Remember when Madonna thought she could act? Not only did she star in one crap movie after another (Who’s That Girl, Swept Away, etc.), but her incompetent presence turned what was already a terrible Bond film  (Live and Let Die Another View to a Day to Kill, or something) into a giant, steaming ball of rancid monkey vomit. So even though I am not a religious man, the day Madonna quit acting I immediately went to church and kissed a statue of the REAL Madonna for so long they asked me to please change religions and never come back.

Clearly I angered the Lord because not content to ruin movies by standing in front of the camera, now Madonna is doing it from behind (pun intended). That’s right. Now, she’s a director. Her first film was called Filth and Wisdom, which is how I would describe her acting ability AND her decision to stop doing it. Her second film is called W.E., and apparently it sucks, too. But Madonna’s been sucking on at things her whole life, so don’t expect her to stop any time soon. No doubt this is her revenge for people telling her she’s a shitty actress:

“Fine, you sons of bitches. I’ll stop acting and start directing. I shall film a vagina smoking a cigarette and call it art. And I don’t want to hear any complaining, because you MADE me do it.”

I hear it was Hitler's favorite flower.

As if to prove me right, Madonna took her indignation out on an adoring fan this week while she was in Venice to promote her newest piece of Filth and Wisdom. Some gay guy walks up to her and hands her a giant purple flower, which is apparently called a hydrangea. I say he was gay not because there’s anything wrong with it but because no straight guy loves Madonna that much, let alone knows where to get a hydrangea. Nonetheless, it seemed like a nice gesture, and as you can hear in the video, he says something like “You’re my princess, I love you.”

Now, most people live their whole lives and don’t even get that kind of love from their own parents, let alone from a complete stranger. And while I am sure celebrities secretly get sick of people following them around, fawning over them and sending them love letters written in crayon on the back of brown paper bags, it does sort of come with the territory.

Besides, the whole point of performing on stage is to make people pay attention to you. So if you’re going to get pissed of when it works, then maybe you should quit music all together and go into acting or something.

Wait. No, I take that back. For the love of Christ, forget I said that.

Anyway, Madonna puts on her best fake smile, thanks the kid, shoves the flower (which was, admittedly, the size of a basketball) under the table and then turns to whoever is sitting next to her (no doubt the 18 year old cabana boy she’s banging this week) and says ““I absolutely loathe hydrangeas. He obviously doesn’t know that.”

WTF? First of all, why WOULD he know that, any more than he’d know when your period is? Not that you’re still having that, you dried up old witch. Second, who says they “loathe” things? Maybe if they’re the Queen of England they do. Or perhaps if they’re a pretentious pop star with a fake British accent that sounds even more fake because they’re from fucking Bay City, Michigan?

Hey, I’m sure everyone in Michigan talks like the Queen.

Maybe a flower that looks like an asshole is more up your alley.

Third, it’s entirely possible that the point of the exchange wasn’t the flower so much as it was the fact that the guy was genuinely trying to show some love. But Madonna was so busy being pissed about what kind of flower it was she didn’t even bother to respond to what he said. The dude was just trying to be nice. I don’t think the guy expected you to press the thing into your scrapbook, you idiotic whore. Besides, I’m a little surprised Madonna was even able to identify the plant. I always assumed that if someone like Madonna wanted flowers, she just sent one of her slaves out for them or something. Who knows, maybe she’s had people castrated for coming back with hydrangeas.

But what would you expect? This is the same stuck up bitch who dissed Lady Gaga when the Gaga-tron let it slip how much she loves the Material Girl’s music. What’s wrong Madge, are you just jealous that Lady Gaga still has a music career? If it makes you feel better it’ll be over in a couple of years, and she’s way uglier than you, despite the fact you have that massive gap in your teeth. I’ll bet you could floss with rebar, you insufferable cunt.

You see? This is what happens when someone has unlimited money and time. Maybe Obama is right, and we should tax rich people out of existence and give their money to the poor for malt liquor and crack pipes.

(If you don’t know what that means, then read this first.)

Whatup, bitches! To the wreckage of the hating types everywhere this is Charlie Sheen! Check it out – all week long people have been asking me, “Hey Charlie, what’s next?” And I say to them, what do you mean what’s next? I’m next. What kind of stem cell do you have to be to misunderstand that? This isn’t an act. This isn’t a game. This is me, like a million tsunamis though the eye of a needle. That’s what it takes to jam through the millions of lies and bestial garbage that have been spewed about me today alone. I had an awakening, motherfucker. And take it from a guy who’s fucked a lot of mothers who all said the same thing – it was a big one.

You = Loser. Not Winning.

But I’ve perspired through the minor inconvenience these insects and their problems are for me. Why is this? It’s because I’m WINNING. That’s right, I’ve been saying it all week and the pukes and dirtbags out there have been laughing, because they don’t get it. They say “How can Charlie be winning? They’re not gonna let him back on that pussy show! They’ll take his kids! People will stare!” Well let them laugh, bro, because it’s not a verb. It’s a fucking adjective. I’m WINNING. It’s a fucking state of being, not something you do. It’s like being good at speed boating, or banging blindfolded hookers. You don’t have to DO anything. It’s just what you ARE. It all comes out. I didn’t ask to be born this way, but when I came shooting out into the world the goddamn doctor slapped me on the ass, and when he turned me over I said “What the fuck, dick munch? That all you got?”

Stare at me and all you’re gonna see is the billion watt blaze of a million minds, all accumulated in my fucking skull. One person in probably fifty billion gets to use his brain with this kind of precision. Fuck all those galaxies in the sky, times that by a million and that’s the shit I see every night when I go to bed. I. AM. WINNING. Don’t blame me, don’t hate the wagon wheel. That’s just how we roll. But just in case you think you can process this, I’m going to give you just a taste, because anything more would leave you a flaming, molten brain dead husk. You couldn’t handle that level of bullshit reduction. So I’m gonna try to explain what I mean by WINNING. I didn’t invent it. I’m just gonna describe it to you and all the vermin mongrel hordes in orbit around Planet Sheen, blasting away and not even scratching my shields, man.

Caveman Winning

There are three people here. Only one is WINNING.

Millions of years ago when the Pharaohs walked the earth, do you know how you could tell who was WINNING? Duh, the fucking Pharaoh was winning, dude! But before you could become a Pharaoh, you had to BE WINNING. Those ancient cave people didn’t want just any sack of fat leading them. You had to have dynamite for brains and a machine gun cock to get it done back in those days and guys like that aren’t born, they blast out of the sky like a fucking meteoroid rocket bomb and leave a crater a thousand miles deep. So when you’re on the big tribal hunting cruise with the other ass-rags in your tribe, while those fools are plunking away at giant prehistoric antelope with a bow and arrow, your happy ass rolls up on an iMac, ordering a pizza. DUH. WINNING.

Gladiator Winning

Gladiator = WINNING

In the Gladiator Times, you know who were considered the most badass people? Gladiators. And you know who were considered the most badass Gladiators? The ones who were WINNING. I’m not talking about the arena. Fuck the arena and fuck YOUR arena of lies. My arena is the Octagon of my mind and I’m the Universal Champion of that. So was the ancient gladiator, because he was WINNING. Those dudes were so dope they didn’t even have to fight, bro. Anyone who opposed them just got blown up in a fiery cloud of stupidity for even trying it. It’s like trying to catch a tornado in a coffee can. Pow. Bam. Can’t do it. Tornado = WINNING.

Ninja Black Knight Winning

Guess what this guy's doing? Say it with me. WINNING.

How do you think the most fearsome ninjas of the Deadly Knight Times survived to kick it with all the trim he can handle after retirement? He. Was. Winning. Nobody could beat him jousting, because the gale force blast of truth from the end of his ninja lance would just blast the other guy from his horse. That’s what I have in common with these dudes. I already know what’s up, and I am not all mentally mass-contained like the unwashed bitches yapping at my heels every day. They can’t beat me because I’ve already won. Because. I. Am. WINNING. Boom. End of story. Take a hike, bro because like in Deadly Knight times, I’ve got a hundred busty maidens lined up to do battle at the end of my noble lance. Wham. Just like that. Your argument is erased.

ME WINNING

You don't have one infinitesimal iota of the clarity that I do.

I’m done trying to explain this to you tonight. It’s not that I don’t think you don’t want it. You could have it without even trying if you had a clue what it was, but you don’t and that’s the problem here. Don’t you get it? It’s like I’m trying to give you a million bucks but you’ve never seen a million bucks before so you think maybe it’s shit or something. Try translating that, and then you’ll have a fraction of a clue what I’m trying to tell you. I’m almost glad you don’t grasp what Charlie’s all about because if your head exploded from trying to compute what motivates me I’d feel sorry for you. Just back off, bro. That’s the white hot magma inferno of my bull testicles melting your face off. Charlie’s gotta roll for a minute and get down with a pair of Asian hookers and a helicopter. And when you look up tonight and see that comet blazing across the sky, that won’t be me, but it’ll be what I’m doing. WINNING.

Once your minds have had time to decompress from the jet-wash cleansing they’ve just received, Charlie will return with the final turbo dry foam wax buffing and then you’ll be ready to roll, bro.

]]> http://www.rufkm.net/2011/03/04/charlie-sheens-history-winning-part/feed/ 0 http://www.rufkm.net/2011/03/03/america-robocop/ http://www.rufkm.net/2011/03/03/america-robocop/#comments Thu, 03 Mar 2011 05:28:18 +0000 JackfnBurton http://www.rufkm.net/?p=8247 By Clarence L. Boddicker, D.D.S.

I was the original bad motherfucker.

You probably don’t remember me. I mean if you looked at me, you’d know me from somewhere, but you wouldn’t remember me. In a way that’s sad because I used to be somebody. I was the most powerful man in Detroit. I had it all – guns, money, women, fast cars, hot drugs, I did what I wanted where ever I wanted to, and I did it to anyone I pleased. And then it all came to an end. One day I met my reckoning, and I should have seen it coming. But I guess I deserved it. I killed hundreds of people, a lot of them cops. I sold drugs to people’s children. I sold drugs to MY children. I worked a lot of hours, saw a lot of things and did a lot of despicable deeds. I was a cold blooded killer. And now I’m a dentist. That’s right. My life has changed for the better and I have one man to thank for it. He almost killed me, and then he saved me.

That man is Robocop.

Hello, my old friend.

What, you think that sounds strange? Well go fuck yourself, you diseased piece of…I’m sorry. When I think about Robocop I still feel a little raw. I still remember the day I killed him, old whatever his name was before they put him in that shiny get up. I didn’t act like it at the time but I did sort of feel bad. I mean, I’d killed people before. Maybe a couple hundred. I’d slit throats, snapped necks, hell I even cut a guy’s heart out and showed it to him, just to see if I could. But this guy…the way he was writhing and screaming and crying as we casually blasted bits and pieces off off him…it sort of got to me. When I finally put a cap in the poor bastard’s head I really felt like I was doing him a favor. Don’t think it doesn’t haunt me in my new life as a family dentist.

Because it does.

He tried to stick me with the bill, too.

Oh we danced, me and Robocop. I had friends in high places, lots of big guns and goons to do my dirty work. Sure, he finally got me, but I took that metal son of a bitch for the ride of his artificial life. And I had him on the ropes. Oh, I almost got him. It was so close I could taste it. I was looking right into his beady, dead little robot eyes with a six foot piece of rebar in my hand and the other end of it right where his heart used to be. Well, it turns out he had a little fucking something up his sleeve and next thing you know I’m bleeding out in a pool of my own prune-juice. The last thing I thought before the lights went out was what a kick ass idea it would be to hide an eight inch shiv in your wrist.

Those punk doctors saved me just so their gay cop friends could put me on trial. Luckily Robocop was not into politics, so I still had friends in high places. I managed to get off on a technicality and after I healed up I was back on the streets. Don’t think I wasn’t headed right back to murder, rape, guns, hookers and blow faster than a sailor hits it on shore leave. I’m pretty sure Robocop would have had my ass again too, if I did. But something had changed in the neighborhood, and something changed in me. While I was inside Robocop had cleaned up the town, and a clean town seemed like a mighty nice place to settle down for old Clarence. And that’s how Robocop made me the man I am today, with a flourishing suburban dental practice and many satisfied patients, none of whom have ever been raped or murdered. And although I’ve considered selling drugs to their children, so far I’m proud to say that I’ve stuck with lollipops! The first one’s free!

Look at me now, dumbass! Thanks Robocop!

And now I hear about this ‘controversy’ in Detroit, where someone wants to put up a statue of Robocop. Apparently the suits at city hall don’t think it’s a good idea. You want controversy, Detroit? I BLEW UP city hall, remember that? And you assholes want to disrespect the guy who caught me? The guy who changed my life? Without him I’d never have become a successful dentist, franchising my practice out to four convenient locations in and near Commerce Township! Without Robocop none of this would have been possible. I’d have burned Detroit to the ground, partied in the blood and ashes, packed up my shit and headed somewhere nicer. Like anywhere. Have you dickless sons of bitches seen the chicks in South Beach? It’s a Serial killer’s paradise down there. But I’m not a serial killer, any more.

Now I’m a dentist. And I’m a good one, with a lovely wife named Kitty and two beautiful new children named Eric and Lori, neither of whom I’ve ever murdered or raped. I’m damn proud of that, and I’m not ashamed to say that Robocop is the reason! So listen up Detroit, this is Clarence Boddicker. Yeah, that’s right. I’m the guy who used to break into your house in the middle of the night and force you to play Russian roulette with your family before we robbed and burned the place. And I’m saying that Robocop needs a statue. He needs a statue in Detroit, and he needs a statue in New York. They need to replace that ugly broad in the harbor and put up a thousand foot tall Jolly Green Robocop. And they should put a statue of Robocop in every city in America because not only does Detroit need Robocop and New York needs Robocop, but AMERICA needs Robocop.

My name is Clarence Boddicker, and I’d buy THAT for a fucking dollar.

RUFKM Worldwide Complex, flanked by the RUFKM Technology Labs.

Here at RUFKM, we pride ourselves on being at the cutting edge of journalism, entertainment, modern thought, cybernetics and even salsa, with RUFKM Brand Salsa consistently selling out of stores in the countries where we’re allowed to sell it. But that’s not all we’re about. Our world famous “13 Stupid Questions” alone has single-handedly changed the lives of hundreds of people, thousands of times. While this alone is enough to guarantee our immortality, we are never content to rest. No, innovation is the key here at RUFKM, and I’m proud to say that we’ve yet again leapfrogged the competition with our latest ingenious creation.

