All Praise Due To The King Of All Media

Many of you were shocked when you tuned in for your morning fix of Stern, only to find him replaced my some lame local wannabe shock jocks. Clear Channel, under pressure from the federal government, has pulled the plug on the Howard Stern show in six major markets. While this may "only" be six markets right now, it is a symptom of a much greater problem that will grow in time. The broadcasting mafia has ordered a hit on Howard Stern. Clear Channel needs to eliminate the completion in order usurp the throne of the King of All Media.

Up till a few years ago, I had barely even heard of Clear Channel -- now their foot is in the door of almost every aspect of the media; embodying not only radio, but also music venues, booking, production, television, and even billboards. Their exponential growth, especially in the last decade is scary and is even downplayed on their own website. I find is strange, they fail to mention they are now as big of a media outlet as NBC or Gannet. Clear Channel has the tacit approval of its monopolization when the George Bush administration allowed further consolidation of media outlets. Taking a queue from the right wing, Clear Channel has imposed strict standards on broadcast decency. Here's a nice scary nugget from their press release:


"Reiterating its call for a "Decency Task Force," Clear Channel also has volunteered to fully participate with other representatives of the broadcast, cable and satellite industries to develop an industry-wide response to indecency and violence in the media."

Make no mistake about it, Clear Channel stands for the continued pussification of America. Given time; any content more edgy than Facts of Life will be receiving the indecency muzzle. If they can take down the King of All Media; what's next -- South Park, the Chapelle Show, or even websites like this? Clear Channel has already oozed into almost every crack of broadcasting and media. While they don't own enough of any one particular facet to be officially declared a monopoly; if you don't play ball with one arm of Clear Channel then you won't be getting any cooperation from any of the rest of its hideous tentacles. In order to not have their precious pseudo-monopoly busted up, the only group Clear Channel has to bow to is the federal government a.k.a. the FCC.

So what is Stern doing now, that he hasn't been doing the last twenty five years? Not a fucking thing. I can remember my parents changing the channel on the radio when Stern came on in the afternoon on NBC in the early 80's when I lived in NYC. And folks, if you don't like Stern, that's all you really have to do - change the fucking channel! Meanwhile, fellow Clear Channel jock, Rush Limbaugh, continues to spout anti-drug rhetoric out of one side of his mouth and popping Oxycondin (sp) in the other, and delivers his distorted right wing views to his zombified listeners as actual news.

On a side note, it is also rumored Clear Channel is working with the FCC to purchase the entire Internet and shut down 90% of the web sites online today. Yes people, it's Clean Channels world, we're just living in it.

Well enough for all the conspiracy shit. Many have said, including Howard himself, this may be the beginning of the end for Stern's broadcasting career. If I have anything to say about it, this will not be so. Now, it seems that the powers that be are trying to steal Stern's thunder. I will do anything in my power to give something back to a man who has given us so much.

Howard, I've got your back.

Long Live Stern!

Bear Fucker, Do You Need Assistance?

I'm pretty damn excited right now – indeed, my panties are as moist as Officer Farva’s back after a long day of rubbing against the vinyl seats of his cruiser – in anticipation of what will hopefully be the funniest movie since Rocky IV:

Club Dread

When I first heard this movie’s name in passing, I imagined it was going to be some sort of low-budget, finger-sniffing shtick-flick by a no-name, second tier comedy lackey. I was almost correct – it’s by FIVE no-name comedy lackeys, Broken Lizard, the same mustachioed fellows who created the greatest, most hilarious drug scene in cinematic history in the opening sequence of Super Troopers. Too bad I didn’t get to see that on the big screen – the movie is 100 minutes long, and it was only in theaters for 102 minutes.

But that’s why I'm so fucking pumped about Club Dread. This shit should be funnier than nuts on a parakeet. I don’t know shit about it, and, frankly, I don’t want to know anything about it until I see it. If you want to know more, check out www.clubdread.com. Just don’t tell me about it, or I’ll… I’ll… I’ll light your country music award on fire.

MEOW!

Woot Woot

Technology is an eight-armed, triple breasted megabitch who, every second of the day, is finding new areas of our lives upon which to intrude. Heckfire, you can hardly piss in the woods without short-circuiting a microchip somewhere. Even the goddamn bums have iPods.

So then, with all this high-tech gadgetry – GPS, cell phones, fiber optics – riddle me this: why in God’s great name do trains still have deafeningly loud horns, and why do they insist on using them at all hours of the day and night? I ask, because my new office is located right next to train tracks by which about 8-12 trains a day routinely roll, all the while laying on the horn so loudly that I couldn’t hear my own flatulence if my head were up my ass, which, typically, I’ve been told it is.

