fuelled sodomy. No, I’d consider them faggots because they’re acting like authoritarian pussies that want to control what you can and can’t say, and just as predictably as a Frenchman waving a white flag at the first sign of danger, they instantly burst into a fabulous, sparkly, glittery, petite, effeminate ball of camp indignation as soon as they’re, wait for it….OFFENDED!

Because everyone gets so offended these days. ‘Faggot’ is considered a hateful, offensive slur? Well I consider the attempted banning of the word ‘faggot’ offensive, just as I would to any word I might wish to utter. It’s called ‘free speech’ for a reason. Am I against homophobia? Of course I am. Hating anyone because of their race, sexuality, nationality, taste in breakfast cereals, or rampant Boy Meets World fanaticism (Hi Eric Matthews, I hope you’re reading!) is despicable. But you know what’s more despicable? Attempting to censor language and control people’s lives like a despotic little weasel.

The president of GLAAD.

Language is all about context. Do I mean ‘faggot’ as ‘gay person’ in this instance? No. I mean ‘faggot’ as in complete fucking twat. There are actually different meanings to words, even the naughty ones. I know, who would have thought that? Apparently there’s even this book (a book is like a blog but on something known as ‘paper’, it’s all very confusing, I know) called a ‘dictionary’ that lists different meanings to some words. What a novel concept, eh?

And if I were to call someone a faggot meaning ‘gay’, it would be towards a straight guy that’s acting significantly less masculine than his sexuality would suggest. If a heterosexual dude reveals that he enjoys watching Sex and the City or Glee, I’ll call him a faggot. If he takes it upon himself to bend over in front of me, pull down his pants, insert his fingers into a disturbingly pre-lubricated anus and earnestly enquire if I perchance admire the appearance of his rancid asshole on this particular Monday afternoon, then I think you’d agree that he’s acting like a faggot. By saying ‘faggot’ do I hate gay people? Of course not.

Hell, the limp-wristed fairies should love me. I support gay rights by default because I simply don’t care. I’m all for gay marriage because I couldn’t care less who gets married to one another or whether traditional wedlock is sullied by two people with the same genitalia wanting to tie the knot. Love is love, regardless of gender. It doesn’t hurt me in any way, so why should I be against it? If a guy wants to stick his cock in another guy’s sweaty consensual ass in the privacy of their own, no doubt wonderfully decorated home, as physically repulsive as that is to me personally, more power to them. And there are plenty of cool, commendable and kind gay people in the world. Homophobia doesn’t make any sense and I have absolutely no problem with gays. I do however have a problem with thin-skinned cowards that hate free speech, with aspirations to be an authority over everyone else, and obnoxious douchebag drama queens that run to the teacher and cry “homophobe” over every little thing that damages their precious likkle feelings. Basically, people that act like faggots. Like GLAAD (who frankly don’t seem to be that glad much of the time).

The dude has a point.

That’s the real issue here: the idea of offensive language, and the government and ‘anti-defamation’ groups attempting to dictate your lives, just like the FCC in America. They want everything to be controlled, pre-packaged, censored; because they think they know what’s good and bad for you. Don’t think for yourself, let us control your life! You belong to us, and you will watch what we deem acceptable for you to watch. You will speak in the way and use the language in which we deem appropriate for you to say. And if you try to think for yourself, maintain some semblance of self-control or dare to use language that may hurt someone’s feelings, then we’ll label you with disparaging terms like ‘bigot’ and ‘racist’ and ‘homophobe’ and ‘anti-Semite’ and ‘big smelly horrible meany’. Then you’ll feel bad, and will do what we say! And if that doesn’t work, fuck it, we’ll just sue you. Now doesn’t that sound like a fun world to live in, kids?

It doesn’t matter whether it’s GLAAD, the NAACP, the Jewish Anti-Defamation League or an organization designed to defend transsexual midgets, these PC associations are cancerous to society and to freedom of thought and speech.

