Tom Green Vs. A Pissed Off Old Man

I haven't really been a Tom Green fan since oh about... well, I guess I've never been a Tom Green fan. But the beauty of this clip is you don't have to like Tom Green to enjoy it. That's because the star of this insanity is the crazy old Canadian guy who doesn't want anyone messing in his "damn business!"

Dr. Seuss Meets Josef Stalin

Many moons ago I thought I might try my hand at writing children's books. It seemed an easy enough job: be simple, innocent and entertaining. Well, as you can probably tell by the content of this blog, it was the middle part I had trouble with.

Here is a short Dr. Seuss-like poem I wrote during this period. It starts off well but then veers off into someplace dark near the half-way spot.

The Chicken Coup

Have you ever noticed, in television or in books, how chickens in fryer farms live in rows inside tiny little nooks?

They seem to wait there patient, comfortable with their fates, while chefs around the world plan new ways to serve them upon dinner plates.

Well, contrary to popular opinion, which keeps our consciences clear, chickens know their days are numbered and just choose to hide their fear.

They sit inside their cages, kept alive on mere crumbs, and dream of the freedom they’d enjoy had they only been given thumbs.

With the ability to grasp an object, you see, which is exactly what hands can do, they could emulate the Bolsheviks and organize a coup.

It’d start with late night meetings, hushed tones beneath the moon, with a feathered Lenin urging revolution by overthrowing the farmer goons.

Above them would fly banners, held aloft with each chicken’s hand: “Rise Up Poultry Masses” they’d urge, “Down With Colonel Sanders” they’d demand.

Then one fateful day, behind the naive chicken farmers’ backs, handbills from an underground press would appear, signaling the attack.

Pistols would be brandished, pulled from feather lined nests, with wings sporting revolutionary bands and bodies: Kevlar vests.

The farm workers would then be taken, captured by surprise, and single file out the gates marched with blindfolds over their eyes.

Then to show that they meant business, and weren’t shy about blood being shed, the birds would line the workers up and shoot each man in the head.

Each corpse of every farmer would be bulldozed, pushed into a shallow mass grave, the first pawns to be disposed of in a great revolutionary wave.

The flock would soon form a government, by and for its own kind, with every chicken created equal and quite free to speak its mind.

Then chickens the world over would come together, in a great and tearful rejoice, reveling in the knowledge their collective beak had at last been given voice.

But, as with anything good, so would this eventually fail, since it is the nature of things that nothing of virtue shall, in the end, truly prevail.

For from within the flock there would emerge an evil pullet, an ego driven bird, one who held his own views so high as to ban all others’ spoken word.

This feathered Stalin would scour the flock, vigilant for voices of dissent, and silence them with his troopers until the opposition movement was spent.

But I apologize for my long-windedness, and because I have digressed. For this tale of a poultry revolt is not only tiresome but a moot point, at best.

For they know, as well as us, that such things will never be, a chicken’s place is in a cage or on a plate and never roaming free.

So just don’t think poultry are happy with their lives or that they’re merely dumb. It’s just that revolutionaries need dexterity and chickens don’t have thumbs.

Genesis- Social Poets

I have a confession to make, I like Genesis. And, no, not the hip, experimental, alternative Peter Gabriel 1970s Genesis. I mean the "are you fucking serious? they play that shit on adult-contemporary radio" Phil Collins Genesis. So sue me. But, skeletons-in-the-closet aside, here is a video from, say, 1983 where Phil and the boys make a statement on a hot topic of today: immigration.

It's hard to tell whether they want stricter borders or not but who cares? You can't go wrong with Phil Collins in a fake moustache/toupee and a video crammed with every stereotype you can think of.

Jerry Springer's Advice: Pay Cash For Sex

Who knew paying for a blow job with a check might come back and bite you in the ass. Well, obviously Mr. Springer didn't. After airing this 1982 pre-emptive commercial regarding "services rendered" at a Kentucky massage parlor, Springer went on to become Governor of Ohio, then our 40th President... just kidding. He lost and went on make a shit-load of money putting white-trash on national TV.

It's funny, though, after watching the clip I'm still not sure whether he regrets screwing the hooker, or simply writing a check for it.

Thanks to Gorillamask

World's Shortest Kid?

As the shortest kid in my class for most of my youth I think I can see what's going on here. Although the headline says this kid is the one claiming he's a record holder, if you look at the last line of the article you'll get a better feel for who's pushing this story. The parents. This kid has no desire to be pimped 'round the world as some sort of freak. No. He just wants a skateboard or an X-Box. It's his parents who see this genetic "gift" as a quick buck, maybe even an early retirement. In fact, I bet right now his dad's hanging around the chemical plant, fingers-crossed, hoping his next one comes out with two heads.

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Nepal boy claims to be shortest in world

KATMANDU, Nepal - Nepal's shortest boy is waiting for word from the Guinness World Records, where he has applied to be named the shortest in the world, his supporters said on Wednesday.

Khagendra Thapa Magar, 14, is only 20 inches tall and weighs 10 pounds.

According to Min Bahadur Thapa, president of the Khagendra Thapa Magar Foundation, they are expecting to receive a reply from London-based Guinness World Records in the next few days. The foundation was set up to collect funds for the boy.

There was no listing on the Guinness World Records' web site on a shortest boy category, but Thapa claimed their closest competitor was 25 inches tall.

The boy and family members are currently touring south Nepal, seeking support for the foundation.
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Shatner Squared

I remember seeing this on MTV 10-11 years ago (Christ, has it been that long?). It's was as funny then as it is now, that is if you've seen the movie Seven. If you haven't, well, it's still pretty funny.

Is that Carmen Electra as the green alien chick? Anyone?

Beetlejuice's Crib

I'm speechless.

I Come In The Name Of Jesus, Bitch!

This guy must've really been moved by Samuel L. Jackson's "And I will strike down upon thee..." speech from Pulp Fiction. It seems he took some of that, a smidgen Ice T and maybe a little PCP and now he's got Satan asking for a restraining order. Who knows, if this was what my church was like when I was growing up, I might still be going.