My office is not in a fucking pasture – it is in downtown Newark, surrounded by the PNC Arts Center, Newark Penn Station, and the Verizon Headquarters. As far as I know, there is no reason to be concerned about stray cattle accidentally wandering onto the tracks. And anyone who can’t feel a train rumbling towards them or who doesn’t understand that those two big, long metal rails on the ground (you know, the ones with all the wooden beams crossing them) is not a particularly good place to take a quick siesta, frankly, I don’t think his/her violent, gruesome passing would be a huge loss to humanity.

Sorry to have to get this off my chest, but now that I’m a vagrant, living on friends’ couches and, more often than not, passing out at my desk, a train horn blasting at 4 AM has become a staple of my existence, as have the hallucinations from sleep deprivation.

Oh hell, here comes another one…

Fuck.

Carribean Circus Tragedy

Well, they must certainly have some imagination down yonder in the Dominican Republic, to conceive the latest abomination fallen victim to modern medicine.

While ignorant Americans were shopping for Christmas presents and my balls were shrinking away from the December cold, tiny Rebeca Martinez and her sister were born into the eccentric and impoverished Third World life of Santo Domingo. Try to appreciate this precious moment with me. We’re all together now, in a backwoods delivery room. A teenaged West Indian whore is strapped to the gurney, with a proud father’s view obscured by doctors and nurses. The baby’s cry rises over the beeping machines and pigeon Spanish medical talk, only to be trumped by that of the mother as Juanita’s shriek cracks the glass. Shocked and maybe a bit concerned, Juan wedges his way through the staff to see that while Rebeca made the trip intact, it seems her sister was missing a little something.

Like, say, her entire body.

Yes, rather than worry herself with the nuisances of digestion or motor functions, a partially developed Siamese twin had taken roost on Rebeca’s head, forming a sort of lump with eyes, lips, and even a partially developed brain. What is the difference between this and a woman, you ask? Not much, except that when you throatfuck a normal girl, she typically gags and throws up all over your thighs. When you cockstab this little lady, her host sister goes into an epileptic seizure because you’re bottoming out on her cerebral cortex. Now here at Inbreeding For Fun And Profit, a natural wonder of this caliber would not only be accepted with open arms, but probably traded straight up for an inflatable raft and cultured in our American ways until she was of a proper age to start work. Film rights. Websites. A child star. But on a poverty-stricken Voodoo island, a woman born with two mouths is not gifted per se, but doomed to one of two plights: either be worshipped as a pagan goddess, or outcast as a social pariah to walk the world in shame.

And so, without further adieu, they decided to cut off her head.

Or at least one of them, leaving baby Rebeca an only child with a very strange scar and unique hair design. After all, better to have one seemingly normal child you love, than a freak you abhor. Two long months dragged past, during which medical experts haggled over price tags and success rates, before finally the fated day came to set one little girl on the straight path, and the other one in the ground. But alas, with all the advanced technology and fancy gadgets available, tragedy struck when at the tender age of 8 weeks, our little Dominican princess stopped breathing, and died. I can almost see the grief-stricken mother, crumpled in the hallway, sobbing while the father looks up the ceiling, hands raised, asking God the same question any of us would demand in such a horrific situation.

What are we going to do with all these hats?

The Wearing-Down Mack Approach

Don’t hate a player, hate the game. Tired of roughing up the suspect in front of the computer? Then you’ve got to go out and score some chicks, right? It’s too bad you just can’t go up to them and ask for some pussy -- that would be too easy! You’ve got to be more clever than that. Got game? Well you might not need as much of it after I suggest these Not-Quite-Ready-for-Maxim Chick Scoring Approaches. Let me come right out and say, as a rule, none of these approaches work. However, if you are not exactly a GQ guy – perhaps you lack a sense of humor, personality, or have other character flaws and few redeeming social values (just by virtue of reading this on CJ, this probably applies to 90% of you) -- these may be the paths of least resistance in your quest for a piece of ass.

1. THE BRUTE FORCE MACK APPROACH: This is the method by which you attempt to strike up a conversation with every single slut within a quarter mile radius. Do not be afraid to bug them! This approach has a high failure rate, and you have to be willing to deal with rejection, or at least be willing to live with the fact that women will label you a pest. Like I said, statistically there is a 97% percent rejection rate on this one, but the remaining 3% is your target demographic on this one. It’s best to assume the role of a predator looking for the wounded: that girl on her first hit of X; the disgruntled ex-girlfriend that just drank a bottle of tequila because her boyfriend was found cheating with a SARS infested Korean “massage therapist”. During application of the BRUTE FORCE MACK, you must be willing to ignore any guys that might also be plying their trade on your intended victim.