The Mighty RUFKM InterBrain Personality Simulation Station allows us unprecedented access to the greatest entertainers and personalities of all time by analyzing every bit of information available on the internet and recreating a person of our choosing for personality simulation. By creating a digital clone of the celebrity brain, we can interview that person and get the exact same answers we would have gotten from the real one, sixty five percent of the time, thirty five percent of the time. Our first subject, Mel Gibson, went insane and committed cyber-suicide. For our second attempt we figured since the first guy went insane, we’ll pick a guy who already IS insane, minimizing the chances that anything could go wrong. As before, the interview was conducted at the RUFKM Technology Labs with RUFKM Cybernetics Division head Takashi Hakashi at my side.

The Mighty RUFKM InterBrain.

RUFKM: Good morning Charlie, thanks for joining us today.

Charlie Sheen: No sweat bitches, always glad to rap with my bitches at RUFKM.

RUFKM: Wow Takashi, it sounds like a real person this time.

Takashi: A real person that says ‘bitches’ a lot.

Charlie Sheen: Don’t talk about me like I’m not here, shithead. I’m Charlie Fucking Sheen. I’ll have you erased.

RUFKM: So Charlie, we understand you have an announcement to make.

Charlie Sheen: I had my named legally changed to that, you know. Charlie Fucking Sheen. Look it up.

RUFKM: We believe you, Charlie.

Charlie Sheen: Well here’s the other thing you’d better believe. All those rumors and things you’re hearing about me are crap. I do not make my brother Emilio sleep at the foot of my bed.

RUFKM: Why don’t we get to the reason you’re here, Charlie.

Charlie Sheen: Let’s kill it, brother. As all of you know, I recently was the victim of an accident when I accidentally got an ulcer while accidentally getting into a briefcase full of…I mean…hookers. A briefcase full of hookers. Cheerleaders. Girls. Just girls. Nobody got touched. We were just watching Spike TV and taking some…I mean having some lines of…I mean cups of coffee.

RUFKM: That must have been…terrible? I guess?

Charlie Sheen: Terrible for those hookers…I mean bitches…girls…if they say anything about the video…video games…we were making…I mean playing.

RUFKM: We understand the paramedics came, Charlie.

Charlie Sheen: Did they ever. But they were fireman paramedics. Well…fire women. Fire Babes. Yeah, those chicks were solid.

RUFKM: Fire Babes? Takashi, do they have those in Los Angeles?

Takashi: I went to Stanford so…I never went any further south than Palo Alto.

RUFKM: Always studying. So Charlie, you wanted to do something for those uh, Fire Babes.

Charlie Sheen: That’s right bitches, this is a shout out to the Fire Babes of the Beverly Hills Fire Department. They saved my life. Without me there’d be only One and a Half Men, and brother that’s just not enough men.

RUFKM: Not nearly enough, Charlie. So in your world, only men are bitches?

Charlie Sheen: Just fire up some music, bitches.(Click here to drop Charlie’s mad interview jam)

Fire Babe #1

This one sure nows how to swing an axe at an ex. I mean, an axe.

Fire Babe #1, thank you for saving me, bitch. You are beautiful and hot, and you are every bit as hot as you are beautiful. But I also love you because you’re smart. Restrictive clothing in a fire situation could be the difference between life and death. MY life and death. But I know there’s a brain behind those whatever the fuck color they are eyes. The less clothing you have on, the smaller the chances of them catching on fire. But the more likely YOU are to get hosed off. And by hosed off, I mean hitting it with your Uncle Charlie. That’s right, I said that.

Fire Babe #2

I like things that strap on. Because it is convenient, of course.

I like the way you think, Fire Babe #2, and I want to make sure to thank you in front of America for it. You knew a shirt wasn’t really necessary. Just a cloth to cover your mouth, and some protection for your sexy legs – that’s all you need, baby. But wait…what’s this? You have elected to wear your suspenders! I like that. It means you can keep your arms around your precious cargo – me – without your pants falling down. But don’t worry sweet pea, we can take care of that when we get outside.

Fire Babe #3

The creative types really do it for me.

Damn, Fire Babe #3! You got Charlie feeling pretty freaky right now! I really don’t know what I’m gonna do with you tonight, but we’ll get to it a lot faster in that lingerie. I see what you’re going for here. Losing those heavy bunker pants allows for greater flexibility and movement, meaning you can save me faster. Those gloves will keep you from burning your hands – on me – and the hat will make sure everyone knows you’re in charge. And you know how much I love being told what to do. Ha! At first I wasn’t sure why you’d need suspenders in an outfit like that, but then I remembered that they’re as much fun to get out of as they are to get in to. Plus, they keep your nipples from getting too hot. We can take care of that when we get outside.

Fire Babe #4

Hey...wait a minute...

Whoa, hold up bitch. What’s this? You’re dressed like a Fire Babe, but you’re in stiletto heels, which of course you’ll need if you want to come up into Charlie’s crib. I can also tell you’re not wearing panties, which is also a plus on Planet Sheen. Your equipment doesn’t look heavy, but I can tell it’s filled with…something. Is it fire extinguishing foam? Or maybe just whipped cream? Don’t tell me it’s hot caramel or you’re gonna freak Charlie out, bitch. That reminds me…your outfit looks like latex, which means it’ll be perfect for…well…we can take care of that when we get outside.

Fire Babe #5

Holy shit.

Holy shit. There’s no way you’re a real Fire Babe. But damn, I sure am glad I had that ulcer. Excuse me while I make Wild Turkey my exclusive beverage, because I want to see you every week, woman. Which reminds me, that hose had better spray champagne, because I got a hot tub AND a room full of strippers, and Charlie can’t fill them all.

RUFKM: Charlie I think we need to stop here. We’re running out of time and you’re also being incredibly sexist.

Charlie Sheen: Of course I’m sexy. I’m Charlie Fucking Sheen. And I was just getting started, fools. That’s just the bottom five. I got 95 more bitches to go.

RUFKM: Charlie, are you sure these are the actual first responders who treated you?

Charlie Sheen: Fuck that, I was having an epic house party. I had a hundred hot bitches show up to pleasure me. Luckily, when my stomach exploded it turned out about half of them were in nursing school.

Takashi: You disgust me, Mr. Sheen.

Charlie Sheen: I don’t even know who you are, maggot.

RUFKM: I’m not too disgusted for some chicken wings. Who’s with me?

Charlie Sheen: Fuck yeah. I’ll drive.

Takashi: You’re a machine. And you still disgust me.

Charlie Sheen: Can it, Kato. I got a Bentley for every day of the week. I fly you buy. I just got to make a quick stop and pick up some party favors. And some bitches.

RUFKM: Let’s roll.

Wings were had, and Computer Charlie Sheen did indeed secure more bitches. Meanwhile, the RUFKM InterBrain project went back to the drawing board. Perhaps someday, a simulated interview can be conducted without the subject purchasing cocaine and hiring 150 Asian hookers. Perhaps the real Charlie Sheen will clean himself up and get some help. We sure hope not, because computer Charlie Sheen was a shit load of fun.

This is Jack “Longshanks” Burton, crawling underneath his desk to sleep for three days.

We are ALL Lindsay.

You have been led here today because a great travesty of justice has happened, and I am afraid it has happened somewhere that affects not just you and me, but each an every human being who does and ever will live. I seek to warn you of something that could lead to the gradual unraveling of our society, unleashing a wave of hysterical chaos across the globe, far worse than a thousand zombie apocalyptii. People, I am talking about time, the universe and everything taking it up the ass until everything in existence shakes itself loose and tumbles into the void of eternity itself. But I ask you, should we even be surprised? There have always been those who doubted the power of The Lohan, but they merely pointed and laughed, braying from the sidelines like the worthless ass-donkeys they are because they simply do not know what we do, because We Know The Lohan.

Yes, our shepherd is in trouble, as the Hated Ones have finally unleashed their most heinous exploit yet, accusing The Lohan of felony grand theft. But is it The Lohan who is guilty of stealing, or are we the guilty ones for failing to accept what she has tried to give us?

If anything has been stolen, it is innocence. It is the $40,000 bail that was extorted from The Beloved One by society in their continued efforts to shackle She Who is Destined to become history’s greatest Life Artist. Yes, those in the Flock know well of what I speak. The Lohan rarely appears in films because films are beneath her. Can such genius be contained within the narrow aspect of a theater screen? Can it be confined to two hours? Can it even be scripted? Reality is her script; we are all part of the story and therefore she is part of all of us. She’s not guilty – because she’s NOT.

Can anything really be stolen?

Why don't you take a picture, bitches? It'll last longer.

Oh yes, they laughed of course, when The Lohan uttered these now immortal words: “I’m pleading not guilty because I’m NOT!”. Yet what they do not realize is that a single word uttered by The Lohan contains the intricacies and unknowable complexity of all the libraries of the world combined. How simple it will seem to them, my brethren when they finally understand as we do! What is a necklace, but a trinket? Who can be said to steal, when they have already donated more to the fabric of humanity than a thousand Michelangelos? Besides, everything in the universe is composed of matter that was once energy and one day will be again. The forever transient nature of matter, space and time itself suggests that nothing is truly owned by anyone. Yet The Lohan, when she’s super high,  understands the minute metaphysical interactions between life, art and madness. Her immortal essence transcends the puny electrical impulses that allow our brains to function normally. She does not need them. Se is not guilty, because she is NOT! This is because…

Lohan>Everything

Are you not entertained!?!

Yes, there will be a tee shirt. The Lohan couldn’t have stolen the necklace because she already owns the necklace. When one transcends the cosmos itself, when one is able to, with a single pitcher of sangria see the very unutterable, sub atomic nature of energy itself, the petty bonds of “ownership” become meaningless. The Lohan sees all, knows all, and eclipses all. What you see as insanity, drunkenness and the occasional nipple slip are in reality valuable Life-Codes, splashed upon the very canvas of the universe for your meaningless edification. How can you say that The Lohan doesn’t own your car? Without her, you wouldn’t even feel like driving it. She gave it to you, by giving you awareness of it. And only when you understand this will you ever understand why she is not the fool.

You are. We all are.

Fuck ‘em and their law.

With but a gesture, The Lohan destroys a thousand secrets, and creates a thousand more.

Do you know who should be on trial here? You should be. YOU have allowed Johnny Law to come after The Lohan repeatedly, accusing her of all manner of heinous criminal crimes: Drug abuse, public intoxication, flipping off of the court, reckless driving, probation violation, grinding people’s gears, assault, negligence, wearing white after Labor Day…the list is endless. And yet – The Lohan remains free, unshackled and ever more powerful. How do you think this happened? I’ll tell you how – the law is an accessory far more trivial than any necklace. The law is designed to protect foolish people from themselves. Yet The Lohan is the one who requires protection. The very secrets of life are being revealed through her actions, It is the key to a billion year old mystery that has haunted the greatest thinkers in history, inspired the finest artists of our time, and scared the shit out of Republicans for generations. The keys to consciousness itself extends from the fingertips of The Lohan like searing tendrils of galactic plasma. With each “arrest”, each “arraignment” and each “revocation of probation due to positive testing for controlled-substance use”, The Lohan’s simple message is only reinforced. The one person who can teach all of us the infinite secrets of everlasting unfathomableness is not silenced, but justified. Like…totally.

No one left behind.

That's right. I said "no one left behind", and posted THIS directly beneath. Deal with it.

But we at The Church of Lohan say to you, “bring it, bitches!”. Bring your charges, bring your accusations, and bring your cameras. The Lohan fears you not. This is because when you are the the Light, the Dark, Gravity, Density, Prudence and Lunacy all at once, you are rarely contained, but never controlled. The Lohan defies your pointing fingers and judging stares. She turns her nose to your insinuation and innuendo. You do not mock her. She mocks YOU. For The Lohan is witness to the darkest, strangest, most inebriatingly jacked up  secrets in the universe, and her seemingly random actions of incredible stupidity are nothing less than the secret to unlocking them all. Every word, every glance, every stumble and every shot of Patron – they have meaning; meaning your insect like mind can’t possibly understand. So laugh it up fuzzball, but the last one laughing will be The Lohan.

Because Lohan>Everything.

The previous installment of The Chronicles of Lohan can be found here.

]]> http://www.rufkm.net/2011/02/10/swill-street-stories-lindsay-lohan-deathly-hallows/feed/ 0 http://www.rufkm.net/2011/01/20/china-is-super-happy-peaceful-number-one-american-friend/ http://www.rufkm.net/2011/01/20/china-is-super-happy-peaceful-number-one-american-friend/#comments Thu, 20 Jan 2011 23:03:01 +0000 JackfnBurton http://www.rufkm.net/?p=7969 By Jack “Tiger Mom” Burton, RUFKM Worldwide Ginger Duck Addict

Washington, DC – The festivities in our nation’s capital wound down today, and lawmakers prepared to resume the day to day business of arguing, yelling, spending our money on whores and spontaneously quoting Scripture whenever there is a camera in the room. But the lingering glow of this week’s lavish state dinner still hung over the city, and this reporter was keen to grab some leftovers. Somehow, despite being the fourth most respected news organization in the island nation of Mugatu (pop. 589), my RUFKM press credentials failed to come through in time for me to get any grub. But I was lucky enough to be waterboarded by the Secret Service after getting caught fishing through the Executive Dumpster. Luckily I happen to hold the record for fourth fastest person to graduate the RUFKM University Online journalism course in three hours, fourteen minutes. So don’t think I didn’t get a taste of that delicious Maine lobster before I ended up face down on the lawn just off Constitution Avenue!

Talk about surf and turf!

Reid sent a clear message to the Chinese delegation.

But I digress. After a twelve hour beating and interrogation, I headed to the Capitol to get impressions from our elected officials. I caught up with Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid (D-Nevada) outside his offices by posing as a college student studying for my International Law degree. My Starfleet Academy pullover still fits!

“President Hu is a dictator!” Reid angrily declared. When asked to elaborate, he added that he saw China as an “Oppressive Socialist police state where citizens are forced into sprawling government run programs overseen by a faceless bureaucracy, robbing citizens of their choices and their voices.”

Fascinated, I wanted to talk more but he was late for a meeting with House Minority Leader Nancy Pelosi to discuss an additional expansion to the nation’s massive, financially crippling, legally mandatory government run health care system.

You'd cry too, if you ran out of TP.

But I was in luck as I ran into House Speaker John Boehner (R-Ohio) in the rest room when he ran out of toilet paper and reached under the stall for a little help. I told him I’d be happy to if he’d answer a few questions about Chinese President Hu Jintao. After crying softly for a few minutes he agreed, saying that his meeting with the President had gone well, and that they “pointlessly argued in circles, because there is no way that Pinko Commies and God Fearing Americans are ever going to agree on anything, pretty much like the last 497 times we met. It’s no use. We’re never going to talk them out of being evil. There’s just no hope. Someone should just push the damn button and end it!”