WARNING! DEFINITELY NOT SUITABLE FOR WORK AND/OR DAYCARE

You're Pretty High And Far Out, Son.

I've always loved watching old TV Shows as they try to tackle "new" phenomena. Take this 1967 episode of "Dragnet" when Friday and Gannon try to crack a case involving the hippies and their LSD. Jack Webb must've thrown a couple of middle-aged screenwriters in a room with a Beatles album and a run of MAD Magazines and told them not to come out until they'd channeled Pete Seeger. They might as well have been writing about life on the moon.

Midget Rednecks

In 1938, movie producer Jed Buell had an epiphany: people just love midgets! This led to his decision to make a movie in the most popular genre of the day (the western) and cast it entirely with these funny little creatures. The result is The Terror of Tiny Town, a flick that has landed on many critics' "worst movies of all-time" list. Well, we here at Midgets and Serial Killers could not disagree more with these condescending pricks.

Now, I have to warn you, this clip has been screwed with a bit. You see, the person responsible for it has apparantly decided that midgets on horseback are best enjoyed while listening to The Dead Kennedys perform "Rawhide." And and after a couple of viewings, I think I agree.



And now, the trivia--

The hero in this film is an actor by the name of Billy Curtis. You may not recognize the name (I sure didn't) but I think you'll remember him from at least one of these roles:

a) the Munchkin City Father in The Wizard of Oz.
b) Mordecai in High Plains Drifter. (Remember, Clint Eastwood makes him sheriff?)
c) Mayor McCheese in all those 70's and 80's McDonald's commercials.

Confederate Tube Socks and A Rebel Yell

How 'bout another Daily Show report from the always funny Steven Colbert. And, in case you're wondering, the British poet William Idol is one of my favorites, too.

Impressionism, Cubism, Dwarfism

If there's one thing that great Art and Literature has taught me it's that "Dwarf Fascination" is perfectly normal. Why is this? Well, because not only do you and your friends love 'em, but down through the ages some of our highest-regarded artists and writers have also had these other-statured people on the brain.

Take the 15th-century Spanish painter Diego Velazquez, whose work hangs in some of the world's most prestigious museums. As the court painter for Spain's King Philip, it was his responsibility to do portraitures of the Spanish nobility. He was so well-regarded, in fact, that he was also sent to immortalize Italy's royalty, as well as a Pope or two.

In his off hours, though, this artist-to-the-stars had a hobby. He liked to retreat from the company of the blue-bloods and mingle with, and paint, the court jesters. You see, these funny little people were Velazquez' real passion. And, because of this, he has made some of them immortal:

Don Diego de Acedo

Francisco Lezcano

Don Sebastian de Morra

Another example of high-art meeting these, the lowest of people, is the Swedish writer Par Lagerkvist, who won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1951. One of Lagerkvist's most critically-acclaimed novels, in fact the one that put him on the map, is called simply The Dwarf. It is the tale of an evil court jester who lurks in the shadows of his Prince's castle, planning the demise of everyone around him. Here is an excerpt:

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I am twenty-six inches tall, shapely and well proportioned, my head perhaps a trifle too large. My hair is not black like the others', but reddish, very stiff and thick, drawn back from the temples and the broad but not especially lofty brow. My face is beardless, but otherwise just like that of other men. My eyebrows meet. My bodily strength is considerable, particularly if I am annoyed. When the wrestling match was arranged between Jehoshaphat and myself I forced him onto his back after twenty minutes and strangled him. Since then I have been the only dwarf at this court.
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Still one more example is the author Gunther Grass who also won the Nobel Prize for Literature, in 1999. His most famous and widely-regarded novel is The Tin Drum. It is the tale of a child who decides he will never grow up because the adult world is so screwed. Although I haven't read the book I have seen the movie and, let me tell you, it is quite disturbing. Well, at least it was to a kid all of eleven years old...

Let's see, I remember rolling out of bed sometime after midnight and turning on Showtime. Then crouching there in the darkness of our converted garage, trying not only to decipher this strange movie, but listening for the sound of my mother coming out to tell me to get the hell into bed. And I remember that strange moon-faced kid banging the drum. And him looking over as the lady undresses, and where his eyes focus, and what he sees, and what's... next. The drum, it's all I remember, please please, I just remember the drum!

See, it's no wonder I'm into strange things. I was eleven, for Chrissakes. Who watches that kind of thing at eleven! Anyway, it's like I said, don't be embarrassed. This fascination you have with all these strange and disturbing things is perfectly normal. In fact, it just might mean you're special.

Don't Fuck With Keith Richards

Well, actually you can probably mess with him now. Obviously that clip was several kilos of heroin ago and if you ran into him today you could push him down with one hand and drive the stake into his heart with the other.

Bigfoot & Steve Austin Smackdown

This one here's for Mike (a fellow Six Million Dollar Man fan from way back). Strange, though, I seem to remember Steve Austin beating Bigfoot with his own arm after he ripped it off. And, also, here's a factoid you may or may not know: that's Andre the Giant in the monkey suit.

I know, I know they cut it just before Steve enters the space tunnel. What a shame.

Feeling Guilty- re:Shane MacGowan

Although some of us know Shane MacGowan and his work (along with Nick Cave), I realize others don't. Well, I started feeling guilty that some peoples' only exposure to Mr. MacGowan is through the recently posted drunken link (That's if there is really anyone out there, Helloooo?). Anyway, I've gotta post a clip of Shane, semi-sober, doing his thing with Nick Cave. Here they are dueting on "What A Wonderful World."

Once again a hat-tip to Russ

Human Organ Smoothies

A couple of days ago Rob (a fellow bartender and sick mofo) called me and proceeded to clue me in on a long dead serial killer he had stumbled upon. Luckily I was close to a computer because the story he was feeding me seemed not only far-fetched, but downright silly. It is so silly, in fact, so unbelievable, that I cannot and will not try to do it justice here. Like I told Rob, if you tried to make this shit up, people would laugh. And if you were to make a movie of this mad-man you'd have to cast Jim Carrey and make it a screwball comedy. It is that wacky.

