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Hey Porkers! Updates, NOW!

0 Comments | This entry was posted on May 16 2013

Listen up, you miserable bags of human waste! After months of extensive research, millions of dollars shelled out to off shore companies, and way too many late nights searching for soft-core porn that doesn’t waste our time with endless plot setup, we have finally implemented an easy way to check out the various articles written by your beloved Joe and Frank! We realized what a pain in the ass it must be to click “older entries” ten thousand times to get to the older articles. And we realized that our demographic panders to a very lazy audience, you. You people are way too apathetic and sedentary to spend time scrolling to the stuff from the past. So, you probably just don’t do it. Understandable. You guys need to spend that valuable time shooting heroin and checking out your online sex offender registrations. It’s because of that laziness that we have put a new tab into the sidebar on the left side of the page! It’s labeled as “Our Articles” and now by clicking on that tab you have immediate access to the (literally) 100 articles we have written since 2010! Damn yo, we are prolific. All the articles are listed there as links that take you straight to the article with one click of the mouse! It also shows you who wrote the article and when it was published. So check out those older articles that you’ve forgotten about! And check out the ones you might have never known existed because you don’t look at this page as frequently as you should even though you promised. Jerks…

The average DeadAirFM fan.

Update number two! We are down to the final five Morning Sickness shows that need to be posted on this site. Up to this point 19 amazing programs have been uploaded for your listening pleasure and it’s been a great experience getting to relive these shows. We have done a lot of radio, but we really hit our stride with Morning Sickness. It’s easily been some of the best stuff we have produced and we’re ecstatic that we have been able to share them with you. Five more left, starting this Monday the countdown begins. But don’t ball your fucking eyes out just yet, because we definitely have plans for future shows down the line. Morning Sickness might be coming to an end, but Radio LIVE! will live forever. Check out the homepage this Monday, as well as the following four Mondays for the last few Morning Sickness shows! And check out the Morning Sickness tab on the left side of the site for EVERY Morning Sickness we have produced and archived! Help us get more than six hits a year on this site! Help DeadAirFM reign supreme!

All my girlfriends end up like this halfway through sex.

Why Are People Pretending To Like Tom Waits?

20 Comments | This entry was posted on Mar 25 2013

It doesn’t happen very often, but when it does, you can hear the screams. Or the groans. Or just the simple, desperate plea from someone with functional hearing to turn it off. One man whose only goal in life is to apparently irritate the senses. Through 121 near flawless minutes of Mystery Men¹, he was the only awful part. And one fundamental question is forever looming over a society that demands answers… Why is it allowed to continue? Tom Waits has been making music since 1973. Reread that sentence. Since 1973. Since 1973? That’s an abomination. That is pure negligence on someone’s part. I would petition that everyone involved in allowing his career to continue should be incarcerated for the rest of their natural born lives. No trial, straight to prison. Everyone. Except maybe the CEO’s of the record labels that gave the green light to his twenty-six albums. Those guys should be executed. Firing squad, maybe. Or like, we could fill a burlap sack with oranges and have the reanimated corpse of Macho Man Randy Savage beat them to death. It could be a pay per view special. All the casting directors who hired Waits to be in those movies should get the same punishment. Oh, and did you catch that number before? Twenty-six albums? That includes studio albums, live albums, and compilation albums. Allowing that many CD’s to make their way onto Best Buy shelves around the world is like an amalgamation of the Holocaust and the Trail of Tears.

Even Rebecca Romijn can't stand that shit!

One of my biggest regrets in life is letting my friend Kevin make me aware of who Tom Waits is and what he sounds like. The man’s voice sounds like a homeless guy gargling gravel. Kevin has unusually horrible taste in music. He listens to bands like Fleetwood Mac and artists like Annie Lennox that NO ONE has ever heard of. Annie Lennox’s parents don’t know who she is. Anyway, we’re driving in Kevin’s car recklessly down some random street. I’m clinging for dear life to something in the car that isn’t sticky with slime while Kevin barrels his Subaru down the road at an irresponsible sixty miles an hour through a school zone (while classes are letting out). “Hey pal, those are stop signs you keep passing,” I start, scared for my life. Kevin lights up another blunt. “What do they say? I can’t read the words, they’re too blurry. Also, I never learned how to read,” Kevin replies. “The words seem blurry because you’re driving past them too fast,” I explain. “You worry too much,” Kevin starts. “Listen to my terrible fucking music. That’ll calm you down.” Kevin plays a song by Tom Waits called “Hell Broke Luce”, which I originally mistake for the Hostel: Part II soundtrack. I figured it was just the screams of the victims being torn apart by chainsaws. The sounds of saws raking across bone. But it turns out it was “music”. And new music, too! I imagined that song being recorded in some rape alley thirty years ago, but no… 2011. Impossible. It’s impossible that music should be able to be this bad.

The really disturbing thing is that I keep coming into contact with people who not only enjoy the music of Tom Waits, but actively think the man is a genius. At first it was just a bunch of hipsters that were saying these things to or around me. If that was the case I would have just written their opinions off like I always do (see my article: The Black Keys Are Too Ugly To Make Music). But other normal, regular people started to say this stuff, too. Which finally led me to ask the most important question of the 21st century… Why are people pretending to like Tom Waits? There’s just no way that people could actually like his music. He sounds like garbage. Literally. His voice reminds me of trash cans scraping against each other in a rainstorm. And then feral raccoons start to fuck inside them. When I hear that shit, I don’t record it and play it for my friends. I close the windows. And then maybe destroy my eardrums. What would these people have to gain from pretending to like his music? Do they think by acting like they love Tom Waits’ horrible music that they are somehow hearing something incredible that nobody else is noticing? And then because of that, they can act like they’re better than the people who don’t consider Waits a genius? What’s their game? What are they up to? Why? Why are they putting themselves through hours of incoherent noise?