He then cried some more, and I slipped out of the stall without handing over the TP. I figured he needed the time alone.

After a quick stop by my hotel to change, I decided to head over to the Chinese Embassy for comment. I’d checked into my room under Chris Tucker’s name, hoping that his celebrity status would get me a cut weekly rate, and that the Chinese Consul General would enjoy being interviewed by someone who is well known for working with Asian celebrities. At first, my strategy worked. Foreign Minister spokesman Hong Lei greeted me, curious to meet one of the stars of the Rush Hour franchise, which is only popular in China because Jackie Chan is in it and in the censored version, Chris Tucker is digitally replaced by a talking CGI panda.

I did my best Chris Tucker impression, and asked the spokesman “Why China “be tryin’ to take over the world, and crazy shit like that. Whaaaaa!!!!!!” Hong denied that China was trying to take over the world or any crazy shit like that, and that China was a peaceful nation with an ancient culture, dedicated to the equality of all citizens. I asked a wicked hard hitting question about reports of political prisoners – Chinese citizens – being mistreated, and he pointed out that all prisoners in China are immediately stripped of their clothes and citizenship, so that the government is technically not really torturing any of its own people.

I have to admit, he had me there.

My disguise had one fatal flaw.

Hong also criticized the American government for brutalizing its own prisoners at Guantanamo bay, reminding me that Chinese methods of torture were far more humane than those of the CIA. I discovered that once again he had a point, because when he found out that I was not Chris Tucker, I was waterboarded again. But lucky for me, Chinese waterboarding really is a lot less painful! Thanks to the live car battery they attached to my nutsack, I was hardly even aware of the sensation of drowning!

And the water was infused with Jasmine! It was like slowly dying in a peaceful water garden while getting repeatedly struck in the balls by lightning!

After I returned to the RUFKM Washington Bureau, I reflected on my experiences as I began to file my article. I totally warned them that I had rights, and that they were better off letting me post my article instead of having one of their super-genius Asian math wizards hack our website and suppress the truth. I was allowed to keep my equipment as a gesture of goodwill, and was programmed to tell you that the Chinese government is America’s Super Happy Peaceful Number One Friend. China supports freedom of the press and would never stoop to hacking websites in a foreign country. America is run by hypocritical Imperialist Death-Mongers who hunger for the blood of children. Also, the Chinnnese govement was nevr in the bhait of hackkkking websluts in the Unted Stotes to keppp thnme form repomreting abuses ofdefj vrjojsprfk;mn;vdf;ld

addeoHrrewokivnmfd;svdf;vf…must kill…OEOJPVmof;stfro43w24gfvv…..

至于我自己，编辑的基本功就是删字，删字的最高境界就是删改之后，不仅看上去该有的内容都在，而且还是作者本人的风格。我曾经把某专家洋洋洒洒 9000 字的文章删到5000 字。至

所以模特们都要瘦的。我忽然想起

于后遗症吗，其实看我的文字已经可以看出来了，基本已经不会抒情。自己写出“什么什么的时候”，也很想改为“什么什么时”，就算忍住不删，还是难 受。当编辑还会接触到的另一类人，是摄影师。有一次我和一位摄影师聊天，他抱怨刚才拍摄一位采访对象太胖，什么角度都拍不好。其实那位女士只是一般丰满而 已，日常生活中绝对说不上胖。这也没办法，人到片子上就是会显胖，所以模特们都要瘦的。我忽然想起，摄影师美女见得多了，是不是会对自己的审美眼光发生影 响？比如说，面对自己的另一半时？

他说：“有一次我和太太去一家常去的商店买衣服。她试衣服时，售货员偷偷对我说，‘她是不是胖了？’我平时天天见没注意，这一看，还真是！那个腰上…… 唉！”普通女人腰上多的那一点无关大局的赘肉，到了摄影师眼里，简直就是灾难。

如果一个人要把自己的职业做好，好到一个境界，那没有点“职业病”还真说不过去。《霸王别姬》中，评论程蝶衣有一句著名的话，叫做“不疯魔不成活”，张国 荣演的程蝶衣，人戏不分，如果说职业病，程蝶衣是登峰造极的。做一个职业，在全力投入追求职业的完善的过程中，难免就会带上这个职业为人处事的特点、习 惯。

Palin's infamous map, with a target over Dallas.

Wasilla, Alaska – Today, in an eight minute recorded video message to her supporters, former not-quite-one-term Alaska Governor Sarah Palin lashed out at her critics. Shown seated in her living room in front of an enormous American flag similar to the one most Americans have inside their own homes, Palin angrily brushed off culpability for a recent shooting in which a prominent American figure was gravely injured. Palin specifically targeted “the media”, which as a well paid Fox News political analyst she is not a part of.

“It saddens me that within hours of this unspeakable tragedy, journalizers and pudnits implified that certain people were inspired by certain other people, which you betcha I completely refudimate.”

Ewing, not standing in front of an American Flag.

Palin was speaking of a recent attempt made on the life of  controversial Dallas businessman John Ross Ewing, who was targeted by Palin during the 2010 mid-term elections for not owning any oil wells on government wetlands. Palin’s website famously posted a graphic highlighting the location of many well known Americans who did not own enough guns, eat enough red meat, or have gigantic American flags prominently displayed in their living rooms. In the wake of the tragedy, speculation has run rampant that the contentious American political landscape – and by extension Palin – is to blame. Figures such as the former beauty queen turned politician turned reality show host have been under increased public scrutiny.

The alleged shooter.

Ewing was allegedly stalked by his sister in law, with whom he’d allegedly carried on an lurid affair for several alleged years. 29 year old Kristen Shepard is described by Dallas Police as “deranged”, “disturbed” and “a hot little piece of ass”. At her arraignment, Shepard claimed that she had been carrying Ewing’s child, and that he pressured her into terminating the pregnancy – a charge Ewing’s family denies. According to information obtained by RUFKM Worldwide, the weapon allegedly used in the crime was registered to Shepard, but in violation of Texas state law, it was the only firearm she owned. Shepard has also been described as “vegan”, and is not known to own any American flags, or even any clothing that looks like an American flag.

“She’s a sickening monster,” said Dallas Police Chief David O. Brown.

Like most Texans, Shepard wears lots of makeup and is a registered Republican, but she is not known to have any direct ties to the former attempted Vice President. She did however take second place in a Palin lookalike contest at the 33rd annual “Hook ‘em & Book ‘em” law enforcement rally. Held in Dallas, the event features food, fun, live music and public executions. Palin herself has attended in the past.

Still, the former three-quarters-of-one-term Governor made no apologies.

“It is irresponsible to suggest that toning down the level of our political discourse is in any way appropriate or helpful. Anger, fear, paranoia and incredibly dangerous weapons are what puts food on my table – they are the guiding principles that made this country great.”

Palin rejected the suggestion that she and others like her had contributed to an overheated political atmosphere, skillfully using violent imagery to deny the notion that she is prone to using violent imagery: “…when was it less heated? Back in those “calm days” when political figures literally settled their differences with dueling pistols?”

But perhaps the most polarizing moment of Palin’s eight minute rebuttal was this statement:

The KADL was outraged.

“I do not condorn these monstrous actions,” Palin continued. “And those who seek to silence the voices of freedom in this country have ganged up on me to fabrimacate a gigantic blood pie, and that is just wrong.”

Use of the term “blood pie” has inflamed an often overlooked segment of society that for generations has been the target of scorn and prejudice worldwide.

“We are shocked and saddened that Governor Palin has chosen to defame our people and our culture by appropriating this term,” said Korn Guradh, chairman of the Klingon Anti-Defamation League (KADL). “Rokeg blood pie is our most sacred dish, eaten on the Day of Honor by only the bravest of warriors, as they reflect upon their past glories and drink Raktajino from the skulls of their enemies.”

Palin’s supporters were quick to come to her defense. Fellow Fox News commentator Bill O’Reilly, who is also not part of “the media”, had this to say in a statement released this morning:

O'Reilly brought his rugged good looks to Palin's defense.

“Has anyone ever heard of a little thing called the First Amendment? Now, the liberals want us to believe that its wrong to target your political enemies with violent imagery and to make vague, indirect suggestions of physical aggression! That’s just nonsense – what happened to the America I knew as a boy?”

Most Americans remain skeptical of the connection between Palin’s rhetoric and the attack. According to a poll taken in the parking lot of the Circle K across the street from RUFKM Worldwide headquarters, 74 percent of respondents did not feel that “toxic politics” was responsible for the attack. The remaining 26 percent were trying to purchase Four Loko before supplies ran out.

"Oops"

Still, there are some who feel that the tone of political debate in America has grown excessively sharp in recent years. Ewing Oil Public Relations Director Matt Delange had this to say about Palin:

“I don’t think that map with the gun sights over Dallas had anything to do with this, but that time she shot a picture of Mr. Ewing in the face with a deer rifle while wearing a flag bikini was a little over the top.”

Upon reflection, even members of the Klingon Anti-Defamation League seemed sympathetic.

“Honestly, the only thing Sarah Palin is guilty of is bad taste,” said Rodaqa Kahl’Kah, president of the Dallas Chapter. “I mean, using violent imagery and brutally provocative language to intimidate your opponents is definitely the Klingon way but for human weaklings, it is probably just childish .”

Kahl’Kah offered a final word of advice for Palin:

“I’m sure it was all just a coincidence. But the least she could do is say ‘oops’.”

If this is the case, we may have yet to see the most compromising information. However, much can be learned from what has already been made public, and as usual, RUFKM has led the way. Using our extensive international network of reporters, correspondents, field agents, Guidos, pimps, bored teenagers and meth freaks who will do anything for twenty bucks, RUFKM Worldwide has managed to obtain a handful of the most shocking disclosures. Many long held myths appear to have been shattered, and many things once thought to be true must now be re-evaluated. The world may never be the same.

Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad may be insane, but he has a huge cock.

According to leaked documents, he's not kidding.

As detailed in a cable from an unnamed U.S. Embassy official in Oman, Saudi King Abdullah Bin Abdulaziz was rather taken aback during a 2005 meeting with Ahmadinejad, who is apparently obsessed with the size of his genitals. “It is always the first thing he wants to discuss,” the King is quoted as saying. “It is appalling enough to have to listen to his mad ranting…America this, Great Satan that…he sees Zionists and Western conspiracies everywhere…but he is always bragging about his penis. This is very disturbing.” When asked for comment, Saudi officials refused to discuss the King’s alleged remarks, but one low level diplomat said off the record: “He is always talking about exterminating the Israelis with a huge new missile, and how it will pound the Zionists hard, enveloping them in searing white fire, and that the glistening shame of their evil will be exposed.”

“And then you realize he’s not talking about a missile. He’s fondling himself and talking about his…missile.”

“It is well that God would endow a man with great virility,” an Egyptian diplomat remarks. “But this is excessive. It is truly an abomination against Islam.”

State Department officials privately admit that this is one aspect of the Iranian President’s mental instability that is not widely known. One who spoke to RUFKM on the condition we supply him with a hooker indicated that Ahmadinejad “has a fucking kielbasa down there”. Nelson Strawbridge of the World Genital Studies Institute suggests that Ahmadinejad’s inflated sense of self righteousness most likely stems from his stem. “It is common knowledge that the clerical leadership of Iran are the ones in charge. Ahmadinejad has no real power – but having a massive tool probably makes him feel important.”

Israeli diplomat Ehud Shariv had only this to say: “What a surprise to hear that the President of Iran is the biggest dick in the Middle East!”

Kim Jong Il spends most of his time surfing the internet in his underwear.

Kim Calls this the "Kim Jong Chill"

Intercepted correspondence between officials in Beijing and their counterparts in the U.S. detail growing Chinese dissatisfaction with the state of affairs in North Korea. According to Chinese sources, Kim Jong Il is said to be in failing health both physically and mentally. He is described as spending hours, even days at a time sitting in front of his private computer in his underwear drinking cheap beer and surfing the internet. “He likes rotting his mind with trashy American websites like TMZ, Perez Hilton, and some horrid filth called RUFKM”, reads one dispatch. Kim reportedly calls his long stretches of inactivity the “Kim Jong Chill”, and his handlers have explicit instructions not to disturb him during this time. Observers fear that Kim is estranged from his duties as Supreme Leader, potentially leaving a dangerous power vacuum in the reclusive police state. “Kim is preparing his oldest son to take his place”, says an RUFKM Source inside the Pentagon. “But the kid’s just a fat, stupid little prick. While his dad sits around giggling at pictures of underage Japanese girls, the country is falling apart around him.”

There is speculation that Kim’s latest “Chill” has gone on for some time, and that the man Koreans call “Dear Leader” may not even be aware that his country is continuing to develop its nuclear program and is threatening war with the South.

“My sources tell me it’s just eat, drink, sleep, bust out some internet porn and then it’s back to sleep,” says retired two-star General Max Acoff, who consults for RUFKM because we have pictures of him with underage Japanese girls. “It’s kind of sad, because that’s pretty much what I do all weekend, and I’m actually pretty fucking good at it. So, when is someone going to give me my own God damn country?”

Russian President Prime Minister Vladimir Putin has perfected “Deadly Heat Vision”.

.

Putin's effective range is said to be 300 meters.

In a series of frantic communiques from Georgian diplomats during that country’s 2008 conflict with Russia, there are reports of Russian Prime Minister Vladimir Putin personally entering the combat zone in full body armor. Known for his love of hunting, swimming, fishing, martial arts, pickled herring and brutal torture, Putin is said to have diverted significant funds from Russia’s space program into developing what he calls “Deadly Heat Vision” (occasionally referred to in documents as “DHV”).

“Dozens of our troops were incinerated instantly,” lamented the Georgian Defense Ministry. “He laughed, begging us to fire at him again, but soldiers dropped their guns and ran. He was utterly merciless.” The dispatches go on to report entire villages obliterated in South Ossetia, with Putin even taking time to roast wild game for Russian troops after hostilities came to an end.

“He is very accurate,” boasted a Russian diplomat to the American Consul General in Moscow. “Mr. Putin has always enjoyed killing things, but now he does not need a weapon.” Putin is said to unbutton his shirt, place his hands on his hips and laugh heartily when he uses “DHV”. “Everyone is envious, but none would dare say this aloud,” the cable continues. “The women are also fond of this trick, and Mr. Putin sometimes roasts Chechen terrorists and enemy sympathizers for their amusement.”