See, Paul lives vomiting distance from what is the biggest music festival they have in the ATL each year. We didn’t like any of the bands that were playing, but we respected the fact that it would be a Full-On Pussyfest of the Highest Order. It would also be an excellent excuse to bite a chunk off that sheet of LSD I’d bought for “personal use”. We tried to work the Brute Force Mack Approach all day long – at times getting carried away, and propositioning a pregnant mother’s fetus and a baby carriage. Despite all of this, we experienced the usual 97% rejection rate. It was then that I invented the approach of choice for a new generation of mutha fuckin’ pimps:

2. THE INFORMAL SURVEY: After a lengthy discussion about the age of consent in Georgia added to worries of possible probation violations, I created “The Informal Survey”. It involves walking up to a group of obviously young girls (somewhere around 16) and asking, “Excuse me, we are taking an informal survey, and we wanted to ask how old you ladies are…”

You would be amazed at the success rate of this approach. The young girls are flattered that you think they are older, and the older girls are flattered that you think they are younger. It’s win-win. Plus, it works better than just stating the obvious, like saying “we think you are sixteen, and we’d like to inquire about making your faces look like sperm stalactites”. Hell, it won’t be her first rodeo, but I digress…

We wound up drinking after the concert in Paul’s parking lot (say it ain’t so!) A group of, illegally parked, yet hot young chicks were about to get in the car with some dudes. We applied the BRUTE FORCE MACK. Sensing the presence of superior game, the potential suitors got pissed and left. Then we hit ‘deez bitches with THE INFORMAL SURVEY…

Their answer: “Twelve.”

This Informal Survey had hit paydirt.

Now, even though it is already public knowledge that the members of the INFORMAL SURVEY TEAM were tripping their balls off, it was obvious that these girls were over twelve. There was something different about these ladies… Come to find out, they were two hot, lost Swedish chicks, only in town until Wednesday, and they were visiting their aunt who lived an hour outside the city. We had walked out of the music festival and right into a sweet fuckin’ porno movie… Praise Allah! We persuaded them to set off with us to the bar for some drinks. Libations are not an approach in and of itself, but you should use them in conjunction with whatever technique to better your chances of success.

After a while at the bar, Paul and I moved in for the kill. We heard about a rather large sausage party after the bar shut down -- not a good move. So we told the lucky girls that we were going to take them to a “special party” and not go to that lame party. The “special party’ would be just me, Paul, and the two Swedish babes at my palatial twenty-one bedroom mansion in the Highlands of Atlanta. It was time for the endgame…

3. THE WEARING-DOWN MACK APPROACH is probably your best choice if there is little physically or socially redeeming qualities about yourself. That night, Paul and I had a chance to put this method to the test. The one catch is: You will need a good bit of time to do it. The gist of it is: You must just hit on the same girl, over and over again – despite her rejections. Eventually, she will give in, and you will become victor by default. Remember: “NO” means “NO”, but “NO” + “NO” is a double negative, and therefore – means “YES”. It’s all simple math.

Now, I’m not sure where we went wrong on this combo. We had them in the hot tub, laughing at our jokes, and drinking Cristal. It seemed like easy meat; my guess is that one girl was cockblocking the other. Maybe they were both cockblocking each other. It couldn’t be just us. It was tough to tell what they were saying to each other when they would switch to Swedish and talk shit behind our back – right in front of us!

I am quite certain that somewhere, right now – there are two 21 year old Swedish chicks telling their friends about some American idiots that made over six thousand references to Swedish meatballs and Yngwie Malmsteen while prank calling infomercial numbers, getting drunk as hell, high, and loaded on acid. Somewhere around 8 AM, they started hinting that they needed a ride home. There was no way that we would be driving in this condition, especially since they were staying in the boonies, over an hour away. We told them they would have a better chance getting a ride back to Sweden, but maybe -- after we slept – we could take them to their aunts. The WEARING-DOWN MACK approach must be big in Sweden, because these bitches didn’t fall for it. Had they laid down, it would have been their ass! They knew better than to fall for it, and left to wander the meanstreets of Atlanta around 10AM.

See, that’s fine. You ladies are somewhere out there – you think you got away, but the WEARING-DOWN MACK APPROACH has no boundaries. It is an extra-dimensional force that is not confined by the normal laws of gravity, time, and space. Even in your absence, the WEARING-DOWN MACK is at work via idle Swedish Meatball jokes and Yngwie Malmsteen references – you will feel the fury! There shall be no quarter! You will struggle with your adversary, only to be covered with dong malt in a mid-day thought-jerk in your honor. There is no point in resisting superior game when it’s at play. One day you will be eating the snotty end of my fuckstick – THERE IS NO HIDING FROM THE WEARING-DOWN MACK! We shall take you…

Slumber Bowl Party

While I am loathe to admit any accuracy or truth in a woman's perception, after watching the bumbling clusterfuck of the Superbowl, I was looking for a gun to chew on.