This woman discovered the perfect way to combat Tom Waits' music!

I’m not even sure how Tom Waits was allowed to release any more music after 1980. Especially after that lawsuit in Los Angeles, The Parents of John McCollum v. Asylum Records. The suit claimed that John McCollum, a depressed teenager who shot himself in the head, committed suicide while listening to tracks off Tom Waits’ album Heartattack and Vine, the last album released by Asylum Records. Tom Waits at one point even takes the stand, but he refused to testify amelodically. No one in the jury could understand his garbled singing so his testimony was dismissed. In the end, the judge reluctantly (he hated his music, too) sided with Waits. But still, that kind of bad publicity should have killed any future musical endeavors, right? Not to mention what Tom said immediately after the verdict was read…

Excerpt from the January 1980 issue of Cosmopolitan

“Yeah man, my music probably killed that kid. The first song on Side Two, “Til The Money Runs Out”, that’s all about how that dude should kill himself. Literally, that guy. I was in a Taco Bell last year and heard this kid John McCollum talking about how shitty his life was and I thought to myself, ‘That’s a number one song’. Well, I mean, it would have been a number one song if it was written and performed by anyone else. But since it was me it was really fucking awful. Completely impossible to listen to. But, the kid killed himself, so I guess I did my job. (laughs uncontrollably) I should be in prison! But I’m not! Fuck that family!”

Tom Waits might be a total hack, but the guy knows exactly what double jeopardy is all about, and he abused it in that interview. Still, you would have thought that after an admission like that no record label would want to sign this maniac, but sure enough someone did. Island Records and ANTI- would allow this madman to release a plethora of albums after that trial. But fine, mistakes happen. Horrible things happen in the world all the time, everyday. But that still doesn’t explain why people are pretending to like Tom Waits.

Eventually I became tired of the constant pondering of said dilemma. The Tom Waits conundrum was too much for my mind to take. It plagued me day and night. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t masturbate. Well, alright, I could masturbate. Actually, cum to think of it, my masturbation sessions had tripled since I started mulling over the situation. Letting hatred consume my body just gets me going. If you’ve read even one of my other articles, this fact is more than evident. Regardless, the chafing that resulted from the chronic pleasuring of my beat-stick due to the intense infatuation of hate forced me to pursue the answer to my question rather than continue to defy God by spilling my seed everywhere that wasn’t a woman’s vagina. Thus, I speed dialed the most successful and well renowned archaeologist friend I have on my phone, Mercutio Monte Cristo. He’s famous around these parts. He was thrilled to help with my endeavor, but felt we’d need someone to carry all our shit during the journey. I agreed, and suggested we abduct a child from the local park. A child that had the upper body strength to haul our gear, but not enough to defend against our advances. Mercutio thought it was an excellent idea, but informed me of a Sherpa that he used to have sex with constantly. The Sherpa’s name was Kalzang, and I wasn’t sure if it was a man or woman. I must have stared at Kalzang for like an hour without moving or talking and I just couldn’t determine this thing’s gender. Which made me uncomfortable. If Kalzang was a man, then Mercutio was gay, or at the very least bisexual. Gay guys love me. They find me irresistible. So this wouldn’t work. I would be concentrating on conquering the mysteries of the unknown and he’d be concentrating on my rockin’ body. At some point I’d have to pin Kalzang down and find out what was between it’s legs. You know, when the time was right.

If Mercutio looked more like Lara Croft, I'd have had a whole different set of problems...

We were scaling the Carpathian Mountains in Europe when Mercutio Monte Cristo discovered a crevasse that seemed peculiar. He lined the edges with a small amount of dynamite and detonated the charges. The explosion was larger than expected and we fell through the crater toward the center of the Earth. We plummeted a good nine thousand feet. We dusted ourselves off and walked away with only a few scrapes. Kalzang accidentally found the Book of the Dead, and upon reading several passages, awakened demons that had been dormant for centuries. After fighting off the swarm of undead, and giving Kalzang a stern talking to (fucking idiot), we ventured deeper into the caves until we came across a temple housed by ancient priestesses who were totally DTF. Mercutio and I wrecked those chicks. Specifically the ones with large chests who didn’t talk too much. I scolded myself for not paying attention to whether or not Kalzang banged any of the priestesses. I needed to start keeping my eye on the prize. Anyway, the sexually liberated priestesses were so grateful for the multiple orgasms we gave them that they rewarded us with scrolls thought to be lost forever. You guessed it, the scrolls possessed the secrets to why people were pretending to enjoy the music of Tom Waits. Also, Mercutio contracted gonorrhea. I told that guy to wear a condom. Those women had been living underground for hundreds of years and had no access to a gynecologist.

I arrived home late that night. The traffic was brutal. We hit almost every light. I needed to relax, so a glass of brandy was poured and the scrolls of civilizations long past were unrolled. To my shock, these weren’t the scrolls of civilizations long past. They were scrolls that pertained to a curse placed on select individuals by none other than Lucifer himself. Way back in the day, like sixty-three years ago, some of God’s archangels were messing around outside of the Devil’s house. The usual rebellious angel kind of stuff: toilet paper in his trees, shaving cream in the mailbox, dildos sticking out of the lawn. Real tasteless shit. So the Devil catches them in the act and calls the authorities. They arrest the archangels and bring them to God. God is furious. He’s like totally had enough of their antics. He grounds them and all, but the Devil isn’t satisfied. Tomorrow is his day off and he had no intention of spending his Saturday cleaning his front yard of vandalism. The Devil is threatening to press charges against God (since God claims the archangels as dependents when he does his taxes). God is having none of this. He’s already got two strikes and is still on probation. God decides to cut a deal with the Devil (as he’s accustom to).