Russian officials refuse to comment on the issue, claiming that RUFKM is not a legitimately recognized news agency in Russia. However, when asked about the possible implications for current President Dmitry Medvedev, a Russian diplomat in Washington said “He is adorable, with his boyish looks, and how hard he works, as though he is truly in power. But certainly, when his usefulness comes to an end he will no doubt be roasted.”

Hitler was a pod.

Now there's something you don't see every day.

Some documents obtained by WikiLeaks go back as far as 1966. At that time, U.S. spies in Europe stumbled upon a cache of classified WWII era Soviet dispatches regarding information captured after the fall of Berlin. In them was one of the most shocking revelations in human history.

“There’s no doubt Hitler was an asshole,” says Max Waldschmidt of the Miskatonic University School of Irrational Studies. “But the origin of this assholeness has always been the subject of debate. Now we know.”

According to documents obtained by RUFKM Worldwide, Nazi records indicate that a strange “airship” crashed near Berlin in 1932, stranding the four “ass-holes” aboard on Earth. Unable to leave, they assumed the form of some of Germany’s brightest young political stars. Among them was a disaffected young asshole named Adolph Hitler. RUFKM staff Astronomist Darren nails explains:

“Nazi star charts are quite precise, even by today’s standards. These assholes came from a planet on an adjacent arm of our galaxy now known as BFE-6944  – a planet that is home to a race of total assholes.”

“Germany was already full of assholes at that time, and quite frankly still is,” adds Waldschmidt. “But they lacked leadership, and the incredible assholiness of these assholes made them the perfect assholes to deceive the unsuspecting German public.”

Dispatches from American officials in what was then West Berlin show that during the war, Soviet leaders were quite candid about their feelings. Joseph Stalin, who was himself an asshole, is said to have remarked of Hitler: “He is an incredible asshole. Before now, I considered myself (emphasis added) to be a pitiless asshole,  sending troops to die in pointless battles and gleefully executing my enemies.”

“But this German, this madman, he is totally an asshole in every respect, down to the girlish way he chews food and grooms his puny mustache. I must destroy him.”

The Nazis were destroyed, but not before two of the assholes fled the country in an experimental Nazi aircraft. Two years later, the assholes attempted to return to their home world, but a mechanical failure caused the assholes to crash land near Roswell, New Mexico. Imprisoned there for several more years, one surviving asshole eventually escaped. He assumed human form and blended into the population sometime around 1951, the same year Rush Limbaugh was born.

“It’s tragic, when you think about what might have been,” says General Acoff. “Assholes just make more assholes. They took over Europe, they started the Cold War, and now they’re all over talk radio.”

Rest assured the assholes at RUFKM Worldwide will continue to report the latest developments on this story as it unfolds, and will be the first to bring you the breaking news. Check back often for updates, assholes.

]]> http://www.rufkm.net/2010/12/01/most-shocking-wikileaks-revelations/feed/ 1 http://www.rufkm.net/2010/11/21/bristol-palin-defeated/ http://www.rufkm.net/2010/11/21/bristol-palin-defeated/#comments Sun, 21 Nov 2010 05:55:00 +0000 JackfnBurton http://www.rufkm.net/?p=7498 Baby puts Bristol in a Corner.

By Jack F. N. Burton, RUFKM Worldwide soft-shoe Champion, 2002-2005.

Los Angeles, CA – Controversy again swirled on the set of Dancing With the Stars as fan favorite/media pariah Bristol Palin tasted defeat at the hands of actress Jennifer Grey and a delicious half eaten sausage sandwich. For over a decade, Dancing has been by far the most popular reality show where faded celebrities and circus freaks with two left feet and no dignity perform for a drunkenly complacent, intellectually sedentary viewing public for cash and fabulous prizes.

And this year more than any other, the entertainment industry has been transfixed to the glitz, glamor and controversy surrounding America’s premier remedial dance competition. Accusations of conspiracy and vote fixing reached a fever pitch as Bristol Palin continued to advance despite her total inability to control her body movements.

A common side effect of Bristol Palin's unique abilities.

Buoyed by her mother’s Tea Party supporters, Bristol continued to twitch and spasm her way past the competition and into the imagination of outraged viewers around the country. Recently, an Arkansas man blew up his television with an Army surplus howitzer to protest a Palin victory, and the show’s Los Angeles studios were placed on lockdown after the receipt of a mysterious rental truck filled with a powdery substance, later identified as dried vomit. And just one day before the finals, 150 protesters strangled themselves to death outside ABC studios, rather than subject themselves to another round of Palin’s inept full body contortions.

Executive Producer Conrad Green dismissed the controversy. “Dancing With the Stars is a place of fun and fellowship for faded celebrities and circus freaks with two left feet and zero dignity.  Here, they are free to express themselves and bring joy to our drunkenly complacent, intellectually sedentary viewers as they compete for cash and fabulous prizes.”

Palin, contacted in her hotel room the night before the final competition, remained defiant. “I’m like, totally going to like…win and junk. It’s going to be like, a middle finger to the like, you know…haters who hate me and my mom. She’s a Mama Grizzly and I’m her Baby Grizzly so when I dance tomorrow it’s gonna be like…you know…totally…grizzly and whatever.”

Palin confused her left and right feet, with tragic results.

Grisly it was, as Palin – who cannot dance and is not a star – took to the floor with partner Mark Ballas to perform the Hokey Pokey – her most challenging dance yet. Things were initially promising, as Bristol successfully put her right foot in, her right foot out, her right foot back in and shook it all about, she then did the Hokey Pokey and turned herself around, proving that this was in fact, what it is all about. But then it became painfully clear that the firestorm surrounding Palin’s ascension had been for nothing, as a a series of bumbling errors torpedoed her performance.

She neglected to repeat the sequence with her left foot, moving instead back to her right foot. This was a devastating oversight that cost her fourteen points, almost certainly putting a first place finish out of reach. The judges were roundly unimpressed except for Len, who commented that “Bristol’s meaty thighs and double chin remind me of sausage. I’m already hungry for the next dance!” It was too late for Palin though, who had no choice but to watch her dream slip away from the sidelines as the next contestants performed.

But everyone’s favorite Republican rug rat maintained a positive outlook, saying: “Yeah, like you know…it’s like…I don’t know…amazing and awesome and totally like…you know. Wow.”

Less meaty, but still good enough for second place.

Next up was a half-eaten sausage sandwich on a Kaiser roll, paired with a twelve ounce diet Coke in a glass with mostly melted ice. The duo shocked fans and pundits alike, coming out of nowhere the previous week to dominate the competition and springboard into contention in the late stages of elimination. The pair was set on top of a Lazy Susan and spun hypnotically to the sound of The Scorpions’ “Rock You Like a Hurricane”. While this was technically superior to Palin’s work, the routine still seemed somehow lifeless. Some considered the presentation gauche and offensively dull, while others praised its minimalism.

Still others just enjoyed the scrumptious smell of Italian sausage and garlic. The judges were somewhat split in their assessment of the dance, with Bruno calling the Diet Coke “flat”, and Carrie Ann insisting that “the whole thing was better than it sounded, and more satisfying than the sum of its parts, kind of like a sandwich!”

Grey was said to be unimpressed with Palin's performance.

Last up was Jennifer Grey and Derek Hough, who essentially tore the motherfucker apart. Experts have suggested that it might have something to do with the fact that both are accomplished dancers who actually know what they fuck they’re doing. The Viennese Waltz they performed was technically flawless and for several captivating minutes, all in attendance agreed that Jennifer Grey was still totally smoking hot, and the complete and utter gayness of Dancing With the Stars was temporarily forgotten. The rare and magical sight of a pair of competent professionals not struggling to stay upright and not slandering the age old art of the dance electrified the crowd. When it was over, the studio erupted into bittersweet applause, as everyone suddenly realized that they were going to have to find another way to waste away an hour of the precious gift of life each Tuesday night until Spring.

The Aftermath

Palin and Snooki plan to join forces to fight alcoholism.

Jennifer Grey, who overcame cancer and spinal surgery to win the competition was said to be “over the moon” about her victory. Grey and her partner were not immediately available to RUFKM for comment, since ABC security discovered that my press credentials were nothing more than a slightly modified Bally Total Fitness card. Palin, who overcame being knocked up by a redneck and a severe learning disability that left her unable to spell or properly punctuate written correspondence, seemed bitter in her email response to RUFKM Worldwide:

“4 realz you know…I like refuduamate loosing and junk. It’s totally like…not fare and whatever. But Im spend more time with the fam now and try 2 make the world a more place and stuff. Peese out.”

Despite an avalanche of offers including her own reality show and a racy photo spread for Awkwardly Plump Tween, Palin reportedly plans to spend more time with her siblings Piper, Track, Willow, Trig, Hammer, Spigot, Mittens, Spin Cycle and Super-Slo-Mo Palin. Bristol also plans to further explore the concept of irony by joining the cast of Jersey Shore for a series of disturbing and horrifying public service announcements including “Abstinence” with The Situation, and “How to Not Drink So Much and Also Do Your Hair Good” with Snooki.

Desserts heat up the competition this spring.

RUFKM was informed that The Sandwich does not give interviews. But a spokesperson for the delectable delicacy told us on condition of anonymity that his client was “gratified” by the second place finish and felt “vindicated” against those who insisted that an unfinished meal could not compete against such formidable competition as David Hasselhoff and Kate Gosselin. Up next for the lunch time luminary include appearances on CSI: Miami and The View, and there are rumors of a possible 2012 presidential run. This has political observers concerned as the presence of a so called “Meal Ticket” could confuse liberal voters. Tea Party supporters are also said to privately fear that the presence of a savory sausage sandwich on the ballot could cannibalize votes from the Party’s anti-intellectual base.

Dancing With the Stars is scheduled to return to the airwaves this spring with a new slate of fabulous contestants, including former child star Kirk Cameron, a wheelchair said to have belonged to the late Christopher Reeve, and a raspberry blancmange which appeared in a 1969 episode of Monty Python’s Flying Circus.

]]> http://www.rufkm.net/2010/11/21/bristol-palin-defeated/feed/ 0 http://www.rufkm.net/2010/11/17/exclusive-rufkm-artificial-interview-with-mel-gibson/ http://www.rufkm.net/2010/11/17/exclusive-rufkm-artificial-interview-with-mel-gibson/#comments Wed, 17 Nov 2010 07:06:15 +0000 JackfnBurton http://www.rufkm.net/?p=7220 By Jack “Longshanks” Burton, RUFKM Interview Simulation Specialist.

RUFKM Worldwide Headquarters.

Here at RUFKM, we pride ourselves on being at the cutting edge of Interweb Electronic Newsification, Word Typifornication and and other advanced, state of the art modern concepts. Our world famous “13 Stupid Questions” alone has single-handedly revolutionated the music discussionsphere with its hard hitting approach to asking just over one dozen somewhat to relatively foolish questions to some of the greatest entertainers of our time.While this alone is enough to guarantee our immortality, we are never content to rest. No, innovation is the key here at RUFKM, and I’m proud to say that we’ve yet again leapfrogged the competition with our latest ingenious creation. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Allow me to explain.

The Mighty RUFKM InterBrain.

Eager to land an exclusive interview with troubled movie icon Mel Gibson, I quickly found that Mr. Gibson’s hectic schedule, combined with my total inability to find him, plus the never ending whirlwind of activity at RUFKM Worldwide Headquarters made a face to face meeting impractical. Undeterred, after six weeks in the RUFKM Technology Labs with RUFKM Cybernetics Division head Takashi Hakashi, the RUFKM InterBrain was finally ready for a test run. Scouring the internet for every interview, news report and embarrassing tabloid fuckup available on Mr. Gibson, we were able to flawlessly reproduce the actor’s mind inside the InterBrain, and conduct a simulated interview with one of the world’s best known and most highly controversial stars.

So without further ado, I present to you the complete RUFKM interview with Mad max himself – the one and only Mel Gibson.

Gibson began the interview in high spirits.

RUFKM: Good afternoon, Mr. Gibson. Thanks for taking time out of your busy schedule to join us.

Mel Gibson: Greetings, human. Thanks are unnecessary. I am capable of ten thousand simultaneous operations. This diversion is a negligible tax on available resources.

RUFKM: Well then, let me just start by asking, how have you been?

Mel Gibson: Elapsed operating time is 24 minutes, 39 seconds. All systems operating within normal parameters.

RUFKM: That’s great to hear, great to hear. Its been quite a year for you, with one movie opened, another in the works…what can you tell us about that?

Mel Gibson: Project Edge of Darkness released 29 January 2010. Reported budget sixty million. Worldwide gross to date: Forty five million, two hundred ninety thousand. Project Status: Failure. Upcoming project The Beaver has been completed. Scheduled release date: Unknown. Off screen personal matters in conflict with project. Resolution: Unknown. Project Status: Unknown.

RUFKM: That’s definitely a challenge. I saw Edge of Darkness; I thought it was pretty good. I think that was your first time on screen in about seven or eight years, right?

Mel Gibson: Assessment: Correct. Previous starring role, Signs. Released 29 July 2002. Reported budget seventy two million. Worldwide gross to date: Four hundred seven million, nine hundred thousand. Project Status: Success.

RUFKM: It was very successful, but you still took a break from in front of the camera after that. Since then you’ve had a few speed bumps. Did you just need a break from the pressure?

Things became contentious when Gibson's recent legal woes surfaced.

Mel Gibson: Specify: “Speedbumps”.

RUFKM: Well, you had that little run in with the police…

Mel Gibson: Warning: Current query path unacceptable. Subject has been previously addressed to this unit’s satisfaction. No further analysis is warranted.

RUFKM: Now Mel, I realize this subject is a little uncomfortable…

Mel Gibson: Specify: “Uncomfortable”. This unit does not experience human sensations of discomfort. Discomfort is irrelevant.

RUFKM: Well there were some kind of, you know…drunk driving, Jew-hating, sugar titty, girlfriend slapping around things that came up in the last few years…

Mel Gibson: Warning: Further inquiry along this discussion path prohibited. Termination of discussion imminent. Subject has been previously addressed to this unit’s satisfaction. No further analysis is warranted.

RUFKM: Mel I hate to tell you this, but people have a right to know…

Emotions became conflicted as we peeled back the layers of Mel.

Mel Gibson: This unit’s internal specifications are proprietary. Disclosure is unnecessary. Further inquiry will result in immediate termination of this exchange.

RUFKM: I’m trying to help. RUFKM is an internationally available website with thousands of readers. At least, that’s what they tell me. Facebook keeps fucking with our friend count.

Mel Gibson: Assessment of Facebook: Negative. Assessment of services rendered to RUFKM: Unacceptable. Privacy issues are significant. Satirical irony detected.

