I Just Called To Say Hiyah!

What the bloody hell!?! I spend a week being drunk, and sober up only to find that all hell has broken loose in my absence! What has gotten me in such a huff, you ask? What could possibly make my stink-nugget pucker with a force strong enough to crush an atom? Steven Segal has recorded and released an album. What makes this even worse (if it can get any worse) isn’t that this atrocity was released in France (…), no. What makes this signal of the Apocalypse all the more horrific is that (lord forgive me) Stevie Wonder has lent his talent to this fiendish endeavor. Let’s look at this more closely. He who has given us the cinematic behemoths such as Above the Law, Out for Justice, Hard to Kill and Marked for Death has turned his bloody fists of fury to the realm of popular music. His first single Girl It’s Alright is climbing up the Slow Jam charts, again in…France. But how on Earth did one of music's most prolific songwriter get caught up in this soundtrack of death? That’s simple, Mr. Segal held auditions. Somewhere out west on a remote Native American reservation a lone teepee stood. Music’s most beloved entertainers lined up for miles for the opportunity to assist the one time badass in assaulting popular culture with songs from his heart. Inside Mr. Segal stood menacingly, arms crossed next to a baby grand piano. A Shaman sat quietly behind him. “Next!” Michael Jackson slowly crept to the piano, wearing a Spiderman t-shirt with his lawyers in tow. After a moving rendition of You Are Not Alone, Mr. Segal huffed with disapproval. “Michael Jackson…” He said in his gravely voice “while your talent knows no bounds, your very existence frightens me more than that of Screwface from my cinematic behemoth Marked for Death.” With a whuh-pow, smash, crack, snap Jackson was twisted and beaten into a bloody pulp and kicked out of the front door-flap of the teepee. “Next!” Jay-Z and his entourage bopped in to a beat that seemed to come from nowhere. After free-styling about the fictional adventures of Sean Carter and Mason Storm, Jigga produced a cordless microphone from the pocket of his leather jacket and smashed it on the ground in an act of supremacy. Segal shook his head slowly in disgust. “Jigga, you can rhyme circles and quadrilateral shapes around DMX and your stage presence is unrivaled but you are far too ugly to be dating Beyonce’ as the media would suggest. Thus, I doubt your ability to help me. ” A quick Whu-pow, crunch, spin, flip, and shove later Jigga’s arms were rammed into his mouth up to his elbows with his hands and forearms sticking out from his ears. “Next!”Celine Dion marched up to the piano aglow with Candian pride. She ran her hand through her hair but before she could open her mouth to sing or lift a finger to play Segal lifted the piano over his head and smashed it down on her frail body with a primal grunt. “Next!”The entrance to the teepee was suddenly blown open by a mighty gust of wind. A mighty red carpet thundered in and unrolled, stopping at Segal’s feet and producing the mighty J-Lo. She held a tiny Chihuahua under one arm and shouted into a small cellphone in her opposite hand. Slamming the phone shut she threw the dog to one side and slid out of her fur jacket. A troupe of male dancers magically emerged from her ass, one by one, and the performance that followed can only be described as rumperific. “Ms. Lo, while I am mystified by the size and juiciness of your ass, I cannot in good conscience allow you to help me with my debut double-album for fear of one day being forced to star along side you in the sequel to The Wedding Planner entitled The Wedding Planner 2: Nuptial Punch. After a precision bop to the top of her head the whole of J-Lo’s body was shoved down into her ass. Segal made quick work of the dancers by distracting them with a poster of Mark Wahlberg then laying siege to them with a whirlwind of kicks and elbow smashes. “NEXT!” Whitney Houston and Bobby Brown materialized from a cloud of weed smoke but never stopped arguing enough to perform. “Whitney Houston, just let it go. It’s over…and it wouldn’t hurt for you to have a bag of Skittles now and again. Mr. Brown, be a man. Swallow your pride and get back with New Edition in time for the 20th Anniversary tour.” He let them pass unharmed. …Strange. “Next!” “Tu-tu-ken-oh…” he whispered to the Shaman behind him. “Is it me or is getting hot in here?” With that, a giant drop of sweat fell from the sky and produced a scantily-clad Christina Aguilera. She pranced around him, “Aretha-yodeling” every euphemism for sex, blowjobs and anal sex known to man and ended her strip tease with a smack to her own ass, squirming and wincing with delight. “Ms. Aguilera, though I’d like to shove my mighty man-shovel into your she-melon, you are five years older than I prefer my women. Also, you are white. Leave the vocal acrobatics to truly talented black artists like Anita Baker and Johnny Gill.” That man beat her... mercilessly with a dildo handed to him by Tu-tu-ken-oh. “Next!” Finally, Stevie Wonder was led in by an assistant who sat him on the piano bench among the crushed remains of Celine Dion. Mr. Wonder cracked his knuckles and in a flash reconstructed the piano with Dion’s body tastefully hidden inside. He played Lately more beautifully than ever been heard by human ears. Moved to tears Segal fell to his knees. “Stevie Wonder, your genius has moved me to cry harder than I did when in my cinematic behemoth Executive Decision I was allowed to be on the same sound stage as Halle Berry. I shall spare you and bid you join me on my album, which we shall call Songs In The Key Of Whuh-Pow! “Maybe I should stop here before the man sends some ninja after me.