Hey, that's just how archangels looked back then.

There’s something you need to know about the Devil. He’s a real jerk. Like, I really don’t know what that guy’s problem is. So, the Devil informs God that a child has recently been born. His name is Thomas Alan Waits. The Devil informs God that this child will grow up to produce the worst fucking music the world has ever heard. Everyday sinful, desperate people use the black arts to contact Hades in order to sell their souls for riches and other superfluous indulgences. They attempt to make these deals to gain fame and better their miserable lives. The Devil consumes their souls and grants their requests, but from then on those people are doomed to spend their eternity in Hell. The Devil explains to God that these souls are no longer enough to satisfy his thirst for chaos. He’s demands from God that from here on out, every person who successful sells their soul to the Devil shall still be granted their wish, but will have to live out the rest of their lives on Earth pretending to like the music of Tom Waits. They will have to listen to it almost all the time. They will hear his guttural singing voice as their inner monologue. They will have to tell their friends that they think Tom Waits is great, and try to get them to listen to his stuff. This will be the torture they shall have to endure for making a deal with the Devil. They will not be informed of this consequence until after their soul has been dealt. God soaks in this proposal and agrees to it almost instantly. ‘Cause like, fuck it, right?

I’m not sure what bringing this information to the public’s attention will do. I’m not sure if the damned that walk the Earth will feel any solace from their friends and family learning the truth. That they don’t really like Tom Waits, but rather are being forced into pretending to enjoy his music. If anything, I think I’d be more disturbed that this person I have known for whatever amount of time interacted with Satan and sold their soul… What does that say about their character? How could I ever trust that person again? And what did they get out of this deal? My friend Kevin that I mentioned earlier, he has apparently sold his soul to the Devil. And it kills me, because what did he ask for? He didn’t ask for a better personality or to advance further in his career. Wouldn’t those have been priorities? The only thing I can think of is that he might have asked for it to be socially tolerable (not even acceptable) for him to wear pajama pants at all times. Because that’s like all this dude wears. I’ve seen him wear pajama pants to church and funerals. I don’t know man, he’s seemed to gained nothing from this whole thing… It really makes me question his judgment. The dudes a mess.

I changed my mind, I'll sell my soul. Fuck it!

Why are people pretending to like the music of Tom Waits? Well, they have no choice. They’re soulless. They are literally being punished by God for being sinners and heathens. For wanting more and refusing to work for whatever their hearts desire. These people who own his CD’s and coax their friends into listening to a song or two, they are selfish and pathetic and will forever rue they day they decided to give up and take the easy way out. I can think of no better and more just comeuppance than having to hear Tom Waits’ voice in their heads. Maybe someday their suffering will end, but hopefully not too soon. They need to learn a lesson. But perhaps when Tom Waits dies, the curse will be broken. Don’t count on that to happen anytime in the near future though, because horrible people usually tend to live forever. So, what is the moral of this story? Do not trust people who listen to Tom Waits. If your best friend suddenly approaches you with that music, punch him right in the dick. He’s voided his ticket to Heaven and would push you in front of a bus as soon as hit the play button to start Mule Variations. If a small child runs up to you in the street wearing a Tom Waits shirt, ranting and raving about how you “just don’t get his music”, know that his articulacy was probably a gift from the Lord of Darkness, and be concerned that he was able to summon the Devil at such a young age. And even if your fucking mother presents you with tickets to Tom Waits’ next tour, be well aware that she is dead inside and never loved you. Oh, and I walked in on Kalzang in the bathroom hoping to see if it stood up or sat down when it pissed, but it was just taking a dump. So like, yeah, I’m still not sure. But at least that androgynous freak doesn’t listen to Tom Waits.

You don't even care what you're doing to people, do you?

___________________________________________________________________________________________
¹Have you people ever taken a look back at who was in Mystery Men? This cast is crazy and I don’t think we ever completely understood how crazy it was when we were kids. Ben Stiller, William H Macy, Hank Azaria, Kel Mitchell, Paul Reubens, Janeane Garofalo, Geoffrey Rush, Eddie Izzard, Artie Lange, Greg Kinnear, Dane Cook, and Dana Gould! Some of those guys are big names! Mystery Men was supposed to be the dumbest movie ever, but now I’m thinking I just may not have gotten it.

The Book of Job: Redux

0 Comments | This entry was posted on Jan 28 2013
On the Christmas episode of Radio LIVE!, Joe and Frank revisited their hit segment, “Joe and Frank Rewrite The Bible”! We take stories from the Bible and give them a little tweaking. A new age spin on the mundane olden days. Let’s face it, the Bible is a real snooze-fest. When Jesus Christ told his Apostles to write a riveting account of his life that could be used as a guideline for the way people should live their lives, he did NOT have that in mind. Jesus wanted something a little more Fight Club and a little less The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants. I guess you could say Joe and Frank are doing God’s work. No seriously, say it. And say it sexy.
In case you don’t look at the author of each posted article, the words you’re about to read are that of Joe. I chose to rewrite the Book of Job. Check it out, sluts!

REWRITE THE BIBLE – The Book of Job: Redux

With the Redux, it probably is too long... The Bible is too long.

Preface: At the end of the story, it claims that Job is restored to full health and given a new family and twice as many livestock. That isn’t the case. God fearing marauders found The Book of Job and added those parts to make God look better. They also tore out the second book, The Book of Job: Redux. It tells of the next chapter in Job’s life. That is what you will hear today.

____________________________________________________________________________________________

Job’s friends had never seen that look on his face before. Sure, they were frightened, but they knew Job’s wrath would be wrought upon God, and God alone. Job only had the three friends, because he wasn’t very well endowed. Their names were Buster, Hotdog, and Chompers. Chompers was the only one with any balls, having won their county’s Ape Fight four years running, so naturally he approached Job first.