Want to call a tranny a ‘tranny’? No sir! That’s offensive to both Glen and Glenda! Want to refer to someone that’s acting like a moron as a ‘retard’? They’ll be having none of that, because that’s offensive to legitimate retards (even though they’re probably too retarded to know that someone said the word ‘retard’, and are probably far more invested in the dribble that’s currently journeying aimlessly down their retarded chin). Political correctness must be stopped on all levels before it goes too far. But then, maybe it already has.

Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it's a little retarded fella.

The ‘defense’ groups exemplify so much of what is wrong with today’s society. So much of the civilized world is wading through the feces-laden swamp of oversensitivity, and these pandering organizations actually cause more hostility and separatism between everyday people and the minorities they strive to ‘protect’. Eventually every possible minority of sub-group will have its own defense league, attempting to eliminate freedom of speech and transform the world into a mass-controlled, fear-laden dystopia where no one says what they really think and everyone’s afraid of stepping out the door in case they offend one another. Whatever happened to people’s collective testicular fortitude? Where’s everyone’s balls?

Language is being increasingly softened because everyone’s a pussy these days. The asinine pointlessness of euphemisms has augmented to the point of absurdity. Retards are ‘differently abled’. Blind people are ‘visually impaired’. The deaf are called ‘hearing impaired’. Stupid people aren’t stupid anymore; they have a ‘learning disorder’. Ugly people are called ‘those with severe appearance deficits’. Can you imagine two guys, nursing a hangover and discussing the previous night’s events with one another, but in the politically correct, truth-concealing vernacular?

Sam: “Joey, all that booze you consumed last night really left you visually impaired. I can’t believe the female person with equal rights to us that you had intercourse with. I considered taking you to a mental health maintenance organization to consult a healthcare professional of either gender due to your choice in female people.”

Joey: “She’d left my house that is situated in an economically-disadvantaged, multi-cultural neighbourhood of criminally-inclined, socio-political victims before I awoke. How physically-challenged was this strong-minded female person?”

Sam: “Oh man, she had severe appearance deficits. She seemed hygienically-troubled and was covered in beauty marks. I really thought you had learning difficulties when I saw you kissing her. I said to my diversified and completely equal group of friends, including my homosexual friend, my African-American friend and in sign language to my hearing impaired friend that you were going to feel like one who is differently-abled the next day!”

Joey: “Oh, sorry I’m going to have to call you back. One of the aforementioned criminally-inclined members of my equal, multi-cultural community has decided to break into my living room and is currently commandeering my television set. I must try to apprehend him before he enters his substandard housing full of similarly economically-disadvantaged victims who may be carrying shooting devices capable of neutralization.”

Sam: “Okay. Oh, I’ve just seen on the news that a group of Arabic explosive enthusiasts have caused a kerfuffle by rearranging the physical structure of an established building in New York and depopulating the nearby area. Be aware if you visit the city. Toodles!”

Why think for yourself, huh?

Possibly the worst euphemism is the ‘The N Word’. The N Word? You mean nigger? Then fucking say nigger, nigga! ‘N Word’ is just a way for white people to say ‘nigger’ and not get in trouble. When you say ‘N Word’, the word ‘nigger’ is placed inside the listeners mind, so they’re going to hear the word regardless of whether you say it or not, you dumb white honky crackers!

The government wants to control information and language because that’s the way you control thought. Just like religion, which when simplified is nothing more than mind control. Language is the biggest example of the PC pussyfication of the western world, and because of this I’ve decided to tackle the issue head on by officially creating my own Anti Anti-Defamation League, focusing on what is considered to be acceptable language. I’ve decided to call it the ‘The Committee for the Unified Nomenclature and Terminology Society’, or C.U.N.T.S for short. My organization will be publicly indignant every time one of these anti-defamation groups feel the need to bitch and moan and whine and stamp their foot on the ground like morose teenagers and cry “Stop saying things that I don’t like or happen to agree with!”. We will highlight the scumbags that wish to censor and control us and eradicate free speech and we will force them to be punished. We will also do everything in our power to pressure TV executives into bringing back Firefly. Most of all, we will leap from life to life, striving to put right what once went wrong, while hoping each time that our next leap, will be the leap home.