Below I will post a few of paragraphs of Richard "The Vampire of Sacremento" Chase's resume-- courtesy of Wikipedia. And, if like me, you still are intrigued, please click on the two links below for more info on this, the craziest mother fucker you've ever heard of.

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Richard Trenton Chase (May 23, 1950 – December 26, 1980) was an American serial killer who killed six people in the span of a month in California. He earned the nickname The Vampire of Sacramento because he drank the blood of his victims and ate their internal organs. He did this as part of a delusion that he needed to prevent Nazis from turning his blood into powder via poison they had planted beneath his soap dish.

Alone in his new apartment, Chase began to capture, kill, and disembowel various animals, which he would then devour raw. He then began to put the entrails of the animals he had killed into a blender in order to make smoothies. Chase reasoned that by drinking these smoothies he was preventing his heart from shrinking; he feared that if it shrank too much it would disappear and then he would die.

Chase then dragged her body to her bedroom and raped it post-mortem while repeatedly stabbing it with a butcher knife. When he had finished, he carved the corpse open and removed several of her internal organs, using a bucket to collect the blood and then taking it in the bathroom to bathe in it. He then sliced off her nipple and drank her blood, using an empty yogurt container as a drinking glass; before leaving, he went into the yard, found a pile of dog feces, and returned to stuff it into the corpse's mouth and throat.

Chase, meanwhile, took David's corpse home with him, where he chopped off his head and used the neck as a straw through which he sucked the blood out of the body. He then sliced the corpse open and consumed several internal organs and made smoothies out of others, finally disposing of the corpse at a nearby church.

Chase also granted a series of interviews with Robert Ressler, during which he spoke of his fears of Nazis and UFOs, claiming that although he had killed, it was not his fault; he had been forced to kill to keep himself alive, which he believed any person would do. He asked Ressler to give him access to a radar gun, with which he could apprehend the Nazi UFOs, so that the Nazis could stand trial for the murders. He also handed Ressler a large amount of macaroni and cheese which he had been hoarding in his pants pockets, believing that the prison officials were in league with the Nazis and attempting to kill him.

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If you are interested the rest of the Vampire of Sacremeto's tale can be found at both Wikipedia and CourtTV's Crime Library.

Shane McGowan Shit-Faced

A few years ago a new bartender (and now friend) introduced me to not only Nick Cave (who I count as one of my favorite artists) but also Shane MacGowan of the Pogues. While Mr. Cave continues recording music that is as good as any around, sadly Mr. MacGowan has continued his downward drunken spiral. Therefore, I hesitantly dedicate this clip to Drew:

And in a "well it could be worse" vein, here is some Russian dude even more tossed than ol' Shane:



I owe a very hearty "hat-tip" to my younger brother Russ. He sent these clips along to me 'cause he felt they were more appropriate for my train wreck of a blog. He has a more established blog of his own, you see, so check please check it out HERE. It may not be as twisted mine but it is, most assuredly, funnier.

Only 50 Or So Years To Go

Someone shoot me if I'm still slinging drinks at this guy's age.

New York's Oldest Bartender Still Mixing Martinis At 90

NEW YORK (AFP) - Retirement is the last thing on Hoy Wong's mind. The New York bartender, who turned 90, plans to carry on mixing martinis just as he has done for the past six decades.

Believed to be the city's oldest working barman, Hong Kong-born Wong shows few signs of wear and tear, despite his four score years and 10, and talks energetically in punchy phrases with a marked accent.

He still pours with a steady hand, just as he did for Marilyn Monroe, Judy Garland and the Duke of Windsor.

Wong fled Hong Kong in 1940, the year before it fell to Japanese forces, and moved to San Francisco where he joined the US Air Force and learnt English. Demobilized in 1946 after serving in India and China, he moved to New York and started serving cocktails two years later.

It was while working in Freeman Chum, considered one of the city's first chichi Chinese restaurants, that he served most of his celebrity clients.

Marilyn Monroe, he remembers, would come to the restaurant for a liquid lunch. "She would have a Beefeater Martini. She was very nice."

Judy Garland, he recalls, was also fond of a tipple: "She was lovely. She liked to drink. She liked it a lot."

Joe Di Maggio would come every Saturday night and sit in a corner. "He would drink Johnny Red and soda, sit for four, five hours. He didn't want to be bothered."

John Lennon and Henry Kissinger would both come to the Algonquin Hotel, his employer for the past 27 years, and shared a taste for Scotch, he adds. He has a clear nostalgia for the New York of times past.

"It was cheaper. The salaries were also lower. I earned 45 dollars a month when I started. Working six and half days a week, 12 to 14 hours a day. A cocktail cost one dollar and a shot of Scotch 75 cents," he reminisces. "Conditions have improved. Now I make 23 dollars an hour."

Wong still works five days a week, spending his entire eight-hour shift on his feet.
His advice for a long life comes down to common sense. "I don't plan to retire. I love my job. I love to meet people. President Bush needs money, he needs income taxes, so I will help."

Low Self-Esteem Rap

I'm not really into rap music but I might be if there were more artists like the 5'4" Skee-lo. Not only does he do a great version of the SchoolHouse Rock classic "The Tale of Mr. Morton," but he is more than willing to poke fun of himself. In this video for his 1995 song "I Wish" he yearns for a few inches and a better car (Oh boy, have I been there).

And, as a bonus, here's another rapper who doesn't take himself too seriously, either. This is Biz Markie semi-butchering Elton John's "Bennie and the Jets."

George W. Bush Loves Fart Jokes

I found this news-item on The Huffington Post:

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Washington Whispers
By Paul Bedard
Posted Sunday, August 20, 2006

Animal House in the West Wing

He loves to cuss, gets a jolly when a mountain biker wipes out trying to keep up with him, and now we're learning that the first frat boy loves flatulence jokes. A top insider let that slip when explaining why President Bush is paranoid around women, always worried about his behavior. But he's still a funny, earthy guy who, for example, can't get enough of fart jokes.