“Hey pal, shit happens, right?” consoles Chompers. “ There’s no need to cry about it and sit here in the rubble of your former house in silence for like a week, surrounded by the corpses of your dead children.” Chompers was never good with words. He had been left back a few times, but loved chomping on things. Chompers began to chomp on the ankle of one of Job’s dead daughters. You know, to get a smile out of that guy. Job was bringing everyone down. I’m not sure which daughter it was… I think it was the one Job loved the most. Anyhoo, Job proceeds to freak the fuck out. He rips the decaying limb out of Chompers’ mouth, cries hysterically for about eight seconds, and then clocks Chompers in the temple with a brick. Chompers bleeds out quickly. Buster and Hotdog had barely processed what they had just seen and before they knew it Job was murdering them. Once murdered, Job collected himself. He decided to check on his wife. She had enormous breasts and never talked back. So seeing her would surely cheer him up. But she killed herself. She ate dirt until she died. The ratio between dirt and what’s supposed to be in your body was 5:1.

It was four in the morning and the tears are pouring, and I want to make it worth the fight. What have we been doing for all this time? Baby if we’re gonna do it, come on and let’s do it right. Once Job finished singing Gwen Stefani in his head, he threw his grappling hook toward the roof of God’s condo. He began to scale the façade. God had vicariously taken everything from him because of that bet with Satan. Job was going to make him regret it. Once upon the balcony, Job tossed a hand grenade off the ledge which landed in God’s convertible Miata. The explosion set off the security alarms. Job made his way into the living room and immediately saw the guard dogs charging toward him. Another hand grenade blew almost all the dogs to pieces, but one made it out alive. It clamped down on Job’s forearm and began draining the life out of him. God was standing in the doorway. “That’s it Chompers! I trained all these dogs to drink blood!” screamed God. “Hey, I used to have a friend named Chompers. I hated that guy,” said Job. And with that, Job tore the dog in half with his bare hands. Job was known to use human growth hormone, so this wasn’t a huge stretch.

If you ever stop thinking Gwen Stefani’s music is good, she gets the band back together to prove you wrong. Hey, that ONE guy! Whoever you are, thanks a lot…

“Oh snap! I gotta cheese it!” yelled God, who started making an escape through his convoluted hallways. Job chased him down with ease, since he was also an amphetamine addict. Job managed to push God from behind, sending him spiraling over an ottoman and into the wall. God looked up at Job. “You wouldn’t hit an old man, would you?” asked God. Job took out a twelve inch serrated blade. “I’m going to enjoy this,” he said. Suddenly, Satan walked through the front door holding grocery bags. “Honey, what’s going on here?” asked Satan, who didn’t need this first thing walking through the door. “Honey?” said Job. That’s when he started looking around the room. Everywhere were pictures of God and Satan; holding hands, giving each backrubs, having sex. It was clear to Job now. That’s why God’s relationship status on Facebook was “it’s complicated.” They were lovers. And probably exhibitionists, too, because the framed pictures of them having rough sex were literally everywhere. Satan walked over to Job and hit him over the head with the bag of groceries. “Now you leave him alone right this second, Mr. Man!” said Satan. Satan helped God to his feet. “Are we going to finish the game tonight, babe?” asked Satan. “What game?” demanded Job. God eyes left Job and moved to the coffee table.

Job walked to the coffee table and found a board game in progress. The center of the game board said “Job’s Life.” Job’s eyes began to water. “It’s kind of like Yahtzee,” started Satan. “But instead of rolling dice, we ruin your fucking life.” Tears were streaming down Job’s face. The knife dropped out of his hand. His whole life was a game to these deities. His wife, his children, his land… All of it was ripped from him because these two needed something to entertain themselves between penetrating each other. Then there was a warmth. Job looked down to see the growing red stain on his stomach. He turned around to see God holding a silenced pistol. Another shot. Then another. Job’s chest was covered in bullet holes. With his last breath, he cursed The Hasbro Brothers. Then he dropped to the floor, dead. Satan placed both hands on his hips. “You cheated! I was about to land on Free Parking and everything!” screeched Satan. God gave Satan a backhand across the mouth. “Why can’t you be more like Job’s dead wife and never talk back?” asked God. Satan began to weep. “And maybe I’ll get big fake breasts like that bitch, too!” screamed Satan, who ran into the bathroom and locked the door. God sighed and tossed Job’s body into the burning fireplace.

I can’t even win at a simulated version of Life…

THE END

Spike Lee Hates Everything

0 Comments | This entry was posted on Jan 08 2013

The overhead lights flashed several times, indicating to the remaining patrons of the bar that it would soon be closing time. There weren’t many people left in the bar. There was a couple of regulars getting last minute drinks from the bartender. There was a man mopping the floor. A few vagrants were wrestling in the corner- no, wait… they’re having unprotected sex. The booths were empty except for Spike Lee. He was the lone man left on that side of the room. In his booth, he was nursing his beer and tapping a pen against his head anxiously. Spike Lee was silently furious, a nice change of pace for the rest of the world. He was staring at a small piece of paper in front of him. It was his list of things he hated, and needed to destroy. Spike Lee had spent the last few years knocking things off that list, but there was one item lingering.

He's been very busy over the years...