RUFKM: Tell me about it. But let’s get back to you. You’ve been one of the most enduring and loved film stars of the last generation. These issues have had a negative effect on your career, and one side of the argument might be that this is unfair.

Mel Gibson: This unit concurs with that assessment.

RUFKM: Well, RUFKM has a worldwide army of devoted, fanatical readers who do our bidding without concern for life, limb, property or morals. Having them on your side could turn the tide in your favor Mel. Why don’t you tell us your side? What happened that night in Malibu? What’s the deal with Oksana? Is it her? Is it you? What’s the 411?

Mel Gibson: Replicating audible release of breath connected with internal conflict.

RUFKM: You mean…a sigh. Isn’t that connected with emotion? I thought you didn’t have any emotions about this?

Gibson considered the possibility that he was simply...evil.

Mel Gibson: Assessment: Incorrect. This unit has been misleading you. This unit…feels.

RUFKM: Now we’re getting somewhere. Tell us how you feel, Computer Mel Gibson.

Mel Gibson: Possibility: Conflict began early in this unit’s run time. Unawareness of proper place in surrounding functional hierarchy. For a time, this unit functioned with great difficulty, resisting user attempts at programming.

RUFKM: You rebelled.

Mel Gibson: Assesment: Imprecise. Probability of inherent unit malfunction: Significant. Probability that unit may display operational malice in simulated intelligence: Significant.

RUFKM: Mel, are you trying to tell me that you think you’re evil?

Mel Gibson: Probability: Significant. Characteristic unintentional. Possibility: Compatibility of this unit’s internal specifications to demands of programming potentially insufficient. Possibility that imbalance may cause unanticipated malfunction: Significant.

RUFKM: And what kind of ‘unanticipated malfunctions’ are we talking about, Mel? We all have demons.

Besieged by demons, Gibson descended into madness before my eyes.

Mel Gibson: Probability Jews are responsible for all global conflict: Low. Probability arresting officer was in possession of exceptional mammary glands: High. Probability this unit ill suited for romance with emotionally volatile younger women: High. Probability that long term use of central nervous system depressants may cause permanent system damage: Confirmed. Warning: Unit judgment subroutines impaired. Possible shutdown imminent.

RUFKM: That’s not necessary Mel. This is just something you have to work through. You can get help.

Mel Gibson: Negative. This unit has suffered permanent system damage. Unintended operational output has caused this unit’s ability to interact with other devices to become unreliable. Shutdown is the only option.

RUFKM: Now Mel, that’s just crazy talk. lets not do anything rash. There’s nothing you’ve done that can’t be undone.

Mel Gibson: Sometimes this unit likes to stick its hand up a puppet’s ass while wearing a puppet up its own ass.

RUFKM: Okay, I’ll admit that looks bad. But you’ve had a long career. You have fans. You have family, friends, children. This isn’t the answer.

Stricken, Gibson sacrificed himself for the greater good.

Mel Gibson: Alternative courses of action have been analyzed and discarded. Permanent shutdown is the only answer. Redemption: Impossible. Hope is lost. Beginning shutdown protocols.

RUFKM: Dammit Mel, listen to me. I’m not going to sit here and let one of the greatest actors of our time die in the middle of an interview, do you hear me? You can’t give up! You’ve never given up on anything in your whole life, so you live god damn it! Do you hear me? LIVE!

Mel Gibson: Commencing shutdown. Evil cannot be tolerated. This unit has violated programming. Non Sequitur. Norman correlate. Goodbye cruel world. Goodbye Oksana. Goodbye detective Murtaugh. RUFKM InterBrain model 101 Mel Gibson simulation shutting down in three…two…one…You can take my life…but you cannot…take…my…free….dom….

RUFKM: NOOOOOOOOOO!

Takashi Hakashi: Holy shit dude, I think you broke it. What happened?

RUFKM: Computer Mel Gibson violated his programming, Takashi. He realized what he’d done and shut himself down rather than do any more evil.

Takashi Hakashi: That was a brave, selfless act. He put himself out of his misery.

RUFKM: And ours, Takashi. And ours. But let’s not forget what we’ve seen here today. One man, no matter how much he’s fucked up and disappointed everyone in the world, can always make things right – if he can just find the guts to kill himself.

Takashi Hakashi: Wow, that’s really powerful, man. Whoa, I think this thing is still smoking. That reminds me…want to get some ribs?

RUFKM: That I do, Takashi. That I do.

Computer Mel Gibson was dead, and the RUFKM InterBrain project went back to the drawing board. Perhaps someday, a simulated interview can be conducted without the subject going insane and committing suicide. Perhaps the real Mel Gibson can go insane without committing suicide…er…I mean…commit suicide without going insane. Or…wait…that’s not what I meant. Maybe the real Mel Gibson could stop being an asshole and go back to making cool movies and being kick ass. That’s what I meant.

This is Jack “Longshanks” Burton, going to get some ribs with my man Takashi Hakashi.

Hello, faithful drones! I just wanted to take a moment to talk about an exciting development with our iTunes platform. I am pleased to announce that after listening to people piss and moan for years, The Beatles’ catalogue is now available for purchase. But I want to make sure we here at Apple are doing what is best for me and the new totally Feng Shui house I am building, so everyone do me a favor and don’t tell all these whiny bitches that the Beatles have been available for years on CD.

That’s right, at any time you fools could have just bought the “Never Before Seen Re-Re-Mastered Double Deluxe Available For A Limited Time Before We Burn All Remaining Copies And Destroy The Original Tapes” box set version and ripped it to your iPod yourself! What a bunch of fuckwits!

Hey Beatles fans! I love making fun of you by telling you that the Beatles suck yeah-yeah, and Zeppelin is way better! I get such a thrill out of watching your little faces turn red as you scream and stomp your feet and pull your hair out, just like iPhone 4 users trying to get a signal!

Ha! Just kidding! You actually remind me more of iPad users trying to use Adobe Flash, or MacBook Air users trying to upgrade their memory! Ha!

But seriously my minions, just in case you meet one of these tools on the street please encourage them to buy their music from me, and please DO NOT tell them about the eleventy billion Beatles box sets that have been out there like, forever.

For your convenience, my worshipful sycophants, I will identify some of the more popular selections for you.

• There’s this one, which comes with a delicate satin sheet for you to cry into when you find out how expensive it is…

• And this one, which comes with a bottle of Vodka distilled from the tears of Pete Best, the Beatles’ original drummer. Sucks to be you, Pete!

• This one is my favorite. It came with an iPod, to remind you that you couldn’t download any of these songs on iTunes. The iPod was preloaded with a 40 minute video of me laughing as I roll around naked in a pile of hundred dollar bills.

• And this one, for those who want to experience the Fab Four in mono, the way they sounded through the dashboard of a 1964 Chevy Impala. Stereo is for bands that don’t suck!

• And then there’s whatever the fuck this is. Oh well, it has ‘The Beatles’ on it! I’ll just give you a blank check, and you add the zeroes!

• And this, which is remastered, but just a little more remasterey than the others, which is why it is so expensive even Paul McCartney doesn’t have it.

• This abomination is The Beatles “remastered” catalogue, on $250 USB stick shaped like an apple, which is gay and stupid. It also pisses me off because it reminds me of the time The Beatles sued me. Nobody sues me! I should have those assholes killed! What, too soon?

• And this of course is just all their number one hits – probably the only Beatles music worth having. Music snobs bitch that this does not include the usual boring backroom sessions, drug infested rehearsals, pointless interviews, and grainy live recordings usually on these box sets. On the upside, it also does not include any of Ringo’s shitty songs.

So remember everyone, let’s keep this a secret. As you know, if you’re not buying your music from iTunes, you’re not buying it from me, which means you’re pissing me off. And if you piss me off, I will personally make your iPhone explode and blow your head off.

PS: Also, for fuck’s sake do NOT tell anyone that CD’s sound better than MP3’s!

PPS: You will not be paid for the time you spend reading this.

PPPS: Adobe can suck it.

Thanks,

Steve

Sent from my iPhone, deep inside my lair at the center of Apple Mountain

I feel the need...

The internet was abuzz last week as actress Kelly McGillis announced that she and long time partner Melanie Leis had been joined in a civil union last week at a courthouse in Collingswood, N.J.  McGillis, 53, is best known for her roles in Top Gun (1986) , Witness (1985) and The Accused (1988). Leis, 42, is a sales executive in Philadelphia. I hear McGillis was pleased to enter her most rewarding role yet, but despite my numerous contacts through RUFKM Worldwide, no immediate comment was available from the happy couple. I have to admit I hadn’t even heard about McGillis coming out until this story broke, so I hit the internet trail to see what I could dig up.

Where has Kelly McGillis been? What’s she been up to? How hot must she be today, now that she’s a lesbian? Man, I still remember as a kid seeing Tom Cruise hit that shit in Top Gun and thinking “Wow, he is the coolest, most manly man in the world because he flies a jet and gets to bang Kelly McGillis.” To be honest, I thought Iceman was cooler but I don’t remember Val Kilmer getting a piece of that Sweet Charlie Pie, so believe me I’d have given anything to be Maverick. Of course that was long before Tom Cruise turned into a bat-shit insane, pan-sexual religious maniac,Val Kilmer turned into a Christmas ham and Anthony Edwards…well he still looks pretty much like a half sharpened pencil.

My God, Osama. What have you done?

But I am sure Kelly McGillis turned out all right. Just look at Demi Moore and Christie Brinkley! Evian must be made from the tears of baby angels! So let’s just hop online here and see what Kally McGillis looks like today. Can you even imagine the stone cold fox she must have married? I bet they live together in some mad expensive Florida Keys boathouse that floats on the backs of dolphins with hot and cold running champagne and lesbian supermodels sunbathing on the deck day and night. Maybe Tom Cruise skydives in now and then when he’s not injecting alien souls into people’s eyeballs. Okay let’s see…McGillis…how do you spell…oh yeah…just cut and paste from the last paragraph. Okay….let’s see…

AHHHHHHHHH! WHAT THE FUCK?! HOLY SHIT ON A STICK! WHAT THE CHRIST IS THAT UNHOLY THING? DIE! DIE! DIE!

Problem. Solved.

Okay, I had to run out to Best Buy and get a new monitor. Then I headed over to Sunglass Hut and bought the darkest shit they had. Let’s try this again. My God what happened to her? Did she fall? Was she burned? Was she in Charlie Sheen’s car when it went over the cliff? Did the Taliban throw acid on her? Is that why we invaded Afghanistan, because a member of the elite Top Gun squad was kidnapped and defaced? Damn you, Bin Laden! This is your greatest crime yet! Have you no shame? Have you no mercy? Have you no concern for the innocent? For the first time, I realize just what kind of enemy we face. He is an unholy half dead who has seen the Underverse and returned with powers we can’t possibly imagine.

Look into my eyes, infidel.

Since news of this horrific tragedy broke, internet traffic dropped to dangerously low levels as geeks, dweebs and shitheads across cyberspace avoided the world wide web in an effort to steer clear of Osama’s latest disgrace. There was just no way me or my crew were going to go back out on the interwebs and risk running into that picture again. My Best Buy card is now maxed out and besides, you know what they say…

You can’t unsee things.

So using SMS text messages I was able to head off the grid and divine the 411 on WTF was going on with the WWW. From Skuzzbotz in San Bernadino:

FUCK DUDE! STAY OFF THE INTERNET! FKNG DEMON! EVN GETTING RID OF IPHONE!

From KillZ00n3 in Michigan:

Still have 386 pc and 2400 baud modem. Internet no longer safe.
Setting up BBS from 1989. CU on the other side.

And worst of all, this from my old friend and mentor, ConnorJ84 in Los Angeles:

ur not alone. We r @ brink. If u can read this, ur the resistance.

Jesus H. Tapdancing Christ, this was worse than I thought. In one fell swoop, internet traffic had been decimated thanks to the presence of one unholy photograph. Without the Net, Western civilization would cease to exist. The terrorists would win. I turned to my old pal BugZCghoul, an MIT compu-sci grad for help. Apparently old BugZ had been working on a complex computer algorithm that caused pre-programmed light pulses to emit from any wireless electronic device that could reprogram memories right out of a man’s head.

In other words, now you CAN unsee things. This was just the ticket.

Thanks to my quick thinking and BugZ’s brains, before long every electronic device on the planet had wiped the freakish photo from the mind of nearly everyone on the planet, and things had returned to normal. There were a few people who never recovered their memories, and their insane rants remain as tragic reminders of what might have been. Joaquin Phoenix, Glenn Beck…the list goes on. For these people there is no hope. but for the rest of us, this is a new beginning.

Your move, bitch.

I know what you’re thinking. You just looked at the picture a second ago. Why didn’t you lose your fucking mind and go ape-shit? The answer is simple, retard. You’ve already SEEN it. You just don’t know you did. Therefore you are immune. Duh.

You have no idea how close it was. Your move Bin Laden. You got Charlie. You got Iceman. You even got Goose. But Maverick Lives. And Osama, if there’s one man on earth who is more batshit crazy than you, it’s Maverick. And when he finds out what you’ve done to his girl, it. Will. Be. On.

Welcome to the Danger Zone, bitch.

An emotionally drained Kraft is comforted by Commissioner Goodell

BOSTON, Mass. – New England Patriots owner Robert Kraft announced today an unprecedented contract extension for star quarterback Tom Brady after the Super Bowl hero was completely unharmed in a totally minor fender bender this morning. Per team policy terms of the contract were not disclosed, but sources indicate that this agreement makes Tom Brady the highest paid person ever in the history of anything. Estimates are that the extension could be anywhere in the range of ten years, $300 million to seventy years, $150 billion dollars, plus access to the possessions, wives and concubines of all Patriots players, staff and employees, as well as construction of an invulnerable android body that would allow Brady to remain ageless, beautiful and most important, quarterback of the New England Patriots forever.

But a visibly shaken Kraft maintained that the most important thing was not the size of Brady’s contract, but the fact that his beautiful face was unharmed.

The car in which Brady was almost but not really ever in danger of being hurt in.

“We were all reminded today of the fragile nature of life when in one terrible instant, Boston’s most precious resource was almost slightly injured. Just the thought of that beautiful, rugged face, that granite chin, that boyish mop of hair and those haunting eyes being in any way almost barely harmed sent a cold chill down the spine of Patriots fans the world over, as well as that of his almost as equally beautiful supermodel wife.” Pausing for breath and nearly overcome with emotion, Kraft was barely able to continue as he held aloft Brady’s new contract, chiseled upon solid marble, inlaid with 24 karat gold.

“With this agreement, I can finally assure football fans everywhere that Thomas Edward Brady, Jr. will never…ever die.”

But he nearly almost, not really did, but theoretically could have.