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Doesn't it just make you proud. Our fearless leader, the most powerful man on the planet, just loves fart jokes. No wonder the rest of the world respects us so much. Well, in honor of that, I'm forced to give you a clip of what must be his two favorite performers:

The Tron Guy

It has come to my attention that there are people out there who have no idea who the Tron Guy is (this means you, Rob). Therefore, for educational purposes only, here's a clip of him at Hollywood's Gay Halloween Parade.

Caveman Porn

See, we're helpless. It's in our genes.

Trent Lott's Favorite Cartoon

Holy crap, this Warner Bros. cartoon is racist!

Man's Best Friend

Alright, bear with me. Every once in a while I'm gonna post one of my short-stories. Now, wait... before you blow by them and head to the video of the dwarf and the pinhead, let me explain something. My fiction is every bit as disturbing as the other shit on here. Maybe more so. So if you just don't like to read amateur fiction, you may now go to the freaks. But, if you're like me and you hate reading anything normal or happy, take a moment to peruse this (I'd like to hear what you think).

Once again, this is called Man's Best Friend:

Frank Purcell shifted on the wooden park bench. Peeled the front of his sopping T-shirt from his chest, coughed. It was hot, almost unbearably so. There had not been a breeze all day; the air felt as thick as spun wool. It altered his breath, made each one shallow, tedious. Weighed on him like a stone. Yet he barely noticed it.

Instead, he squinted from under the brim of his battered baseball cap, into the fury of the late afternoon sun. Eyed with hatred the quicksilver form that ran and leapt on the dazzling stretch of green grass before him. It was a Golden Retriever this time, chasing a saliva-soaked tennis ball. One moment the dog lay panting, its belly to the ground, its bright eyes on the hand of its master. The next it was off, bounding across the grass after the flung ball, swift as thought, its narrow feet seemingly never touching the earth.

Purcell watched all this from his vantage point on the park bench, shivering a bit at the palpable loathing that seemed to seep upwards into his throat. He felt his jaws clench of their own accord, sensed the muscles of his belly stretch. Felt his hands draw themselves into fists.

How could everyone not see? He asked himself. How had they been so blinded? At that very moment, halfway around the world, close cousins of these trusted companions trotted in blood-thirsty packs, loped lazy across dusty savannas, ravenous. Salivating as they watched the slow moving herds of wildebeast, ever watchful for the weak or the old or the sick. Could all of mankind not see there was no difference between them? Were they so self assured, so egotistical to believe such a beast might feel enough fondness for its master to suppress a million years worth of instinct? Was he the only one who actually knew the truth?

Even as a child he’d been suspicious. Had often wondered why some people drew dogs to them like honey-hungered flies, had happy hounds licking at them at every turn. His father, in fact, had been one such fellow. Everywhere he went dogs would yip and yelp with tails awagging, leap all over him as if they’d been pining their whole lives for that very moment. He’d seen owners grasping at his father’s shoulder, warning him about their blood-thirsty hounds who strained at lengths of rope, red-eyed and howling at every passing car or pedestrian. Yet the next moment that selfsame dog could be seen barking in pleasure as his dad approached, was soon nuzzling itself wet-nosed in his lap. Why was this? What was there about his father that drew these creatures to him? Certainly not his demeanor. By all accounts he was a dim and gruff man, thoroughly unpleasant. Yet dogs found him irresistible.

It had mystified Purcell for much of his early years, this strange phenomenon. Had confused him the whole of his youth. That is until his father became ill one day. And, after weeks of tests, had been diagnosed with lung cancer. Only then, when the old man began to waste away, coughing up blood for hours in the sour air of his darkened bedroom, only then did he finally realize the answer.

Purcell shifted again on the park bench. He marshaled a small amount of saliva in his dry mouth, spat on the sidewalk. Then gathered himself and rose into the heat as an old man might climb creakily from a recliner.

“I wouldn’t turn my back on him, mister,” he shouted at his shoes, not really concerned whether he was heard or not. “He’d just as soon rip your throat out as fetch your slippers.”

Then he began a slow stroll homeward, along the concrete edges of the park. His feet shuffling beneath him like the whisperings of locusts, slow and arduous as if the heat were a tangible weight upon his shoulders. His head was down. Yet he was alert, watching ever sideways other hounds with their masters. Trying once more to grasp the reason for the deception, wracking his brain once again for the logic behind the madness.

In the beginning, he knew, ancient man had needed these creatures, required them for their hunting skills. Had used them in his pursuit of wild game. But that was thousands of years ago. Somewhere along the way, instead of banishing them to the fields with the rest of his animals, our ancestors had decided these creatures deserved a place in the home. But why? Did it have something to do with man’s domineering urges, his need to control all he saw? Had these animals merely began as slaves of some sort, vassals? Something simply to be kicked around the house?

Well, maybe that was how it all started, Purcell mused, a befuddled smirk stretching sideways across his narrow face. But today it was a different story. Today everywhere one looked one saw poodles in sweaters, and gourmet dog foods, and grown men on their knees gathering up the shit his dog had just left there on the concrete. Now it was often difficult to tell who really was in charge.

Purcell clipped the toe of one sandal on a tilted section of concrete, stumbled a bit. Then looked up and saw an aging fellow being lead his way along the sidewalk by a couple of newly-scissored poodles. Every few steps one or the other of these rat-like hounds would glance nervously over its shoulder, seemingly making certain the old fart was still there, just behind. To the untrained eye it might have appeared they were concerned for his welfare, some might’ve even found it cute. But Purcell knew different. He knew that such sentiments could not be farther from the truth.

Why does one hear so much about dogs befriending the elderly? He asked himself for the umpteenth time. Why was it impossible to turn a corner without tripping over some fading eyed fossil and his doting hound? He had argued such points with so many unhearing imbeciles that such phrases now merely ran roughshod within his own head. Banged impotently against the backs of his weary eyes.

Why did the television news always air stories of the special beast that has found its way to a darkened rest home, now eased the loneliness that once blanketed those there like a pall? Love, you say? Adoration that these simple creatures somehow feel for those that pulled them from the wilderness, gave them the easy life? Bullshit. They are drawn to these, the weakest of our kind, for the same reason that their cousins across the ocean choose the most eldest members of the herd to drag down. Some ancient inner sense is at work, pulling them to our oldest, our weakest, as if they are merely walking carrion. A certain smell, perhaps. Maybe something entirely else. And, indeed, the only reason they do not pull them to the ground and gorge themselves is that after so many generations they have lost that final killer’s instinct. They are simply not quite sure how.