So now you know, and knowing is half the battle! There is hope, like-minded people of the intranetz. Granted, C.U.N.T.S at the present time basically consists of me, my cat and a considerably creased poster of Quantum Leap’s Dr Sam Beckett (isn’t he dreamy, GLAAD?). But by jove, it’s a start. And one day, maybe one day, you and I can live in a world where people will accept us for who we really are, where the general public will treat us white heterosexual males with equality and respect, and where we, the majority, we’ll share the same rights as everyone else. Just remember though, whatever you do, don’t act like a faggot.

It’s the end of the world! Oh wait…

May 23, 2011 1 comment

What are you doing reading this article? Haven’t you heard? The world is ending! Instead of perusing this admittedly awesome blog, you should be hugging your loved ones, attempting to fulfill your ultimate desires, and praying to the almighty Lord Xenu for entry into his volcanic afterlife. Dammit, there are so many things on my bucket list I haven’t yet accomplished, and I don’t have much time left! I still haven’t ejaculated onto Selena Gomez’s tits and made Demi Lovato lick it off, re-watched every episode of Boy Meets World so I can enter a Boy Meets World trivia contest and win a date with Topanga, punched David Lynch in the nose for making terrible movies that only pretentious cunts enjoy watching, or locked two down’s syndrome victims daily medication in a safe until they wrestle each other for my entertainment.

The world’s going to end! Half the population will be killed by bird flu! Bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster will form a colossal tag-team and embark upon a double team of destruction that will end existence as we know it! We’re all fucked!

…Oh wait a minute, I just remembered I don’t have anything to worry about because I’m not a complete fucking retard that mindlessly believes and frets about inane prophecies spewed by cretins and swindlers. Much like the most recent Armageddon that was supposed to occur on Saturday, according to the predictions of a Christian group from California. Shockingly, and to the relief of rich Jews everywhere, there was no rapture, and no returning magical carpenter to be seen. The only thing resembling Judgment Day over the weekend was when I watched Terminator 2 again. Which is funny, because there’s more chance of the robots taking over than anything in the Bible being true.

But there’s another date on the doomsday horizon according to thousands of doomsayers in books, radio shows and on this world wide web of internetz, who have declared that 2012 will be the real end days. December 21’st, 2012, to be exact. I sure hope I’m not busy that day.

A man named Patrick Geryl insists that 2012 will be a reality. Geryl is an author and amateur astronomer from Belgium, with a face for radio and a voice for people that enjoy irritating accents. When not eating chocolate, reading Tintin comics and jerking off to topless Van Damme pictures, Geryl enjoys pretending to be a scientist, with a number of people believing his uneducated spiel.

Surprisingly not a pedophile.

Geryl claims that civilization will be destroyed in 2012 and nothing can stop its demise. According to the bespectacled goon, a “gargantuan solar flare” will be thrown to the earth from the sun after a sunspot occurs, with a huge amount of particles falling into the south pole that will push the inner core of the earth upside down. Apparently, this will cause the north and the south poles to swap around (will somebody please think of the compasses!). Then he says multiple devastating natural disasters will occur and a gigantic tidal wave will envelop the world. Worst of all, Geryl states, computers will stop working! Great Caesar’s Ghost, computers not working?! Being unable to watch porn online, millions of internet nerds won’t feel like living anymore anyway.

Geryl’s beliefs are all based on the Mayan calendar. According to them, supposedly, December 21’st is the date when the shit hits the fan. This is a little vague however, because it doesn’t take into account the notion of different time zones. When it’s December 21’st in Japan, it could still be the 20’th in America. The Japanese could be tucking into their whale cereal while the Yanks are watching their evening dose of mind-numbing reality TV. Does the solar flare arrange it’s schedule around this temporal predicament? How thoughtful!