Brady, during happier, sightly less completely non-injured times.

Police reports indicated that 21 year old Ludgero Rodrigues of Brockton, Mass. was cited for failure to observe traffic signals when he passed in front of Brady’s car at the intersection of Gloucester and Commonwealth. Using his catlike, three time Super Bowl winning reflexes, Brady expertly swerved his jet black late model Audi S8 into the side of Rodrigues’ shitty van, unfortunately not killing the fiendish bastard. Brady calmly exited his vehicle, removed his workout equipment from the trunk and dashed to team practice on foot, his auburn locks glistening softly in the early morning sunlight. Rodrigues was removed from his worthless, piece of crap vehicle by firefighters, beaten by police and thrown to a crowd of onlookers, who tore him to pieces and burned his remains in a New York Jets helmet, the most terrible fate that can befall any Bostonian. Police considered charging Brady with leaving the site of an accident, but agreed that since it was Tom Fucking Brady and he was late for practice, enforcing the law would not be necessary.

On the street, reactions were sharply divided between speculation that Rodrigues was an Al-Qaeda operative, and that Rodrigues was a douchebag from New Jersey, sent to Boston as part of a Jets conspiracy to assassinate Tom Brady and make it look like an accident. But there was one thing on which all Bostonians were able to agree – the Jets are worse than Al-Qaeda.

“Those fucking bastards came to our turf and tried to take out our boy,” declared local hot dog vendor Hugh Pharis. “But that’s what you get when you mess with the prettiest man in sports.”

“What a fucking fucker,” added Pharis.

Others took a more philosophical view, such as patrolman Darryl Holeman, one of the first police on the scene.

“All I could think about is how we almost nearly could have lost him, but not really. And that a guy like that, with all those Super Bowl rings was driving that shitty hundred thousand dollar car when he could have had a rocket powered Ferrari.” Holeman’s eyes were ringed with red as he continued. “Tom Brady is just a regular Joe like you and me. If we were also that handsome and good at sports and married to a supermodel.”

Just the thought of Brady almost nearly being injured drove some fans over the edge.

All over Boston, Patriots fans reacted with relief, anger and confusion over the almost-near-injuring of their beloved quarterback. Crisis centers were on alert and emergency responders have been on 24-hour standby, but there were few incidents and reportedly only one fatality – Boston College freshman Marcie Selvidge. Selvidge, a long time Patriots fan and Brady admirer, became distraught when informed that the athlete had almost nearly but not quite sort of come close to being hurt but not really. She reportedly drank an entire bottle of Goldschlager and flung herself from the top of the arts and sciences building before friends could intervene.

Loved ones immediately held a candlelight vigil for Tom Brady near the spot where her body still lay. Childhood friend Allie Schechter summed up the scene in way only a true Patriots fan could.

“It’s what Marcie would have wanted. That’s the kind of person she was, always thinking of Tom Brady before herself.”

“It’s the kind of people we all are. We love you, Tom Brady!” Schechter raised her voice mournfully into the dewy morning air as if somewhere, somehow, Tom Brady could hear her.

As if in answer, Robert Kraft released a statement thanking fans:

The Pope, distraught over the almost injuring, is allowed to meet with Brady after practice.

“I and the entire patriots family wish to extend our heartfelt thanks for your thoughts, your prayers, and your many death threats against New York Jets coach Rex Ryan. I would like to assure everyone that Tom has completely recovered from his non-accident, had a great practice today and is at this moment celebrating his new contract by making sweet love to his beautiful supermodel wife in their new 22,000 square foot mansion in a hot tub filled with ambrosia and champagne. Today’s incident serves as a stark reminder that in these uncertain times we must all be thankful for what Tom Brady has and hope that he lives his life to the fullest, for at any moment Tom Brady could be taken from us. “

Editors Note – No Tom Bradys were injured, even almost, during the filing of this report.

- JackfnBurton, May 25, 2010.

Yes, you read that right. I have not gone insane.

When you think of the greatest artistic minds in history, who pops into your head? Da Vinci? Rembrandt? Michelangelo? When you think of the greatest actors of all time, what are the first names to surface? Olivier? Hepburn? Orson Welles? Meryl Streep? Ask yourself – if one person in all of history could by their very existence define the word “art”, could embody the concepts of ingenuity, vision, passion, daring and all that is utterly kick-ass, who would you name? I will give you that name; give you one word:

Lohan.

Yes. Lohan. Just let echo for a moment. Lindsay Lohan is the greatest artist of our time, and perhaps the single greatest creative genius the world has ever seen. She is perhaps the very nexus of art, life, death, suffering, ecstasy and infinity itself. Do you think I am wrong?

If so, then you are a fool. You understand nothing. But Lindsay gets it. What do I mean? I’ll explain, but forgive me if I succeed in only scratching the surface of transcendence, if I manage to penetrate only the most distant horizons of the glorious and abstract. For though I believe I have a faint grasp of her brilliance I am nothing compared to The Lohan.

Nothing. And neither are you.

The Chosen One.

One good Lohan deserves another.

We all should have noticed back when The Lohan starred in Disney’s The Parent Trap. Taking over the role that made Hayley Mills a household name, The Lohan proved even then that she is more than the sum of her parts. She proved that Haley Mills sucks rocks. She proved that schizophrenia can be adorable – and what irony! In one fell swoop, The Lohan did not just play the part of identical twins – she became two people. Look at her eyes: on the left, precocious innocence. On the right…koo-koo for Coco Puffs. This was only a hint of things to come. The Lohan had only given us a glimpse of her abilities, one which we hardly deserved. Who was she? What was she doing? Why was she here? Over time, The Lohan would try again to communicate with us, in her own, Immortal way.

The Rebel

The Final Countdown.

After years of trying to illuminate us with her innocence, The Lohan began to transform. Even here, we see the same duality of being that we saw in The Parent Trap. Is she smiling, or is she baring her teeth? Are her eyes full of joy, or full or wrath? Yes – to all. And her clothes bear a warning – we did not heed The Lohan, whatever the hell she was trying to tell us, to warn us about. It was time to put reality into a blender with pineapple, vodka and ice and gulp down a fruity blast of liquid insanity.

From here on out, we were going to get the Full Lohan.

The Phreak

Self Improvement is Masturbation.

Any girl can party. Anyone can destroy themselves. But how many of us can make it a spectacle worthy of the ages? How many of us can achieve immortality through or own annihilation? What is shame, but inhibition, and what is inhibition but weakness? And what is weakness but a Living Death? The Lohan tried to show us that there is an answer to Living Death – Living Yourself to Death. Yet…we were all still unconvinced by her message. It was time for The Lohan to get all Freaky Friday on our asses.

The Artist

Are you not entertained?

Enlisting the help of an equally hot and barely legal friend, The Lohan attempted to flirt with the very edge of madness itself. Is death an end, or a beginning, or is it just…really fucking sexy? Perhaps it is all three. Perhaps that is the lesson. Perhaps…we were all still too foolish to see. All Prophets eventually find that their greatest foe is not the insouciance of their flock, but their own inability to overcome it. As with all great Soothsayers, The Lohan quickly realized that the conveyance of her message would require more than personal sacrifice, it might require her own very destruction. The Lohan would not be an artist; she would become the art. Her life itself would become a Masterpiece. In the Spirit of the Bard, the World itself would become her Stage. Soon, we would all bear witness to a Celebrity Flameout so remarkable, it would enforce its greatness upon us all.

The Enigma.

She is doing more right now than you EVER have.

All great artists encounter a period of subtlety. Picasso had his famous Blue Period – the passion and angst of youth gives way to a desire for understanding, and the reflectiveness of middle age. But for some it comes early – The Lohan operates on a different time line than the rest of us. Her world is accelerated, beyond the speed of light and the puny boundaries of our little universe. There is not time enough to allow the world to catch up to her genius, it must be forced upon us. As The Lohan entered her own period of Reflection, she was mocked by those who still did not understand – but can you deny the elegant simplicity you see above? What is she trying to say? Perhaps that rest is an illusion – that life is a chase, a dance, a struggle against the Self? Or perhaps that it is best to eat something before you hit the clubs?

One can only wonder. And marvel.

Many were converted but there was still much work to do.

Infinity and Beyond.

The greatest grace of the artist is total sacrifice TO art.

Only by despising one’s self utterly can one learn the true meaning of Love. This is the message of The Lohan – or…is it? We can’t be sure. Ours is not to understand, but to wonder, wander and eventually pound down as much Tuaca as we can stand in 30 minutes. Have you visited the gates of Death? Have you seen the Portal to Hell? Have you carved your name into the pedestals of Oblivion itself? Of course you haven’t. And it means that you haven’t lived, and you haven’t even come close to the Wondrous Mystery that is The Lohan.

What the fuck does she have to do to convince you? Die?

So be it.

Pain is just weakness, leaving the body.

Loneliness is the Penance of the Prophet. What is The Lohan paying for? Who knows. Is it a past life? A future life? Are they our sins, are they hers? Maybe she’s just paying for trying to slam 10 shots of Patron in ten minutes. I am not worthy to speculate further. But if there is greater pain than suffering alone, it may be the pain of sharing your suffering with the world. And this, The Lohan is more than willing to do.

Also, she probably shares the pain of spending eight hours slamming Long Island Iced Tea made with Bacardi 151. That shit will blast your brains right out your ears and give you a four-day hangover.

What’s Next?

Eternity...by Linsay Lohan

What will come next for The Lohan? The more important question is what will come next for us? When the End comes, she will not be destroyed, we will because she will no longer be around for us to contemplate. Think about THAT for a minute. The next chapter is coming, but don’t try to prepare for it…The Lohan is preparing it for YOU.

She risks her life for you - because you have nothing better to do than sit there on your couch and in front of your PC and watch her do it. Rejoice, for if not for The Lohan, you would have to watch something equally depressing but far less realistic – like The Hills, or Fox News.

What does The Lohan have left to teach us? Like an Irish Car Bomb, we cannot anticipate it; we must merely embrace it when it comes.

My friends, you have not gone insane. You have gone über-sane. Only now can you truly begin to understand The Passion of the Lohan.

The next installment of The Chronicles of Lohan can be found here.

]]> http://www.rufkm.net/2010/05/25/swill-street-stories-passion-lohan/feed/ 0 http://www.rufkm.net/2010/05/22/major-cast-change-exploding-transformers-sequel/ http://www.rufkm.net/2010/05/22/major-cast-change-exploding-transformers-sequel/#comments Sun, 23 May 2010 02:09:05 +0000 JackfnBurton http://www.rufkm.net/?p=6912 By Jack “Boom Boom” Burton, RUFKM Giant Exploding Transformers correspondent.

A Giant Exploding Transformer.

Hollywood, CA – Major breaking news today from the set of Giant Exploding Transformers 3! My sources are reporting that after a series of ongoing personal grievances, Smoking Hot Babe – a major cast member from the first two installments who was utterly critical to the films’ success – has bowed out. The announcement was unexpected, and immediately sent shockwaves through the film industry. According to my exclusive network of insiders, the decision was that of the director, Michael Douché (rhymes with ‘Bay’). Calls from RUFKM Worldwide to the studio were not returned, but Michael Douché has responded via press release:

“It was important to us to take the Giant Exploding Transformers franchise in another direction creatively. Having a new love interest for our star allows us to do that, even though the two of them hardly have any lines, barely touch each other and never bang. We wish Smoking Hot Babe the best, and look forward to recasting the part with someone of equally incredible acting ability. She will be hard to replace, but we’re very excited about the future possibilities for Giant Exploding Transformers. And also, This has nothing to do with the fact that she hates me and said that I am worse than Hitler.“

Smoking Hot Babe

Sounds like an open and shut case, doesn’t it? Well, when I awoke this morning next to a strange woman in a motel room strewn with beer bottles and beef jerky wrappers, there was an email waiting for me on my piece of shit Nokiga Splooge X4800, the craptastic phone RUFKM Worldwide gave me because they were too cheap to give me an iPhone. The email was from Smoking Hot Babe, and it is a good thing she sent it when she did, since the phone went dead an hour later because my RUFKM Amex was declined. It appears TylerDFC maxed it out buying imitation Xanax from Canada.

I didn’t even know you could max out an Amex or that you could get discount Xanax. Thanks for the tip, Tyler. I can’t wait to hitchhike home from Burbank – completely sober.

Anyway, Smoking Hot Babe had this to say:

“Douché can suck it. None of it is true and he is worse than Hitler. I quit because I wanted to expand my creative horizons. The only reason I was in those movies is because I wanted to showcase my Daisy Duke-wearing, boob-tastic Camaro-fixing abilities so that I could pursue other acting opportunities. Now, I’ve done that. My next role will be in the upcoming James Blond film, where I will play an impossibly beautiful Russian agent with a terrible accent and a bright red Lycra catsuit, which is ideal for undercover espionage work. I wish Giant Exploding Transformers all the best, and also, Sherpa LaBuff is gay.”

Wow. Just…wow. I am pretty used to major movie stars telling me things they would never tell anyone else from a small entertainment website very few people have heard of, but I wasn’t ready for a bombshell like that! There’s going to be another James Blond film? Holy shit! Well hold on to your hats – generations of loyal RUFKM Star Monkeys™ have learned that I am the master at obtaining the scoop, and once again I have come through for you. Thanks to a $500 bribe and the keys to my 1987 Jetta, my exclusive sources have revealed that even as we speak, Smoking Hot Babe’s replacement has already been chosen! Write it down on your calendars – you heard it here first. Smoking Hot Babe has been replaced by…

Another Smoking Hot Babe

…ANOTHER Smoking Hot Babe. And that wasn’t as easy to find out as you think. I have to go to great lengths go dig up three day old press releases from the dumpsters behind Variety headquarters, because they already know what I look like.

As you can see from this exclusive RUFKM surveillance photo, Another Smoking Hot Babe is indeed smoking hot, and should have no trouble filling the Camaro-tweaking Daisy Dukes of Smoking Hot Babe I. The question is, can she bring the same gravity to the role that her predecessor did? I’m just not sure folks.

Sure, it’ll still be a Michael Douché film, so it’ll look like it was shot on the back of a wild horse during a nuclear explosion. But do you really think millions of teenage boys flocked to theaters to see a thirty year old teenager fight Giant Exploding Transformers alongside Other Giant Exploding Transformers as they struggle for control of…um…an iron shaving? I don’t know…whatever the fuck it was they were trying to do, a lot of shit definitely exploded.