Purcell stumbled into the fading evening, homeward. The remaining fragments of his lifelong argument careering through his head like heat-addled hornets. He pushed through standing crowds, oblivious, muttering.

That’s why they’re drawn to the children. They’re weak, too. The wild dogs of Africa would do the same. The family dog pulls a toddler from a raging river and is praised as a hero. Again, bullshit. Instead it'd simply noticed that a nice meal was in jeopardy of being swept away, was saving it for itself. And the same is true when a barking dog saves a family from a burning house. It just knew that if it did not act the fire would enjoy the meat that was deservedly his. Purcell’s father, that’s why the dogs had loved him so. They’d smelled the cancer in him, years before it ever leaped out of its dormant sleep. Before it ate him alive. They knew it was there. And knew they wanted to be near when it did.

He looked up, noticed he was home. The gate to the small yard before him, his hand already resting on the latch. He lived over his elderly mother’s garage, in a small muggy room with one hanging light bulb. As he had for years. Ever since he’d been kicked out of the army for using his M-16 to kill several dogs that kept sniffing around the garbage cans at his barracks.

It wasn’t so terrible, though. He didn’t pay rent, and he had his own TV. Really, the only bad thing was that his mother had a dog. One she worshipped. One of those tiny bug-eyed little things that spend their days yapping, and shitting everywhere, and shivering like they lived in the goddamned Arctic. It was, Purcell’s mother often told him, the son who’d never disappointed her. But even this really wasn’t so bad ‘cause the jittery weasel was scared of Purcell, petrified in fact. Even though he'd never even kicked it, not once. And if the little shit was out in the yard when Purcell came around, the little bastard simply ran to the back porch and hid.

Well, that’s the way it usually happened. But not today. No. Instead, just as Purcell opened the gate, just as he stepped in, he noticed a quick flurry of motion near him, at the edge of his vision, in the emerald wash of the lawn. He started, looked down. And saw that fuzzy little freak there. Its tiny tail awagging, its tiny tongue lolling all happy to see him. Purcell froze. He felt his throat close in on itself, his breath catch. He shuddered and took a step back.

“Get away from me, you fuck,” he hissed, poking out with his foot.

But the tiny freak was lightning quick. It merely sidestepped a bit, pushed its tongue out and licked his ankle. Purcell felt a shriek force its way out of his mouth at this miniscule swab of moisture, break from his throat and rise into the burgundy sky. He tripped, then gathered himself and leapt off toward the steep steps that led up to his room. He stumbled over the rough walk in a daze, near fell. He felt the tiny dog hard on his heels. Heard its nails chitter along the walk like a tiny spray of sleet, its breath huffing thin like a sparrow's behind him.

He reached the bottom of his stairs in no time and churned up the steps. His heart hammering like an iron mill in his chest, his lungs on fire. And, at the top, paused a moment to push the yipping beast back with a tentative toe. Then slipped in the door.

He stood for a minute there, in the darkness, leaning against the door, his cheek pressed against jamb. He listened to the muffled whimpers, the tiny paws scratching low at the weathered wood. Then he turned, hurriedly, and lurched through the darkness, stumbled into his bathroom. Fell to his knees. And leaning over the toilet, his hands on the tiles, the porcelain hard into his chest, began to throw up blood.

Alright, We're Back

Here are a couple of clips from the bizarre and always funny Mr. Show:

I'm With A Rapist


I Fuckin' Do

An Intermission

Alright, let's take a short break from the death and destruction to watch a favorite clip from my youth:

Chicks Dig Morbid Trivia

One thing you learn as a bartender is what works with the ladies. See, not only are we sober and you're not. But we're also there night after night. So, through clear eyes and sheer repetition, we see which opening lines are gold and which ones are simply t-minus masturbation.

What's my point? Well, I guess I'm feeling generous in my old age. Call it middle-aged compassion. Or simply call it charity. Whatever. But, out of the kindness of my heart, I've decided to bequeath upon you the ancient truth that men have searched for throughout the ages. Namely, that chicks dig morbid trivia. In fact, the creepier, the better.

And so, without further ado, I give you my top-ten list of macabre, panty-dropping trivia (in quiz format). So please feel free to play along while you memorize.

First off, let me start with a couple of easy ones in case you're sniffing around someone who thinks that being cultured means watching MTV 2:

Q) What song inspired Charles Manson and his Family's murderous rampage?
A) "Helter Skelter" by The Beatles.

Q) What novel not only caused the leader of Iran to issue a fatwa against the author but also inspired a $1,000,000 bounty on his head?
A) The Satanic Verses by Salman Rushdie.

Alright, enough of the easy shit, here is the heavy artillery (with answers below):

1) After shooting JFK (or being framed for it if that's your conspiracy du jour), Lee Harvey Oswald slipped into a movie theater. He was sitting there in the dark when he was arrested. What movie was playing?

2) Towards the end of his life Elvis Presley had bowel problems. Some claim it was because of all the prescription drugs he popped, others say it was a medical condition. Who cares? All you need to know is that he used to spend hours on the shitter. In fact, after his girlfriend found him in there at 1:30 p.m. on August 17th, 1977, she said he'd been in there for about 7 of 'em. She also said she hadn't really been worried because it was pretty normal. Anyway, when he'd gone in there he'd told her he was going to read awhile. What book was he reading?

3) On Sept. 11, 2001, just as the planes hit were hitting the Twin Towers, George W. was in a classroom in Florida listening to children read aloud. The story so intrigued him that he at first ignored the gravity of the situation and stayed to see how the story turned out. What was the book?

4) John Hinckley, Jr. shot President Reagan for one reason: he thought it'd impress someone (obviously he never tried any of my trivia). Who was he obsessed with?

5) On December, 8, 1980 Mark David Chapman shot and killed John Lennon as he returned to his New York apartment. What book was Chapman carrying at the time?