“Psh, Django Unchained…” muttered Spike Lee. “You call that a movie title?” Spike Lee took out a pack of cigarettes. He tried to light one, but his hand was shaking badly. The bartender noticed him from behind the counter. “Hey uh, Spike. You can’t smoke in here,” said the bartender. Spike Lee stood up angrily. “Why? Because I’m black?” The bartender put up his hands in defense. “Spike, it’s not because you’re black, man. It’s the law,” said the bartender. Spike Lee threw the rest of his beer across the room and the glass shattered against the wall. “Oh, you have a law in this bar says black guys can’t smoke in here?” questioned Spike Lee. The bartender sighed heavily and gave up, going back to wiping down the counter. How many times can he fight with Spike Lee in one week? The bartender was used to Spike Lee making a commotion and calling him a racist. He just didn’t have the energy for it tonight. That being said, Spike Lee finally lit his cigarette and smoked profusely. He couldn’t take his eyes off the list. “You aren’t allowed to make a movie about black guys unless you’re Spike Lee,” he muttered to himself. That’s when he heard a ruckus. Spike Lee hadn’t noticed the large group in the corner booth all night, but there they were. And right in the center of the table was Quentin Tarantino.

Before the Q-Man knew it, Spike Lee was standing in front of his table, foaming at the mouth. Quentin Tarantino’s table was covered in empty beer and shot glasses. With him at the table were six beautiful black girls, all of whom were of age (well, except this one that was pretty questionable). Tarantino had his arms around two of them, and they didn’t seem to be struggling to get away. The table fell silent. Tarantino leaned forward to address the man who had interrupted his good time. “Arrgghhh grulla gah gah froar!” growled Tarantino. Spike Lee just stared him down. Tarantino leaned back. “That’s how I probably sound in your head, right Spike?” asked Tarantino. Spike Lee turned his attention to the black girls at the table. “Why don’t you girls run home and study?” encouraged Spike Lee. The girls scoffed. “No way mister! We gonna stay right here and get our cootchies wrecked by this here movie director!” yelled one of the women. Another one of the women vomited across the table and passed out. Spike Lee became enraged. “Did you drug that girl, Tarantino? You can’t just scoop up slaves from the plantation and fuck them!” screamed Spike Lee. “Holy shit, Spike! Can you calm down?” asked Tarantino. “It’s 2013, bro! We’re not in Montgomery, Alabama right now! These girls are here of their own free will.”

Oh man, Spike Lee is gonna be sour when he hears about this!

Quentin Tarantino never once even came close to saying the N-word, but in Spike Lee’s head, that’s the only thing he heard. Spike Lee took out some business cards and distributed them to the girls who remained conscious, which was now down to three. “This is a really good GED prep course,” Spike Lee began. “There’s still time for you girls to recover from this racist’s brainwashing.” One of the girls began to eat the business cards. Another one looked up at Spike angrily. “Man, I’m in my sophomore year at NYU. Back off! I’m just trying to enjoy my vacation and get my drink on with celebrities!” yelled the girl. Spike Lee dug into his backpack and produced several DVDs. “Here, take these, too,” said Spike Lee. He handed each girl, conscious or not, a DVD of one of his horrible movies. “This is one of my hit Spike Lee joints, Do The Right Thing,” said Spike Lee. “In it, a bunch of black guys keep on doin’ the wrong thing, but then at the end, they start doin’ the right thing.” Spike Lee slid a DVD under the vomit encrusted face of each passed out girl. Quentin Tarantino had had enough. “Mr. Lee, at this point in time I believe you should exit the premises before you embarrass yourself further,” said Tarantino. Spike Lee begins to lose his shit. “I’m not your goddamn Uncle Tom! And don’t call me “boy”!” screamed Spike Lee. Tarantino looked puzzled. “Spike, for the love of God make an appointment to see an audiologist! I fret your hearing might be on the fritz.”

At this point, Spike Lee was writhing on the ground in pain. There was no one within a ten foot radius of his body, but he appeared to think he was being beaten. He muttered several things about Rodney King and then pretended to be thrown into the street by white thugs. One of the girls turned to Quentin. “You ain’t using no condom with me tonight, don’t worry!” she said. Quentin seemed disturbed. “Ew, that’s how diseases are spread.” Quentin checks his watch and grimaces. “Oh boy, I have to be up early tomorrow.” He finishes his beer, counts out some money for the bill, and leaves a generous tip. “Goodnight ladies.” And with that, Quentin was off into the night. One of the girls stole Tarantino’s money, stuffed it into her purse, and fled the scene. Another one of the girls began to snort coke off of the DVD copy of Do The Right Thing.

If you Google "Spike Lee in a good mood", this is the happiest picture that comes up.

During his walk home, Spike Lee came up with a great idea. He would publicly declare that he would never see Django Unchained. Everyone would be shocked. They would think, But you’re black, you have to see it. Spike Lee told himself that he’d denounce the movie as “disrespectful to his ancestors.” If Spike Lee won’t see the movie, then no black person can. That’s just how it goes. A smile finally crawled it’s way across Spike Lee’s smug, self-righteous face. He adjusted his stupid fucking Yankee cap and made his way towards Madison Square Garden for his stupid fucking Knicks game. Spike Lee likes the Yankees and the Knicks. He needs everyone to know this. That’s why he wears the hats and goes to the games.

Peter Jackson Thinks You’re Stupid, Because You Are

0 Comments | This entry was posted on Dec 13 2012

Being part of the legendary DeadAirFM infrastructure comes with many different perks. Oh sure, it’s glamorous and beautiful and it makes us feel more alive than any of you will ever know! You know it’s true. Don’t lie. Don’t sit there in front of your computer and lie directly to my face. Or rather, directly to the screen, which is debatably worse, depending on how much stock you put into the future of artificial intelligence. Frank and I, we are constantly being invited to the hottest celebrity parties and the most exclusive celebrity drug dens. Oh, and the rape dungeons! Don’t forget the chic celebrity rape dungeons! But more recently, we were part of the elite few selected to attend a private screening of The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey. It was very posh, you people wouldn’t understand (and never will). The two of us sat next to high-class superstars all night. On our left, John Mayer. On our right, the girl with the huge breasts from Stan Helsing. The theater was packed to the gills with these characters! But then something horrible happened… The movie started. I’m not usually one to save people from certain doom, but no one deserves what I witnessed that night. Below is a brief million word summary of the holocaust-esq film I had to endure that horrible night…

The one on the left, Diora Baird. Crazy hot.