The Really Drunk Simple Life

  Margaritas and bong rips may have impaired my better judgment the night before, but I forgot to do laundry. I am attempting to master the ancient hippie art of wearing the same outfit for a week at a time to conserve. Needless to say, I am pretty ripe. I find it funny that girls who are really into you love "your smell" while the rest of them just think you smell. It must be a pheromone thing, I guess.
  However, in true "inbred" style, I have been shit-hammered drunk every day since last week. Kinda explains why I forgot to do laundry, now doesn't it? When I write John's Big Book of Lies, I've already picked my top three deceptions of all time:

1. The check's in the mail.
2. Let go out and have a drink.
3. No, I won't cum in your mouth.

  Rule one and three are self explanatory, but number two is a different animal. Nobody goes out for a drink. You get a drink, then you get another one, then another, then, next thing you know, you are blacked out singing misogynistic karaoke remixes of "Knock-Knock-Knocking Up Some Whore" to a mob of angry lesbians while simultaneously puking blood and tacos on your shoes.
Trust me, I've been there.
  Now, since we are talking about drinking, we have a mantra here in NJ: "Don't drink and drive because the cops here are Nazis and they'll beat your ass." Personally, I would rather catch a little bit of "stick time" over winding up in the meat grinder we call the justice system - it's far more brutal. You can trust me on that one too.
  In my new life as a semi-law-abiding citizen, I don't drink and drive anyway. DUI Nazis are not unique to NJ - it's slowly getting like that everywhere. I actually drive a little bit better after a few drinks, but the whole "driving while impaired" game is such a major money racket for so many counties, they hand out DUI citations like HIV in San Francisco.
  Before you fire up the caps lock to send me an infuriated email about how someone you know was killed by a drunk driver, please understand I am not talking about 2.5 BAC killing-machines. They are menaces and deserve to feel the force of the DUI juggernaut. I'm talking about the average person that had three or four drinks with dinner, and the misfortune of winding up in a "sobriety checkpoint". Once you get in the system, you are just as fucked as the 2.5 guy.
  My advice is, take a cab and get REALLY WASTED. You'll have a better time and won't have to sweat spending time in the Graybar Motel. With all of that said, who is a bigger risk to the public: me after three drinks, or some Asian bitch yammering away on a cell phone and not paying attention to traffic?
  It really doesn't matter, because I won't be driving after drinking anything,  you'll find me wiping the vomit off my Chuck Taylors and hopping in a cab.

Drinking and Driving is bad, mmkay?

Mary-Kate, Don't Be Afraid To Eat My Cock

With all of the hubbub surrounding Mary-Kate Olsen’s turn in ye olde rehabilitation facility, I’ve decided to send her a personal message of support in these trying times. If you are not Mary-Kate Olsen, please stop reading immediately and, instead, skip directly to today’s bountiful content updates. (Ashley, you can stay too, but the DualStar Entertainment legal team has to go.)

MK, listen up: I know times are tough. The occasion of your 18th birthday has opened up many doors – lottery tickets, tobacco products, and interracial amputee pornography, to name a few. Alas, your arbitrary milestone of adulthood has also made your personal life fair game to the media and tabloid hounds. I have been a minor media target at times, and I understand how difficult they can be, and it’s important that you remember that you are still your own person, and cannot allow your decisions to be influenced by the chance of publicity backlash. Always do what’s best for you.

For example, it takes a courageous person to say, “I have an eating disorder, and it is my problem.” But it takes a much braver person to say, “The media, my family, and my friends all say I have an eating disorder, but what the fuck do they know? You don’t live my life! Really, it’s your problem – not mine. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must stare at an unopened box of Poptarts and lash myself with sugar cane.”

See? You can’t let the naysayers get you down, MK. I, for one, understand exactly what you’re going through, and appreciate your willingness to risk long-term health damage and a slow, withering death to look more attractive for me. You give and you give and you give some more - I thank you for that.

But during your self-imposed starvation, please don’t forget the most important advice anyone can give you: under no circumstances should you ever - EVER – be afraid to swallow a delicious mouthful of my cock.

Anorexia is all well and good – in today’s beauty and fitness-oriented celebrity culture, anorexia shows a dedication to your own success – but, please, never forget that your daily ration of sweet Greek man-jit is only a zipper’s descent away. Gobbling my pork pole is the ideal way to stave off your body’s pesky, instinctual desire to nourish itself, and your flat-lining energy level will get a boost when I spackle your throat with steaming hot, vitamin-rich prostate grits.

These are determined times for you, I know, but determined times call for determined people, and I’m determined to stick my dick in your mouth – for your own good, of course. Shoot me an email and let me know when visiting hours are, sweet-tits. I’ll bring the interracial amputee porn.

Fuck Y'All, I'm Getting Drunk

I was awoken today by what was either a jet flying 50 feet away from my bedroom window, or Marc and twenty thousand clones with twenty thousand sacks of White Castle all flatulating simultaneously. “Christ and God,” I thought to myself in a mid-morning haze, “the world’s delicate ecosystem will never survive the combined ass-power of so many Marcs! The end is nigh!”

Then I remembered today is the Fourth of July, and the noise was probably just a jet, and I coughed a sigh of relief.

No great plans for today – honestly, because of the lack of any new terrorist attacks, I’m not feeling particularly patriotic. These Islamic fundamentalists need to stop resting on their sandy laurels and get cracking on a new plan – how am I expected to vehemently despise an entire culture of people when its small percentage of extremists aren’t providing me with the delicious fodder for racism on the nightly news? I’m not sandbagging here, terrorists. It takes two sides to hate one another, and y’all haven’t been living up to your end of the bargain.

Please, remind me why I hate you so much. Thanks.

Anyway, I recently purchased enough fireworks to invade Liberia, so I’m off to get wasted and shoot them out the back of my car. Merry Fourth of July, everyone – even those of you foreigners who don’t give a fuck. Sorry for the lame update, but I've got pigs to roast and beer to drink.