6) On May 19th, 1983, Diane Downs packed up her 3 kids in her Nissan and took them for a late night ride outside Springfield Oregon. Once she'd found the perfect spot she pulled over and shot them all point-blank, killing one. What song was playing on the car stereo as she plugged them?

7) On Sept. 7, 1996, after watching the Mike Tyson beat Bruce Seldon, Tupak Shakur climbed in Suge Knight's BMW. They were headed to the Death-Row Records owned club 662; they did not make it. At about 11:14 pm, while stopped at an intersection, Tupak was gunned down in a drive-by shooting. What album were they listening to?

8) As we all know Abraham Lincoln was a theater buff. In fact, he was sitting in the balcony at the Ford Theatre when John Wilkes Booth snuck up and blew his brains out all over the mezzanine. Well, what play was he watching?

9) On July 23, 1983, while filming a major-motion picture, Vic Morrow was decapitated in an accident, as was a child-actor he was carrying. The other child he carried was crushed to death. What movie was he filming?

10) Around 4 pm on July 18, 1984, James Oliver Huberty grabbed his Uzi, his shotgun and his 9mm and told his wife he was "going to hunt humans." Moments later he walked into his neighborhood San Diego McDonalds and shot 40 people, killing 21 of them. What song was playing on the boombox he was carrying?

Answers:
1) War is Hell starring Audie Murphy.
2) The Scientific Search for the Face of Jesus by Frank O. Adams
3) The Pet Goat by Siegfried Engelmann and Elaine C. Bruner
4) Jodie Foster
5) The Catcher in the Rye by J. D. Salinger
6) "Hungry Like The Wolf" by Duran Duran
7) The Don Killuminati: The 7 Day Theory by Tupak Shakur
8) Our American Cousin by Tom Taylor
9) Twilight Zone: The Movie
10) "The Warrior" by Scandal

And one bonus question (in case it's a Goth chick you're hustling):

Q) What album was Ian Curtis of Joy Division listening to when he hung himself?
A) The Idiot by Iggy Pop

Chopper! The Musical!

My brother Russ knows how much I loved the movie Chopper so he sent this clip along. If you haven't seen the movie, rent it. If you have, enjoy this re-imagination of it.

CLICK HERE TO VIEW

By the way, in case you're wondering, Mark "Chopper" Read is a real person. He also has no ears (as we learn in the movie he had a fellow inmate saw them off). Below is a picture of him sans ears and here is a link to his HOME-PAGE.

George W. Bush-- Soft On Inbreeding

Maybe you missed this story during all the Terrorist Plot/JonBenet Ramsey hullaballoo. And, if you ask me, I'm sure that's exactly what Karl Rove had planned.

Well, now you know:
Republicans-- Evil, Incompetent and Cousin Fuckers.

Bush pardons moonshining 'Deliverance' actor

By Robert Yoon
CNN Washington Bureau

WASHINGTON (CNN) -- By granting
absolution to a convicted moonshiner, George W. Bush also earned the unique distinction of becoming the first president to pardon a cast member of the 1972 Academy Award-nominated movie "Deliverance."

Randall Leece Deal of Clayton, Georgia, had a small role in the film about four Atlanta businessmen who have unpleasant encounters with locals during a north Georgia canoe trip.

For the last 16 years, Deal, 66, has worked at the Rabun County Sheriff's Department, a far cry from his life in the early 1960s when he was convicted on two counts of violating liquor laws and one count of conspiring to violate liquor laws.

Pull The Strings!

Just a clip of Bela Lugosi from Ed Wood's infamous Bride of the Monster. It's not the "pull the strings" speech from Ed Wood that Martin Landau nailed, but it's great nonetheless.



Oh, and here's the apartment in which Ed Wood died...


and Bela Lugosi in his casket.

Dream Vacation

If you're like me, you've always dreamed of a certain type of vacation. One you've spent your whole life fantasizing about, drove yourself crazy scrimping and saving for. The kind you that just might make your whole life complete. You know what I'm talking about, right? The one where you criss-cross the globe visiting the death-sites of celebrities. Ah, the photos, the memories. That sense of absolute satisfaction as you stand in the exact spot where these famous people breathed in their last.

Well, if you are like me then it always seemed to be just out of your grasp, especially now that airline prices have gone through the roof (along with the therapy bills).

Well, if this is the case, I have great news. That's because I've stumbled onto this awesome site where, get this, you can visit all these places without leaving the comfort of your home. It's called Find A Death and it is definitely truth in advertising. That's because once there you're always just one click away from seeing:

The exact spot where Robert Blake shot Bonnie Lee Blakly


The bed in which John Candy suffered his fatal heart attack.


The apartment that not only Keith Moon died in, but also "Mama" Cass Elliot four years earlier.


And even the bed that John Belushi overdosed in. (That's the web-site purveyor, aren't you jealous?)


There are many more photos there (and even a few dead bodies if you're up to it). So when you are feeling a bit down please feel free to visit this amazing, life-altering site and simply click click click your way to back to bliss.

Carlin's Inconvenient Truth

PART 1



PART 2

Tod Browning Threw A Hell Of A Party

Tod Browning directed the original Dracula. You know, the one with Bela Lugosi. That in itself sets him apart from 99% of everyone else who've ever made films. But he was also fascinated with the circus and, more importantly, with their freakshows. In fact, he even ran away with the Ringling Brothers when he was 16. What's my point? Well, after the success of Dracula, Browning used the substantial pull it gave him to make the movie of his dreams: FREAKS. And so, without further ado, I give you not just a scene from this "classic," but perhaps one of the most disturbing spectacles ever put on celluloid.

The Holy Trinity of Celebrity Mugshots

Alright, so we've all heard of Mel Gibson's alcoholic/anti-Semitic shenanigans. They were, in one word, awesome. But, as insane as they were, there is one thing missing which hinders its ascension into the echelon of great celebrity fuckups: visuals. Maybe the arresting officers lent him a comb, or perhaps a little gel. Whatever it is, he just doesn't look that nuts. Oh well, there's always next time.

For comparison (and shits and giggles) I've also posted the gold-standards of celebrity mugshots.