The film opens with the main character, one of those hobbit creatures, making himself breakfast or something. I don’t think they ever actually say this guy’s name throughout the whole movie (huge plot hole), so I’m just going to call him Short Stack. So anyway, Short Stack appears to be making himself huevos rancheros, but he lacks culinary prowess, so it ends up looking like human shit (maybe this was Peter Jackson’s intention?). Just as this poor bastard is about to sit down and shovel some shit down his throat, like thirteen of the goofiest looking trolls barge into his house without knocking or calling ahead. He’s never met any of these “people”, but they proceed to start eating all his food and breaking his stuff. Short Stack rushes over to the phone to call the police, but the trolls have already cut the line. They push him to the ground and for a few minutes it really looks like they are going to have sex with him. They’re licking their lips and biting the air, it was weird. Eventually Gandalf strolls in with little to no sense of urgency, sits down, and pours himself some coffee. Gandalf hits a few of the trolls in the face with his walking stick and they scurry under the couch.

“Short Stack, it’s been too long,” Gandalf starts. Short Stack dusts himself off and regains his composure. “Bro, we’ve never met, get out of my house. This is breaking and entering, it’s a felony,” says Short Stack. Gandalf stands up and starts rummaging through Short Stack’s shit. He’s being really intrusive, but it looks like Short Stack is kind of a bitch, so he just lets it happen. Gandalf tells Short Stack that they need his help reclaiming some stupid Dwarf town, even though he has no experience with this kind of thing. I think Short Stack mumbles that he went to business school or something. Gandalf says something like, “trolls, get ‘em”, and before Short Stack knows what’s going on the trolls pick him up and drag him to their car outside. And at this point I’m certain one of the trolls grabs Short Stack’s junk. This movie isn’t tasteful.

How is anyone actually supposed to take this movie seriously?

Gandalf drives this car full of trolls, with Short Stack basically kidnapped in the backseat, to the beginning of some forest and stops. “We’ll walk from here, even though there are perfectly good roads,” says Gandalf. Short Stack furrows his brow. “How long is this walk going to take?” he asks. Gandalf coughs up some phlegm. He actually spits it really close to where Short Stack is standing. “About three movies,” says Gandalf. “Or eight thousand miles, if you use the metric system.” This is where I questioned Peter Jackson as not only a director, but as an intelligent person. Does he not know that miles are not part of the metric system? But I looked up this scene in the original novel, and there it is. Word for word. J.R.R. Tolkien makes the measurement mistake. And he’s an English writer, shouldn’t he know the metric system better than anyone? Anyway, Gandalf tells the group that they probably won’t need any supplies for this fucking year long journey, so the trolls start burning the food and the blankets and everything. They even burn the water. They boil all the water until it’s completely evaporated. Short Stack is horrified and tries to make a break for it, but they shoot him in the leg with a tranquilizer dart.

When Short Stack finally regains consciousness, the group is already deep into the woods. And this is the bad part of the woods, ya know? Gandalf kept telling everyone it was a shortcut, but I don’t think that dude knew where he was going. He just looked like a senile old man to me. From time to time he’d mumble about the war and walk into trees, it was embarrassing. Personally, I think Ian McKellen is just too old for these roles anymore. Rumor has it those scenes weren’t in the script. Doctors diagnosed him with dementia before he signed on officially for the movie, but Peter Jackson insisted they’d make it work. Regardless, this is where the movie gets utterly unwatchable. For the next thirty minutes they’re just walking around. Literally, we just watch them stumble through the forest. And they aren’t talking either. And there’s no score. All this walking happens in silence. Then one of the trolls passes out from malnourishment. It was the ugliest troll, so I was thinking, who cares, right? Leave him. But apparently this hideous troll was like the heart and soul of the group, and he was hypoglycemic. So Gandalf starts cooking up a soufflé. Unbelievable, right? That takes like twenty to thirty minutes! And he doesn’t get it right the first time. He takes it out too fast and it deflates. So, he starts it up again. And there were apple trees everywhere. Plus, there was a candy store not fifty feet away. It was a Sweets From Heaven, and the owner was beckoning the group in, but Gandalf was determined he’d get the soufflé right. But he never does. And the candy store closes. And the troll dies.

They bury the dead troll after the meal is a flop. But they don’t dig a traditional six foot deep grave. I think they stopped at two feet because two of the trolls dislocated their shoulders and Gandalf went into cardiac arrest. So later that night when it rained, the corpse slid out from under the dirt and right into their makeshift latrine. Coyotes and goblins showed up later to desecrate the body further. That’s when the group decides to turn in for the night. They find a cave to shield themselves from the rain and sleep. But it’s not the cave where Gollum is. Nothing exciting happens. We spend the next forty-five minutes watching these things sleep. That’s it… And they are heavy sleepers for the most part, so they don’t toss and turn. It was as if we were watching the movie and someone hit pause. You barely saw their chests rise and fall. Yeah, so after forty-five minutes they wake up, for no reason, and stretch. Gandalf gets up and walks to the corner of the cave to beat off. He beats off for five minutes. But Short Stack and all the trolls are awake! And Gandalf knows they’re awake! I think he gets some sick thrill from it. So anyway, the group waits uncomfortably for this wizard to finish cranking one out. When he finishes he turns around and goes, “Ah, we’ll wrap this up in the next two movies.” Black screen, credits roll. What?