Having pumped the jukebox full of crumpled dollar bills, I was excused from the pre-game blather and commentary, instead watching several hundred young girls have synchronized epileptic seizures while burned out artists sang burned out songs, all muted by Jimi Hendrix. And the blabbering drunkard next to me, one of those omniscient redneck fucktards that knows everything about his motor vehicle and football team, in this case a John Deere tractor and the New England Patriots. Waiting for the pregnant bartender to roll over with the Turkey bottle, and tuning out the buzzing frequency of this guy's voice, I thought to myself Goddamn, this is going to be a long game.

I had no idea.

So afterblack Beyonce screeched the anthem and four Black Hawk helicopters somehow flew over the stadium without crashing, the coin flipped -- and everything went downhill from there. Indeed, with the exception of a couple comedic Bud commercials and Vinatieri shanking a 31 yard field goal attempt, I was hardly aware a football game was being played. 27 long scoreless minutes of holding penalties, delay of game, and punts from the paint, during which I learned the entire history of professional football from the penultimate Patriot fan. Perhaps the officials might have spiced up the game a bit, perhaps offering those strapping young men something other than money for victory. Something tangible, like emancipation, or parole. I've seen skinny black kids run with $20 purses faster than those bastard Panthers with the pigskin, and that was when I made a decision.

Everybody on the Carolina team had bet long on the Patriots, and well over the 33.

There was simply no other excuse for the ragtag high school to which I and nearly 130 million fellow Americans gave 4 hours of our lives. After all, this was a religious holiday. While the Towel Worshippers were trampling each other during the Hajj pilgrimage and the Democrats scurried for primary votes, our public consciousness had been dosed heavy with hopes of watching sports history. And after almost three quarters of game time, if the most exciting play you've seen on the screen is Justin Timberlake exposing Janet Jackson's breast, it's time to change the channel. Or favorite sports team. Or barstool, which was not an option as the bourbon took hold of my reasoning abilities, and conspired with my burning fuse to show this football fanatic at my side how the game was played.

"You're a fool," I muttered as my glass clattered across the mahoghany. "The only reason your Pats are up in because those Cats are on the fix. They're going to throw the game, cash out their bets, and spend the next six months holed with Haitian groupies and bales of mad pot. Your victory will be a hollow one."

"Yeah, but I'm gonna win" claimed my adversary as he brandished a fistful of medium-sized bills. "I bet my income tax return on these guys. They have to win."

"They only thing they have to do is go home in shame," I sneered, suddenly a devout fan of the Panthers. "Because they're going to blow that lead and we'll end up in the first overtime of Super Bowl history. And when it comes down to sudden death, your boys are gonna die."

"You wanna back that up?" he challenged.

"What the fuck are you gonna pay me with?" I laughed, counting my own thinning sheaf of money. "You've already bet everything you have. What do you have left to lose?"

"I just got paid yesterday," he grinned, producing a crisply folded paycheck. "And I'll sign it over to you, if the Patriots don't win."

"In regulation play," I refined, making sure the barkeep heard the stipulation. "We're too far into the game to lay money on the final score. I'll match your check, and I say the clock's gonna run out before this game is over."

Well, aside from shoving my bare cock into women of ill-repute, and drinking from unwashed bar glasses, I can hardly claim to be a gambling man. I didn't even have my 7 points any more. But I wanted nothing more at that point in my life for this man to go home an abject failure, let down by his bartender, his quarterback, and his wife for having his faith placed in the New England Patriots.

The rest is sad history, pieced together from eyewitnesses, Sportscenter, and my bruised ribs. In a premature fervor, I reportedly began celebrating with Jagermeister as the Pats made their last desperate run down the field. With all four of his failed efforts in this stadium, Vinatieri had no chance of surviving the pressure and winning this game. I was gonna go home with my bar tab paid, story in hand, and call every woman I knew until one agreed to come over and empty my vesicles. I wasn't watching when Tom Brady completed two more quick passes to leave only 41 yards between Vinatieri's foot and the uprights. All I knew was the board said 29 all, betting men were jumping around the bar in a frenzy, and with 4 seconds left on the clock, I watched some $400 sail through the air and right through the posts.

Lucky for me, I live in a podunk town where only a miniscule proportion of the populace grosses more than $10 an hour, and even luckier my bank had an ATM across the lot. And under the close scrutiny of three smug thugs I coughed up my pride and pay, while that cocksucker Tom Brady drove off in his new Cadillac Convertible, and I lost again.