James "the hardest working man in showbiz" Brown


Nick "I'm doing research for Down and Own in Beverly Hills II" Nolte


Glen "Hhhrrzzahhmmrrrggammrgh" Campbell


Thanks to Maxim magazine for photos.

Comments, Grievances, Death Threats

It was just brought to my attention that I'd erred on my "comments" settings. As of now you don't have to be logged on to say anything, be it constructive, humorous or snide. And remember, because you have the option of anonymity, you can even fire off a death threat.

Donald Duck Was A Nazi

Just kidding. Although Walt Disney and Adolf Hitler held some of the same beliefs, Uncle Walt obviously knew it was in his best interests to loan a character to the anti-Nazi cause. Mickey, on the other hand, remained strangely quiet about the Third Reich's doings.

Strange, Subversive Art

I was screwing around in the internet "tubes" and stumbled onto this
artist's site. His name is Banksy and not only is he talented, he's
also out there.

Muresan, Manute and... Ming Ming?

I've posted clips of two of my all-time favorite ballers, Manute Bol and Gheorghe Muresan (I'm sure you know why I love 'em). I was inspired to do this because I recently came across a news-item that made my day (it is posted below). Hopefully we are about to see the birth of the newest NBA star/freakshow.






Legend Signs World’s Seventh Tallest Man
By Joshua Kinder, Dodge City Daily Globe
March 30, 2006

Move over Yao Ming, there’s a new Chinese star looking for the riches of playing in the NBA, and believe it or not, he’s even bigger than the 7-foot-5-inch Houston Rockets star. Standing an astonishing 7-foot-9-inches and weighing 370 pounds, Sun Ming Ming signed this week with the Dodge City Legend in the hopes of developing his game to make a run at the next level.

Sun, just 22 years old, came to the United States a little more than a year ago and declared for the 2005 NBA Draft, but was not selected, mainly due in large part to the consensus of NBA scouts and coaches that thought he lacked speed and mobility at his size. But much of his poor stamina was traced back to a brain tumor attached to his pituitary gland, thus making him grow at a much faster rate and more fatigued, quicker.

He had the tumor removed this past August and has since been given a clean bill of health, said Legend head coach and general manager Dale Osbourne.Osborne just returned from a trip to Ventura, Calif., where Sun has been living and working out the last six months. He's been practicing with Ventura Junior College to help get back in playing shape.And his next stop is Dodge City, where he'll make his professional debut and try to get back on the NBA Draft board.

See, Religious Extremism CAN Be Funny

Now YOU Can Own Ted's Underwear

A friend of mine (Mike) sent this along.

Lessee, ol' Ted spent the better part of 20 years living in a shack with no running water... I'm guessing no matter what personal item you get it will definitely smell like revolution.

UNABOMBER'S BELONGINGS TO BE SOLD ONLINE

Saturday, August 12, 2006; Posted: 4:42 p.m. EDT

SACRAMENTO, California (AP) -- A federal judge has ordered personal items seized in 1996 from Unabomber Theodore Kaczynski's Montana cabin to be sold online.
U.S. District Judge Garland Burrell Jr. ruled Thursday that items belonging to Kaczynski -- including books, tools, clothing and two checkbooks -- should be sold at a "reasonably advertised Internet auction."
The auction will not include 100 items the government considers to be bomb-making materials, such as writings that contain diagrams and "recipes" for bombs.
U.S. Marshals Service will contract the sale with an Internet auctioneer who will bear the cost and receive no more than 10 percent of the proceeds.
The remaining revenues from the sale will be applied to the $15 million in restitution that Burrell ordered Kaczynski to pay his victims.
Kaczynski, 64, is serving a life sentence with no possibility of parole for a bombing spree that lasted from 1978 to 1995. The blasts from homemade bombs killed three people and injured 23.
Kaczynski was arrested at his cabin in Lincoln, Montana, in April 1996.

What the F@#%?

Cat-Breeding Gone Awry

Nobody does creepy/funny better than THE ONION.


I Think I'm Going About This Cat-Breeding Thing All Wrong

By Stan Morrow
Cat Breeder
April 1, 1998

Last October, my dear wife Lois passed on. The first few months after her death were extremely difficult for me, as I missed her very much. Then, one day, my pastor recommended I take up a hobby to help me get my mind off things.

Now, I've always been what you might call a lover of cats, so I decided to take up cat-breeding. And, while nothing will ever replace my Lois, I have found cat-breeding to be an extremely enjoyable pastime. Only problem is, after months of trying, I still haven't seen a single litter from those furry little gals. I'm beginning to think I'm going about this cat-breeding thing all wrong.

To be honest, I haven't the slightest idea what the problem is. As far as I can tell, I'm doing everything right. I wait until they're well in heat, rubbing up against me and yowling to be serviced. At that point, I bring them out back to the shed, where I've prepared a special breeding area.

It's cool and dark in the shed, just the way cats are supposed to like it. There are candles and nice music, too. (Actually, those are mostly for me. I know it sounds selfish, since I'm not the one giving birth to the kittens, but I like the experience to be special for me, too.) I've even laid down soft blankets where the actual breeding takes place, and put up chicken wire so my skittish lovelies can't run far if they get scared.

At that point, I'm ready to consummate the breeding process. Gently but firmly, I hold them down with one hand while I carefully and lovingly breed them with the other. You'd be surprised–the tail hardly gets in the way at all. Sometimes I'm afraid I'm hurting them, but all the books I've read say that cats tend to yowl and scratch when breeding, so I usually don't worry too much. (Heck, I yowl and scratch, too, sometimes.) The worst was the time Mrs. Purrs slashed my thigh. She couldn't help it, though—cats' instincts are so strong.

According to the books, the actual mechanical act of cat-breeding only takes a few seconds, but, just to be sure, I usually breed each cat for about 30 to 40 minutes.

It seems like I'm doing everything correctly. But after months of trying, not a single kitten has been produced. So, for the past few weeks, I've been breeding them twice as hard and long, making sure to get each of my darlings right on the money. Especially Princess. I've really enjoyed breeding her. She's a delicate Persian with a long, white coat that's just gorgeous. She's always been my favorite. I've rung her bell loud and long, and for weeks I've been imagining tiny little kittens with her beautiful coat and twinkling eyes.