The Mayans are the ancestors of the Mexicans, and you shouldn’t really trust everything a bunch of old Mexicans said. If a Latino gangbanger explained that his whole familia were born north of the border and that his lowrider can “bounce as high as the roof on my crib, holmes”, would you believe him? If Consuela the middle aged Hispanic maid insisted she never stole your favourite towel from your bathroom that she cleans, despite it being missing, would you believe her? So if some crazy Mayan’s claimed the world was going to end, why believe them?

Sure, the Mayans were primordial mathematicians and astronomers. They also used to hack up virgins as sacrifices. Surely if they had any sense they would have fucked them first? What kind of primitive mindset exists where someone would say “I’ll marry the ugly bitch over there that’s engaged in intercourse numerous times and has a pussy the size of the Grand Canyon, but I’ll throw that tight-vagged 16 year old hottie in the pot and carve her tits off”?! Yeah, these dudes were a profoundly civilized people.

But it’s not just the Mayans that prophesized the end times, because there’s been tons, none of course which actually transpired. The aforementioned Saturday rapture, Y2K, author Ronald Weinland’s claim that by 2008 America will have collapsed as a world power, Nostradamus ‘Great King of Terror’ to strike in 1999, and thousands and thousands of religious fanatics throughout history claiming the end would be near. Hey, maybe they all got those one’s wrong, but this 2012 one is definitely correct, right?

Geryl claims humanity should start new civilizations before 2012, and everyone should join his survival group. He says that his survival group need “at least” a billion dollars. Because once the solar flare has destroyed all of the earth’s people, obliterated all structures, institutions and forms of commerce, and rendered currency obsolete, the survivalists are really going to need all that dough. What are these heavily-bearded paranoid weirdo’s going to spend their billion on? Strippers? Will they somehow preserve a strip club and stick 100 dollar bills down a gyrating post-apocalyptic dancer’s thong? Wow, the end of the world sounds sexy!

If a solar flare hits the earth, it isn’t going to wipe out humanity, and will have hardly any effect on us. Our atmosphere is capable of coping with a massive strike, with an invisible barrier like the deflector shields on the starship Enterprise. In 2003 the earth was hit by some “X-class flares” which are one of the most powerful kinds, and the planet has throughout it’s history been hit by everything the sun can throw at it. These are the proven claims of respected solar physicists. But why believe that when you can pretend you’re in a Roland Emmerich disaster movie?

Then there’s others like doomsayer and author Jaysen Q Rand (a pseudonym for a Mr. Paul Bruce Bondora) who shares Geryl’s belief that the world will end on December 21’st, 2012. Coincidentally, Mr. Rand also maintains that he knows this because he was abducted by extra-terrestrials from the planet Epsilon, on a flying saucer where the aliens informed him of this vital information. But again, why listen to actual scientists when you can believe ancient bullshit from the Mayans (even though many Mayan historians claim that the Mayan’s never even believed 2012 would be the end) or the clueless pseudo-science and incorrect physics of fear-mongering mongoloids/charlatans?

The nonsensical prophecies peddled by the likes of Geryl and company are either the genuine delusions of brainless simpletons, or fraudulent claims made solely for profitable purposes, such as the several books he’s written on the subject. It’s just as bad as nutjob Christians that think that one day there’s going to be a “Judgment Day”. The worst thing is, lots of people believe this shit, just like lots of people believe in the bullshit written in the Bible. Just like in organised religion, people are manipulated by their fear, and because humanity is filled with stupid cunts that allow themselves to be metaphorically fucked in the ass time and time again. Their anuses must sting worse than a hornets nest.

If the world were to end in 2012 though, as implausible as it is, the world would miss so many substantial, momentous events that would have followed. Humanity would never get to witness Lindsay Lohan’s first hardcore porno and subsequent overdose and death, the next batch of stimulating reality TV shows like ‘America’s Next Top Hooker’ and ‘Celebrity Paralysis’, the next Nicolas Cage abomination (and similarly abominable wig), or the future trends of vacuous, abhorrent hipsters that are just being “ironic”!

On second thought, maybe the world ending next year isn’t such a bad thing after all. Maybe I should hope I’m completely wrong and 2012 is the end. And if that’s the case, hell, let’s party like it’s December 20’th, baby!