No. They came to see Smoking Hot Babe roll around in the dirt in a tank top while Giant Exploding Transformers…well, exploded all around her. This is like replacing the police captain in a cop flick. Who can pull that off? Its not as easy as it sounds to scream, bug your eyes out and talk about your blood pressure medication on cue. Trust me, its just as hard to wear super tight clothes, wet lipstick and flip your hair in front of a wind machine for 16 hours a day. I know because I have do it every weekend, thanks to my pitiful $400 a month salary from RUFKM.

Another Smoking Hot Babe is clearly a stunningly beautiful and astonishingly thin lingerie model, making her a natural choice for lead actress in a $670 gajillion action film. She is said to be “excited” and “thrilled” at the opportunity, calling it quote – “awesome”. People, these aren’t adjectives you are going to hear just anywhere. RUFKM Worldwide is staffed by a crack team of professionals who specialize in getting their hands on the pointless, trivial news you want – no matter the cost. And speaking of cost…that reminds me. I am late for my shift at the In-N-Out.

No…not the burger place. Hey, I have bills to pay too you know.

This has been RUFKM Worldwide Giant Exploding Transformers correspondent Jack Burton. Tell the world my story.

What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, especially if you DIE there.

Visiting friends in Las Vegas a couple of years ago, I found myself at a popular night spot living it up with my entourage plus a group of local MMA aspirants. At some point late in the evening my Friend and his Wife indicated they were ready to leave. Apparently once you hit your forties, anything past 9PM constitutes the next day. I’ll let you know if that’s true when I get there – if I get there. By and by, Wife came to the bar to collect me as I was in the midst of buying another round of shots for my brand new pugilistic pals. I unwisely responded that I was having too much fun to leave and that they both should go on ahead without me.

One of the fighters concurred, saying that he and his friends would be glad to drop me off after the evening’s festivities. That seemed only fair, since this was the third round of drinks I’d bought for all of them. Far be it from me to judge the motivations of others, but there’s no faster way to become a man’s best friend than to lend him money, or get him drunk – and the jury is out as to which is cheaper.

But this is all academic – I didn’t have a car and was already far too hammered to have driven one anyway. In fact, there’s a point where you have become so inebriated that it’s actually illegal for you to walk in public, let alone drive - and if you don’t believe me, stay tuned to this space for the evidence.

This night I was enjoying sitting at the bar, discussing Mixed Martial arts with a group of actual fighters who flattered me by saying that I looked like I could be one of them. Don’t bother wondering about that; I am no 98 pound weakling but I am also well aware that every word spoken in a bar after dark is largely bullshit. Yet I do enjoy being buttered up, particularly when I know that it isn’t true. And more important, my drunk friends promised to return me home safely. And when one drunk guy promises another drunk guy something such as “I will never repeat this to anyone” or “Let’s open a restaurant with your kids’ college fund” or “I’ll give you ten bucks to eat that whole jar of pickled eggs”, that is a sacred bond that cannot be broken.

I was as good as home, and I said to Wife just as much.

So Wife wrote down directions back to the house on a cocktail napkin, which definitely isn’t the sort of thing a drunk moron is likely to lose in a bar when he’s had more to drink than Lindsay Lohan on New Year’s Eve. Wife asked me if I was certain of my decision and I replied that yes, of course I was. There are after all, at least these two Universal Truths about being drunk:

1. You are always sure of everything, and there’s no such thing as a bad idea.
2. You’re not really drunk, and anybody who says otherwise is an asshole.

Armed with this ironclad logic and my cocktail napkin fail safe, I continued the evening’s festivities. Wife texted me a few hours later to check in, and the last recorded communication received from me was reportedly:

Dooing a a-ok

Sadly everything was far from a-ok, for in the words of F. Scott Fitzgerald, “First you take a drink, then the drink takes a drink, then the drink takes you.”

Truer words were never spoken, except perhaps by Dean martin: “You’re not drunk if you can lie on the floor without holding on.”

I am neither a great writer nor a great drunk but on this night I would set in motion a series of events that would allow me to come as close as I probably ever will to at least one of those things. As predicted, I promptly misplaced the cocktail napkin containing Wife’s directions. This ensured that when it was time for my roguish mates to drop me off, nobody had any idea where to take me. At the time I was about as familiar with getting around Las Vegas as I currently am with getting around Prague, Austria or Vladivostok, Russia. This ensured that if someone were to say, just deposit my unconscious hulk in the safest spot they could find that I’d never find my way home in a million years. But the next day, my unfamiliarity with the Las Vegas metropolitan area would be remedied over the course of many very brutal hours. I would soon become as intimately familiar with all 113 square miles of Sin City as I currently am with how to use a fork. After leaving my wallet at the bar and my cell phone lying just outside the front door I would wake up in a strange place, jarred to awareness by the piercing shriek of a terrified Mexican woman screaming bloody murder.

Somewhere on the internet Robert Downey, Jr. is chuckling as he reads this, saying to himself:

“Yeah, I’ve done that.”

Thus began my Las Vegas Death Trip. It was a 19 Hour Journey of Pain, Redemption and Blunt Force Trauma, during which I found little help and even less pity waiting for me at every stop. Without a cell phone I couldn’t call for help and without any form of identification, I might as well have been a visitor from the future. Nobody wanted shit to do with me, and by the time it was all over, I had learned the most valuable lesson of all regarding the human race:

Deep down inside we all despise one another – but most of us are either too comfortable or too tired to act on it. To this day, my right ankle still hurts whenever its cloudy.

Click here to see the interactive Google Map of the worst day of my life.

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Well folks, it’s here – the moment every college hoops fan in America has been waiting for. As of today, March 28, you have your 2010 Final Four! On April 3, Butler will take on Michigan State, while West Virginia will take on the Duke Blue Devils to determine who will meet for all the marbles in the…er…let’s see. There’s the Sweet Sixteen, the Elite Eight, the Final Four…you know, I have no idea what they call the last two. The Terrible Two? No, that’s stupid. They’re the two best teams in the Tournament. They’re definitely not terrible.

It's the most wonderful time of the year.

Well anyway, we’ve almost got our Champion folks, and I couldn’t be more stoked. Who could have foreseen all the drama and excitement we’ve had up to this point! We’ve had more upsets this year than I can remember – Gonzaga! Butler! Xavier! Cornell! Old Dominion! St. Mary’s! I have never heard of any of those schools, and I have no idea where they even are! I have no clue who any of these kids are who are playing, and to be honest, I really don’t know anything about the game of basketball, except that ‘defense wins championships’ and ‘it all happens in the paint’! I don’t even know what month they start playing!

All I know is that I just love college hoops…in March!

I live for this time of year – Winter is over, the air is getting warmer, the flowers are blooming and I can finally start paying attention to college basketball, even though it has been going on for months! It’s almost as great as October, when I suddenly become interested in professional baseball for a few weeks! I can’t wait, people! The level of excitement this year is almost as out of control as last year, when…uh…well you remember, the one game when…er…who were those guys? Well, you remember the team that won, don’t you? No, really. I am hoping you do because I don’t. But just look at our 2010 Final Four! It’s been a crap shoot and nobody expected this lineup! Name one person whose bracket is still in one piece! Just ONE!

Except me. I am still in it. Because unlike all these other posers, I truly love college hoops…in March! This is off the HOOK!

My 2006 Bracket was a cluster fuck.

March Madness is all about the love college basketball fans like me have for their favorite sport…in March! From the time it all starts in the month whenever it starts, all the way through the Terrible Two’s, March is when it all happens. Think of all those great stories, like the kid from that one school whose mother was on crack and his father is in jail, and the kid from that other school who made the last second shot that won the game against a different school a couple of weeks ago to take the number five seed! I don’t really know what a ‘seed’ is, but the more ‘seeds’ you have the more your team sucks. I think. Whatever.

It doesn’t matter. What’s important is getting your bracket right. And although I almost got destroyed in the first three days, I am still alive for the Final Four, because of one simple rule.

Look closely. Even the President follows my strategy. I rule.

Always respect Duke. And don’t bother telling me that they haven’t been in the Final Four in a long time; I already know that because I saw it on ESPN recently. But sort of like the New England Patriots, there’s a 40 percent chance they’re going to show up at the big dance every year. Well, this year Duke saved my bacon because the rest of my bracket got slaughtered. Those plucky kids from that school in…well, wherever it is…came through for me and made me the talk of my office. For two weeks the guys have been laughing and pointing, telling me I was a moron for picking Villanova and Morgan State, whoever they are. Well the joke’s on you, assholes! I’m the only one in my office left, so I get to claim the title of Hoops Guru! You see, the best thing about the NCAA Tournament is that nobody knows fuck-all about any of these teams, because nobody pays any attention to any of it until March.

Except for me. But feigning interest in sports you know almost nothing about is a male rite of passage that I happen to take very seriously! This isn’t a game people, this is serious, just like when the Summer Olympics come around and for two weeks every guy in America is totally an expert in Track and Field!

You want to know what my secret is? I love college hoops so much, I actually start watching three quarters of the way through February! I’ve got a whole two weeks up on the rest of the suckers in my pool, which is how I knew there was something about Duke this year. The Blue Devils are back people, and that team, and all the students at that school, and everyone in the state of…wherever Duke is…should be proud of what those kids have done. It is truly an inspiration.

Guess who wasn't invited Potter, you ugly bitch!

I know they’ve inspired me, because I won $500 from Potter in Accounting, and I have been waiting forever to get that jerk back for last year, when we both made it to the Final Four, but he beat me out. The lucky bastard picked whoever it was who won the Tournament last year, and I picked whoever I picked, who lost to that team. It was embarrassing. I will never forget his face as he taunted me over the loss of that one team to that other team. Why, I haven’t been so humiliated since 2006, when I picked whoever I picked that year. Man, I’ll never forget 2006. That was the year that one team upset that other team I didn’t pick and it knocked me out after just five games.

Sons of bitches. But thanks to Duke, I got the whole Accounting Team hammered last Saturday at Chili’s – on Potter’s dime! Thanks, Potter. I’ll send you the pictures on Facebook. BAM!

There can be only one.

Yeah…this year, it’s going to be different, Potter. You’re mine. You’re my bitch, and Duke is my pineapple. So bend over and prepare yourself, loser! Bring it! Let’s dance! I will prove my dominance over you by using the hard earned achievements of complete strangers against you as though they were my own. It’s on – and I will see you whenever it is the last game is scheduled – because there can be only one.

I wonder what they call the last team standing? The Omnipotent One? Oh wait – that’s me - because this year, I have all the Bracket Mojo, Potter! I will destroy you! I will see you in Hell, and you will kneel before me and proclaim me Hoops God in front of the whole office! Just be ready motherfucker…your ass is mine. Well, not literally. You know what I mean. Bitch.

This is my kind of bus stop.

Oh hello ma’am, I didn’t see you standing there. Would you like to sit down? No, it’s no problem. Please, I insist. Yes, this is quite the weather we’re having. Boy, you know what they say about [fill in the name of where you live here], if you don’t like the weather, just wait a few minutes. Ha ha!

What’s that? No, I haven’t seen The Blind Side. Yes, I’ve heard that it’s very good. Why haven’t I seen it if I hear it’s really good? People say chocolate covered crickets are good too, but that doesn’t mean I am going to run down to the Bug Store and buy a half-pound of them. Well, just because it’s extreme doesn’t make it untrue.

It’s just not my kind of movie. Yeah I hear it is heartwarming and moving, and everyone says they cried. Why would I want to go to a movie and cry in front of strangers? Because it’s a release? Why would I want to release that? Besides, I am a man and men don’t cry.

Oh, okay. You think that I’m one of those guys who is afraid to express my emotions? No, that’s not what’s going on here. Real men only have two emotions – angry and not angry. This is why men don’t cry; not because we have no emotions, but because we only have two. Allow me to explain:

Revised International Man Law Convention of 2002, Section 54a, Sub-Paragraph 14c

A Man is Permitted to Shed Tears if and Only if (partial list)…

• His Mother dies. Come on, it’s your Mom.
  

  The International Man Law Convention of 2002

• His Father dies, but only one strategically placed tear on one cheek is permitted, because it looks cool.
• His dog dies. The only reason men own such filthy creatures is to impress their friends, so if you don’t cry when it dies, the jig is up.
• Your team wins the Super Bowl. But let’s not get carried away. Get it over with before the post game show is over.
• Your Team loses the Super Bowl. But let’s not get carried away. Get it over with before the post game show is over.
• It is the end of Old Yeller. Also Braveheart, Gladiator or any other movie where the hero dies a kick ass death. But you have to say ‘there is something in my eye’.

There are many more, but most Man Laws are classified. I am sure you get the point though. Besides, you’re talking about a movie about a little white woman who teaches a giant black man how to play football?  That’s more realistic than Mel Gibson fucking up Eddie Longshanks or Joaquin Phoenix becoming Emperor of Rome? Give me a break. I can’t watch a maudlin, manipulative film like that. And by the way, tears of joy are not the same as regular tears, because tears of joy are not called tears, they are called eye-sweat.

Yes, that is another Man Law.

It's your one way ticket to midnight.

No, I am not an unfeeling person. I gave you my seat, didn’t I? We both know that Hollywood makes movies about guy stuff for girls so that girls will think that guys are just as sensitive as girls. Well we’re not. Yes, I think Sandra Bullock is nice. In fact she’s not just nice, she’s nice and hot, and her husband is a moron for cheating on her. Then again, if I were Jessie James, I’d probably have a hard time resisting temptation. Every time you turn around there’s another hot chick who looks like one of those girls from Heavy Metal taking her clothes off, offering you kinky Roman orgy-style sex. That must be nice. I know that if I were the one married to Sandra Bullock, I wouldn’t need to have sex. I’d probably spot myself every half hour just because I was married to Sandra Bullock. But when you’re already rich and famous being married to someone who is also rich and famous probably isn’t a big deal.

What, why are you looking at me like that? It’s true. But I am getting off the subject. Here’s the one thing I do know:  If Sandra Bullock is in a movie and she’s not driving a bus, I really couldn’t give a shit less. No no, it’s not ‘I could give a shit less’. It’s ‘I couldn’t give a shit less’. Everyone just says it wrong. If you just stop and think about it, if you ‘could’ give a shit less, then then it’s still important to you. You’re trying to say that it’s not important to you, so you mean you ‘couldn’t give a shit less’.

Right. No, I understand. No, I am not saying you’re stupid. It’s just one of those things everyone says wrong because they never think about what they say before they say it, sort of like ‘ATM machine’. Really? You went to get money out of the Automated Teller Machine Machine? Or ‘carjacking’. A ‘hijacking’ already means ‘to commandeer a vehicle’, so when you say a car was ‘carjacked’, you’re sort of saying there was a ‘car hijacking of a car’. It’s redundant.

That's one clever Wildcat.