There are two crucial issues that need to be addressed in this article. A lot of you will be at midnight showings of this movie tonight. Please consider these issues! Issue (a) – There is NO reason for a Hobbit Trilogy. I think everyone knows this, but no one wants to admit it. Below are some figures for you to digest.

The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey – (movie) 169 minutes – (novel) 310 pages

LOTR: The Fellowship of the Ring – (movie) 178 minutes – (novel) 531 pages

LOTR: The Two Towers – (movie) 179 minutes – (novel) 416 pages

LOTR: The Return of the King – (movie) 201 minutes – (novel) 624 pages

How do they turn a book that is 106 pages shorter than the shortest book in the LOTR trilogy into three movies? All three LOTR books are longer than The Hobbit. Hypothetically, if all three Hobbit movies are the same running time (169 x 3), those three movies will equal 507 minutes. That’s exponentially longer than every other movie, all of which wrapped up their story in one film! And of course they won’t be the same running time. They will become gradually longer just like the LOTR trilogy as the story comes to a head. The Hobbit can easily be wrapped up in one three-hour movie. No problem! But Peter Jackson knows that LOTR fans will see anything he produces. Why have one movie make $1 billion worldwide, when he could make three movies make $1 billion worldwide? Perhaps I underestimate Peter Jackson’s lavish lifestyle? Or maybe he just can’t think of any new ideas? I mean, when George Lucas ran out of Star Wars movies to make, he made another Indiana Jones… Or maybe the guy is The Devil. He knows you guys will see anything. Literally, anything. If the new Hobbit movie was literally an ugly troll taking a dump for three hours, you people would see it twice. You guys would wait until after the credits to see if there was any hidden clip from the next upcoming troll-shit-movie. Peter Jackson knows his dumb followers will pay to see anything. I mean, his diamond encrusted cock-rings don’t come cheap, ya know?

Obviously The Hobbit doesn’t need to be three movies. It probably didn’t need to be said, but I like to hear myself talk. Issue (b) – Our country is in serious trouble if it’s “cool” to dress up like a hobbit. Listen, it is NOT cool to dress up like a storm trooper or some three-dicked alien when waiting in line to see Star Wars. It is NOT cool to dress up like some pubescent wizard kid when waiting in line to see Harry Potter. But dressing up like a short, weak humanoid with hairy feet has got to be the lowest end of the totem pole. I believe there are other forms of intelligent life out there. I like to believe they watch individuals on Earth as their own form of reality TV show. Different from the episode of South Park where aliens watch Planet Earth collectively as a program, I think aliens can watch individual people as a show. So yes, theoretically they can choose from over six billion shows. Imagine the laughter that must emanate from these life forms when they see you ridiculous idiots with pubic haired glued to your feet.

After we left the underground Hollywood screening of The Hobbit, we ran into Peter Jackson himself. He was wearing a suit made of money, not unlike the one Tracy Morgan wears in an episode of 30 Rock. I’m usually not one to judge people, but he looked like a real asshole. I had already begun constructing my Hobbit-bash article in my head during one of my naps while watching the movie. I thought it would be terrific if I could get a few words from the man behind the horror. Here is our brief dialogue…

Do you guys have any idea how many hovercrafts you've bought him?

Myself: Wow! Peter Jackson! What a goddamn honor it is to meet you! (disgustingly sarcastic)

P-Jack: Yeah, yeah. So, what did you think of the movie? Pretty brilliant, right?

Myself: Oh, well… Hey, you can’t win ‘em all.

P-Jack: I wanted to make those LOTR movies a lot earlier, but I had to wait until Tolkien died.

Myself: Oh?

P-Jack: ‘Cause then I wouldn’t have to pay that sucker royalties!

Myself: Well, what about his family?

P-Jack: Fuck them.

Myself: What are you going to do after The Hobbit? Can’t live off Tolkien forever, right?

P-Jack: Wanna bet?

Myself: What ever do you mean?

P-Jack: Tolkien wrote some shit short story called Leaf by Niggle. It’s like 20 pages long, so I figure that’s about four or five movies. These idiots will see anything! (slaps a small boy dressed like Frodo in the face)

Myself: Sounds like quite the unique and original endeavor!

P-Jack: Niggle? I’m thinking of changing that to something else, if you know what I mean?

Myself: (uncomfortable silence)

P-Jack: Ever notice there are no black hobbits? That’s no fucking accident!

Myself: Wow! Great talking to you, Pete! Looking forward to another 400 minutes of that hobbit!

P-Jack: Yeah, you and the rest of the world! Fuck, I’m drunk!

Enjoy the movie tonight, assholes!

(Just kidding, I hope it’s garbage)

Rex Ryan Loses 106 lbs… Still Fat And Horrible

0 Comments | This entry was posted on Jul 20 2012

When I first saw the headline that Rex Ryan, head coach of the New York Jets, had lost 106 pounds, I was actually pretty impressed that he took the initiative to get himself healthier. That sentiment died in me faster than a neglected child to SIDS. First and foremost, Rex Ryan lost 106 pounds, and now weighs only 242. Only 242 pounds? I thought I misread ESPN’s BottomLine. I figured that was what he had weighed. Not what he now weighed. It’s much less an accomplishment to go from 348 pounds to 242. That only means you at one point allowed yourself to reach the plateau of 348. Rex Ryan’s only accomplishment here was having his picture next to the medical dictionary’s definition for “morbid obesity”. There is no excuse for allowing yourself to get that fat other than you have a legitimate medical condition (e.g. hypothyroidism, Cushing’s Syndrome, etc). People should have no sympathy for society’s behemoths. No one wakes up one day and looks in the mirror and suddenly discovers they’ve gained three hundred pounds. It’s gradual, and your body gives you plenty of hints that things are falling apart. No one should congratulate Rex Ryan for downgrading his disgusting body from gargantuan mutant to fat fuck. “I obviously look a lot better. I may not be a box of chocolates, but I look a hell of a lot better than I did,” says Rex Ryan. I can’t argue with that logic Mr. Ryan, I can only put it into perspective: “You can polish a turd, but it’s still a piece of shit.” That sentiment is from Anna Faris’ character in Observe and Report, and it shall withstand the test of time. Rex Ryan, you still look horrible.

Then came the best part! Rex Ryan didn’t even lose weight the noble and honorable way. He cheated! He knew he was a immoral, pathetic, weak willed man, so he did the only thing he could think of: cheat. That huge piece of shit cut a check and had lap band surgery. You didn’t do the work, you took the easy way out. Lap band surgery is the LeBron James of losing weight. For those of you who don’t know what lap band surgery is, please, allow Wikipedia to educate you…

A laparoscopic adjustable gastric band, commonly referred to as a lap band, is an inflatable silicone device placed around the top portion of thestomach to treat obesity by reducing the amount of food consumed.

That isn’t really losing weight, you asshole. That’s literally using medical science to fool your stomach into getting full quicker so you don’t want to shovel more food down your fat throat. This surgery is the acknowledgement that you have no self-control, and you need doctors to implant devices into your body to manipulate your stomach to make you stop eating. That is no accomplishment. This should make no one proud of you. You should just stop eating so much.

Far too often do we give sympathy to the morbidly obese. Most of the time they have no one but themselves to blame. Remember Robert Gibbs? That 700 pound guy who was crying on YouTube about how he needed help?

Check it -> Eww, This Guy Is Disgusting

Oh, now you need help? What about when you reached 400 pounds? Still thought you were the toast of the town? How about 500 pounds? Well, I’ve got diabetes now, but I’m sure that’ll pass! 600 pounds? Nope! Still don’t think there’s a problem. It’s that 700 pound marker that really kills you. That’s the moment he decided he needed to take a long, hard look at his life. Fuck Robert Gibbs. 700 pounds didn’t just show up one day. You stopped exercising. You kept eating like shit. You aren’t a brain-dead fucking retard. You know what eating fast food all the time can do to your body. When they diagnosed you with diabetes, was that a shocking moment for you? Did you wonder how that happened? Oh, you’re scared you might not be able to watch your niece and nephew grow up? Well, you should be scared. Because you probably won’t be around. How you’re still alive is probably a miracle. And now you want help? NOW you want help? And guess what? We’re going to give you help. Why not? All those celebrity nutritionists and doctors can’t wait for the publicity of trying to turn you into a normal human being. Dr. Drew was probably on the first plane to Livermore ready to cash in on this bullshit. Let’s save America the inspiring, heartfelt documentary. Let’s just have Oprah pay for this guy’s liposuction, toss a lap band in there (maybe two or three of them), and we can all get back to watching Snooki suck the cum out of a cow’s dick.

This man is not a real doctor.

Alright, that was a little hatefully angry, even for me. But it’s all true. This country has a skyrocketing obesity rate and it’s not going to be fixed by limiting how many fucking ounces of soda can be bought. And it’s not going to be fixed by taking the toys out of McDonalds Happy Meals. It’s going to be fixed by instilling more shame into our society. Instead of coddling people who are over 300 pounds, telling them they look fine and to be proud of who they are, how about we throw up when they walk by? Literally drop whatever your holding at the time on the ground and stare in disgust. Make those people feel like you have seriously never seen ANYTHING so unappealing and repugnant. Only our judgment can make them feel horrible enough to get on a treadmill, because obviously it takes most people 700 pounds before they realize they’re fat. And ignorance is a load of shit, too. It’s 2012, and I don’t believe for one second that you truly didn’t know fast food was bad for you. Cigarettes cause cancer and fast-food makes you fat. Soda, too. And ice-cream, and candy, and doughnuts, and cake, you goddamn fucking idiots! EVERYONE knows this, DON’T TELL ME YOU DON’T!

So, Rex Ryan. Do not be proud of yourself. You allowed yourself to weigh 348 pounds because of your gluttonous, lazy, sedentary lifestyle. And you received a Master’s in Physical Education? Did I read that correctly? Shouldn’t one of the last exams you take be a body fat index? You disgust me. No, you sicken me. And do you know what makes me feel utterly justified about this rant? The fact that you are also a miserable, repulsive man with a despicable personality. You’re offensive to all five senses. How you tricked a woman into birthing your child astounds me. Literally baffles me. I can’t think of one thing that you might have said to your wife in your entire relationship with her that could have been interpreted as a compliment. The owner of Chick-Fil-A is wrong. Same-sex unions do not invoke God’s Judgement… Rex Ryan does. And Robert Gibbs does. I can’t imagine how God could look down on Earth, see Rex Ryan and Robert Gibbs with their chocolate cake and Cool Ranch Dorito feedbags strapped around their fat fucking necks, still sucking up precious oxygen from the rest of us (and holy shit, taking up a lot of space in their houses), while distance runners and carb conscious individuals drop dead of heart attacks and develop cancer, and not think, “shit son, I really need to flood this planet and start from scratch.”

That's just how they spoke back then...

Rex Ryan, when that lap band around your stomach finally gives out and you begin to gorge yourself once again upon ANYTHING edible within a three foot radius, I’ll be there. I’ll be there convincing all the people who feel sorry for you to think again. Anyone who says something like, “oh it’s such a shame that poor fellow fell off the wagon” will be invited to my three hour long seminar where I will explain EXACTLY why they should feel the EXACT opposite way. And they will thank me for opening their eyes by writing me a check made out to cash. They will throw parades in the street for me. And perhaps someday, America will weigh a little less. Whether it be because we’ve shamed the fat to lose some weight, or because we removed all the escalators from malls allowing natural selection to take more souls, we’ll be lighter.