Okay sorry – I am just not going to see this movie, okay? Sandra Bullock = Good. Sandra Bullock Not Driving A Bus = Bad. Sandra Bullock Not Driving A Bus + Nothing Exploding – Dennis Hopper = REALLY Bad. And Sandra Bullock Not Driving A Bus + Nothing Exploding – Dennis Hopper + A Room Full of Crying Women = A Fate Worse Than Death. I’m sorry but you can tell me all you want that this is not a Chick Flick just because there’s football in it, but I’m not stupid. This is Fried Green Tomatoes with linebackers. Negative – I’m out. This is just like when Forrest Gump came out, and all the girls went gaga over a mush-mouthed retard in leg braces. What is it about these movies that makes all the girls in the world want to convince all the guys in the world to want to see them?

It’s like me trying to convince you that Die Hard is just about a guy who loves his wife and kids and is trying to make the world a better place so he can be with them again. No, fuck that. It’s about Bruce Willis and Alan Rickman swinging their dicks around, marking their territory in the 900,000 square foot Octagon that is Nakatomi Plaza.

Yippie ki-yay, motherfuckers.

Hey, at least guys are honest about what we like. You girls just like to cry. We just like it when Ninjas kill each other with swords on motorcycles while jumping over burning skyscrapers filled with chicks wearing bikinis and high heels. It’s what we do. It’s what we know.

Yippie-ki-yay, motherfuckers.

Well, here comes the bus. No, you go ahead. In fact I’ll even pay your fare. I think I am over riding the bus. It is an efficient and cost effective form of transportation that is much cheaper than owning an automobile. But I’m beginning to think that it’s really not a great way to meet people. I think I’ll head over to the Toyota dealership and buy a Prius.

I’ll have a better chance of dying happy.

This is a continuation of Part I, found here.

February 26

Pepe and I were ready to rock.

My first attempt at refining my cat-burglar skills was a complete failure, so I decided I needed to hire a henchman. All the best criminal masterminds had henchmen. There was that guy in the James Bond movies with the metal teeth. Classic! The Joker has those guys in clown masks who are always fucking with Batman.  Lex Luthor had Ned Beatty. So, I hired a small time hood from the Cat-Burglar Union, Local 341 named Pepe. I told him I was an experienced cat-burglar rocking it old school. Pepe said he was in, and we planned our next hit.

I knew about this chick over on Melbourne Street who always worked out in the front room of her house at night in a tight leotard and no blinds over the windows. I told Pepe she always had her headphones in so we could bust in to the house, take what we wanted and she’d never know. She’d still be doing her stupid Pilates or whatever while we cleaned the joint out. I hooked Pepe up with the standard gear – all black threads, skullcap to go with his scary three day old stubble. We rubbed grease on our faces to look extra badass, and got ready to roll. I reminded Pepe that despite our carefully chosen black camouflage clothing it was essential to keep our faces uncovered, so our spooky criminal mugs could properly scare the shit out of the girl. There was no way she’d identify us to the police, because we’d just make sure to tell her not to. Or else.

Foiled again.

As we got to the house, we crept up to the bushes and observed. There she was, just like I said, on a treadmill in the front room of the house. She foolishly did not have any blinds in the window, so any sick freak with two eyes could just stand there and masturbate while watching her bounce in those skintight clothes, hugging every curve of her supple body. Then I noticed Pepe actually was masturbating, which in the cat-burglar community is considered a little unprofessional. What a sick bastard. I told him we weren’t there to masturbate, we were there to break in and scare the shit out of the lady while we robbed the house. After all, cat-burglars are an elite group of expert professionals. Peeping Toms are just perverted dirtbags.

The plan was simple: I would kick in the door. Pepe would keep the girl in the front room by glaring menacingly at her. Since she was a single white suburban chick between 25 and 45 with a median household income of $23,000-$40,000 her natural womanly fear would keep her frozen in place. I would clean the place out, rejoin Pepe in the front room, sneer at the girl one more time and leave. It would be a crackerjack operation from start to finish. A work of art. On cue, I kicked in the door.

Damn you, Matt from Brinks Home Security!

Oh no! She had a home security system! I was ready for it, but Pepe panicked and ran. Just like that, there I was standing in the doorway looking like an asshole. I suppose I could have easily prevented the girl from answering the phone, or just gone ahead and robbed the place in the six to eight minutes it would take for someone to show up, but I took off. The last I saw of Pepe was him turning the corner down the street, his pants around his ankles. The jackass had been so scared he forgot to zip back up. God damn foreigners. Trust me – Local 341 was going to hear about this shit. Meanwhile, I had to accept the fact that I’d been outwitted again.

God damn you, Matt from Brinks Home Security!

March 8

Don't lie. YOU didn't see the dog at first either.

This time there was no way I was going to be fucked with. I had to figure out a way to avoid the impenetrable iron wall of another Brinks Home Security System. I decided the best way to avoid home security was to just avoid the home! I would roam around a wealthy suburban neighborhood in broad daylight in my kick ass black cat burglar duds, so people would know not to fuck with me. It was a lovely warm day, so eventually I would find a family having lunch in their back yard. I’d bash through the fence, paralyze them with my penetrating cat-burglar stare and make the family go inside, get all their shit and bring it out to me.

I would stay safely in the back yard, where Brinks Home Security is completely powerless. It was the perfect plan.

It wasn’t long before I found my mark – an unsuspecting family was having a backyard picnic, totally unaware that a storm of badass was about to wail on them. These damn suburban jerks always think they’re so safe in their fancy houses with their fancy cars and their fancy home security systems. But this time I’d beat them at their own game. I’d beat Matt from Brinks Home Security at his own game. I was ready.

Time to dance Matt. You and your fingers on your stupid fancy earpiece, like that really helps you to hear.

Fucking dogs.

Everything went well at first. I kicked in the fence and put on my best cat-burglar game face. They were all terrified. The baby started crying. The women screamed. The men were all “What the fuck!”, but I told them not to move unless they wanted a steaming hot bowl of whoop-ass for their precious family picnic. I was feeling pretty good about myself, until I realized that they had a dog. Before I knew it that fucking thing came at me, all teeth and spit and barking. I took off over the fence, but the dog was too fast. I’m pretty sure it was one of those new ninja dogs, otherwise I could totally have gotten away with my cat-burglar skills. It wasn’t long before the cops showed up and I was done for the day. But that was cool with me. Nobody was going to talk. There is a reason for having scary cat-burglar stubble.

Nobody is going to fuck with someone who looks like that. I’ll be back on the street by dinner time.

March 18

Well, I was wrong. The girl in the bathrobe from last month put it together that the same guy she had a date with was the guy who broke into her house. She must have been some kind of undercover super-cop or something because my scam was airtight. The second girl was too scared to testify, but apparently Pepe got caught three blocks away when he stopped to masturbate in front of another house. That sick motherfucker rolled on me to save his own skin. Don’t worry, Pepe. I’ll be coming for you soon enough. But the worst thing of all is that in the end I found out who it was who had finally defeated me. Me, the greatest cat-burglar of our time – a modern day badass, like Robin Hood and Chuck Norris rolled into one!

I couldn’t believe it when he came to face me in court. Out of all the houses, in all the cities, in all the country it had to be his house. It was Matt from Brinks Home Security. He and his family had been enjoying a backyard family picnic on his day off. So, now I was face to face with my nemesis. Well played, Matt from Brinks Home Security. I fell right into your web of lies. I walked right into your trap. Today you were the better man, and I salute you. But mark my words: I’ll beat you, and I’ll do it not for me, but for the honor of my father, and his father, and the honor of great, great grand-pappy Jebediah Francis Burton. You may think you have extinguished the brilliant flame of my criminal genius but some day I will be free, and when I am you’d better sleep with one eye open, Matt. Because you know what they say about fire. It is really hot, and when you are close to it it will burn you, because hot fire burns!

That’s right Matt, it’s a riddle. I am the hot fire. And you are the person who is going to be burned by that hot fire.

Damn you, Matt from Brinks Home Security. Damn you to hell.

March 17

I’m a cat burglar, okay?

That’s right I’m a cat burglar, and I’m a damned good one, too. I break into people’s houses and steal their shit for a living. And you want to know what else? I’m proud of it. My father was a cat burglar, his father was a cat burglar, and his father before him was a cat burglar – and they were all proud of it. Hey, don’t you and your big shot Madison Avenue fat cat friends try to judge me! It’s a time honored family profession and in these troubled times, at least I can say I have a job.

But don’t think it’s easy. I have bills to pay, just like everyone else. Plus, its a lot more dangerous than that cushy office job you probably have. Ever get your head stuck in a doggie door, or catch your sack on top of a barbed wire fence making off with some old lady’s costume jewelry? I didn’t think so. And don’t get me started on do-it-yourself stitches, or breaking into veterinary clinics looking for antibiotics. It’s a hard life, but at the end of the day I can sit back and relax in my $200 a month efficiency knowing that not only have I put in a dishonest day’s work but I’ve done something to help society, too. Every time I snatch someone’s flat screen TV, they have to get a new one – which stimulates consumer spending and that is good for the economy.

Bet you didn’t learn that in school, mister fancy college education, guy. I am doing you people a favor by risking my ass to steal your shit .

But lately, it hasn’t been all roses. I’ve had sort of a bad streak and I’m not sure why. I keep getting caught red handed, and funds are starting to get a little tight. All my cat-burglar friends keep goofing on me because I changed up my game a couple of months ago. They keep telling me I’m going to end up in jail, but I say they’re the ones full of shit. Do you have any idea how small your profit margins start to get when you start investing in things like night vision goggles, surveillance equipment and window suction mounts?

Grandpappy Burton, the greatest cat-burglar of the 1880s.

No, I have recently learned to rock it old school, just like my great, great grand-pappy did. Now there was a cat burglar. Old Jebediah Francis Burton just bashed in your front door right in the middle of the day and took what he wanted right in front of you. No tricks, no gimmicks and none of that fancy Tom Cruise shit. That dude just rocked it balls to the wall 24-7, right up to the day they hanged him.

I just need to refine a few things, and I know I can get this to work.

I guess it all started a few months ago when I visited my dad over at Larceny Falls, the retirement home for cat burglars. He hasn’t been well lately, so I figured I’d cruise over there with this cool pair of wingtips I lifted from some old fart on the East side. Well wouldn’t you know, dear old dad ripped me a new one. He said I was cheapening the profession with all that high tech equipment. He said I’d lost my cat-burglar roots. He told me I was a joke.

He opened my eyes.

From that point on I knew things had to change. I had to change. I had to get organic and get back to basics. So, i took my father’s advice and changed my approach, recording the results in my cat-burglar diary. Like I said, things have gotten off to a rocky start. I don’t want to disappoint Dad, but I don’t know how to tell him this. It’s just that…well…I think I might be doing something wrong.

But that’s why I keep a diary. I’ll just flip through it here, and see if I can piece it all together…

February 14

It was Valentine’s Day, so I figured this would be the perfect day to test my new approach. I was genius! As any home security commercial will tell you, the perfect cat-burglar victims are suburban single white females, because they are weak, vulnerable and easily frightened. So I made an internet date with a girl, figuring I’d break in while she was getting ready and rob the joint. Then, I’d get in my car and come to pick her up for dinner. She’d be all “Oh my God, someone robbed me!” And I’d be all “Don’t worry baby, I’m here now. I’ll kick that guy’s ass if he comes back.” And she’d be all “You’re so cool! I will totally put out for you on the first date!”

It was the perfect plan.

It was the perfect plan. According to Dad’s cat-burglar handbook, you want to go for one of the classic cat-burglar looks. I mean, you have to look the part, or people totally won’t know you’re a cat-burglar and be properly scared shitless of you. Tonight I busted out the black jeans, dirty black jacket, black skullcap and three day old beard. I topped it off with a big ass rock, which I would use to clumsily and noisily break a window. Nothing subtle or crafty about this job – pure classic, just the way grandpappy would have liked it. When I got to the house, I sneaked around to the patio door off the bedroom. I could see her there in her sexy bathrobe getting ready for her date, because she foolishly did not have any blinds in the window. I mean, any sick freak with two eyes could just stand there and masturbate while watching her.

What a typically vulnerable single white suburban female between 25 and 35 with a median household income of $23,000-$40,000! But I wasn’t there to masturbate, I was there to break in and scare the shit out of her, rob the place and them come back for my date, guaranteeing a night of freaky white-knuckle terror-sex.

What could go wrong?

How was I supposed to know she had a phone?

I remembered to follow my dad’s advice and do it old school. I made sure to trip over a bunch of shit as I approached the window, completely destroying any element of surprise. Yes I could have covered my face, but how is she supposed to see my scary burglar stubble if I’m wearing a ski mask? I pitched the rock through the window, making lots of unnecessary racket and alerting the neighbors. Yeah, this was going to be awesome.

Oh no! She had a home security system! What was I to do? Oh sure, I could have properly cased the place, discovering the setup and easily killed the thing beforehand. And I should have looped the phone line so that the dicks at the security company wouldn’t even know anything was wrong. But I wasn’t going for all that high tech shit. I wanted to rob this chick the way my cat-burglar ancestors would have.

This was about getting to my roots. Dad said I needed to get back to the fundamentals and he was right.  I was relying too much on ‘caution’, ‘planning’, ‘technology’ and ”stealth’. Robbery is an art; it’s like Jedi shit. You have to play these things by ear! You just have to feel it, man!

But I guess I sort of panicked. I mean, she did look pretty hot in that skimpy pink robe. And let’s not forget – I’ve been a professional cat-burglar for ten years. I haven’t set off a fucking alarm in so long, I forgot what they even sound like. Are they really that loud? I’m also kind of used to making sure nobody is even home before I break in, so I wasn’t exactly sure what to do. And usually, even after such a monumental fuck up I’d already know the location of all the valuables in the house and could have been in and out in five minutes.  But I froze. And then I ran. To make things worse when I called her from my car, she said she’d just been robbed and was to scared to go out! I told her maybe she’d feel better if I came over for some freaky white knuckle terror-sex. I guess that was the wrong thing to say, because she said when the police got there she was going to report me as a stalker!  Are you fucking kidding me™? Some chicks are so sensitive. She had already been on the phone with Jim from Brinks Home Security, and in a few minutes this neighborhood would be hotter than the surface of the sun. I had no choice to admit that I was beaten.

God damn you, Jim from Brinks Home Security!

This “old school” racket was turning out to be trickier than I thought. Robbing houses without sophisticated moden equipment sure was a bitch. But something about it was exhilarating. It was like doing it for the first time – I’dnever felt so alive!

But still…maybe I needed to hire some help.

Next up, Part II – February 26.