But still, even after redoubling my efforts, none of them has yet to catch pregnant. Bewildered by my lack of success, I went to the doctor last Saturday to get myself checked out. Except for an unusual amount of lacerations and scrapes in my "area," the doctor said I seemed just fine. Not only that, all my tests came back negative. Obviously, either there's something wrong with my method, or there's something wrong with my precious little ones.

Concerned, I dropped off Princess, Dusty and Mrs. Purrs at the veterinarian the other day, and explained the problem. Yesterday, though, I got a call back from the receptionist at the vet's office, and she seemed very upset. For some reason, they won't let me have the cats back. I was shocked–I'd tried so hard to get it right. I hung up the phone, determined to learn more about the breeding process.

I've been reading ever since. I'll breed those cats again someday. I can feel it.

The Real Gay Conspiracy

Just a rant/theory I wrote for the OREGONIZM magazine. Looks like it won't get published so I thought I'd post it here.

Okay, so here's the skeleton in my closet: weeks go by and I never think about gays. I know this might seem strange when TV is saturated with shows like Queer Eye for the Straight Guy and SpongeBob SquarePants and everyone's still talking about Brokeback Mountain. But, seriously, I wake up every day, go to work, come home, watch some tube and never once think about hot man-on-man sex.

Why is this newsworthy, you ask? Why? Well, because to a certain, shall we say, "conservative" section of our society, homos are like that song you can never get out of your head. In other words, they have sodomy on the brain. And, because of this fixation, they believe stopping these "deviants" just might be the most important thing in the whole damn world.

So why is this? Do these right-wing evangelicals have, as claimed, an all-consuming desire to protect the sanctity of marriage? To promote the values in "their" Bible? To stop the gay conspiracy? Hell no. Gay sex merely keeps these ideologues awake at night in the same way Pamela Anderson gives our nation's heterosexual 15 year-old boys insomnia. It turns them the fuck on.

You see, when a Rush Limbaugh fan notices the UPS guy in his office bending over to lift a parcel, his first instinct is not to wonder if the guy needs help. No, it is to wonder if he quivers at first penetration, if he whimpers. If, perhaps, he likes it rough.

Well then, what about the red-necks who come out in droves when their right-wing puppet masters tug their strings? They're not really religious. So what drives them to the voting booth whenever there's anti-gay legislation on the ballot? How do they justify their bigotry?

They claim it's just not right. Seeing them faggots kissing on the street and then having to picture them corn-holing each other-- it's goddamn disgusting. Well then, what about old people. They fuck, too. Don't they? Won't thinking about them having sex make you lose your appetite for a month? And what about fat people? And midgets? And, for that matter, what about the 99.9% of all heterosexual Americans you wouldn't want to see naked, let alone screwing each other? Is banning all of them from marrying what these hillbillys are really after? Of course not. Because they don't think about all those other people screwing. They only think about gay sex. All day. All night. Just hot, sweaty, gay sex…

This, then, is their dilemma. The Rednecks, the Republicans and the Religious Right. Everywhere there are temptations. Everywhere. The coffee guy, the cabby, the guy at the gym. And the garbage man-- that dirty, dirty garbage man.

They're just like the rest of us, you see, these confused, tormented right-wingers. Except that, unlike us, every enticement on TV or on the street is not a socially acceptable, female wank-a-thon. No, to them, to the conservative, every dick-twitcher is forbidden fruit. Hairy, rugged forbidden fruit your parents would disown you for and your job would fire you over... ooh, I hate me. I hate me.

"NO!" the Bill O'Reilly drone sobs into his pillow at night. "NO! It's dirty, disgusting. I must fight it! We…We must fight it!"

And so the struggle continues. "Gay Marriage is a sin," they shout everyday from their pulpits in church, on Fox News, on Capitol Hill. "The Homo Cabal must not win!" When, in their heart of hearts, these right-wingers actually want it to win.

That's because deep down they have a dream, each and every one of them. A dream that someday the world will accept them for who and what they truly are. That it will judge them not on the subject of their sexual fantasies, but on the content of their character. Oh yeah, and that George Clooney will tie them up and fist-fuck them.

I Have A Dream... and Emphysema

Ultimate Conspiracy Theory

I am a huge fan of conspiracy theories. JFK, 9/11, Bilderberg, whatever. In fact, the crazier, the better. Well, a few months ago I stumbled onto one that takes the cake.

This guy claims that not only did Mark Fuhrman frame O.J., he also committed the murders using scenarios plucked from T.V. and movie scripts such as Columbo, Matlock, and even Swamp Thing. Confused? So am I. Below I've posted a few excerpts to give you an idea of his "Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon" investigative system.
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Fuhrman claimed that he was "play acting" and deliberately going over the top to shock Laura Hart. He said that he was assuming the role of a character made up of characters from the movies, from characters on network TV like Andy Sipowicz (Dennis Franz) in NYPD Blue. If the name Andy and the actor who plays him didn’t figure so big in movie and television connections to the Bundy killings he might have a case. But they do. Andy is the name of Rosemary’s Baby, the name of the kid that Chucky in Child’s Play tries to possess and the lawyer with AIDS in Philadelphia. Andy Garciastarrs in Jennifer Eight and Dead Again. Dennis Franz appears in Blow Out, Dressed to Kill and The Package. Andy Griffith is Ben Matlock.

Look again at the coins on Nicole’s driveway and the ones Blake leaves with his jailers. Look at them through the prism of the 1982 Police Squad! television series’ opening credits. All six episodes begin with ridiculous, six to ten second scenes introducing Leslie Nielsen, Alan North and "Rex Hamilton as Abraham Lincoln." In this version of what happened in the President’s box (Mary the boxer’s wife) of Ford’s Theater, Abe and Mary have their backs to the stage when the President somehow gets his hat shot off with two bullets fired into the bunting of the rail behind him. He wheels and fires two shots of his own. Alexander (Rex backward) Hamilton and Abraham Lincoln have two well-known things in common. Both were killed with single-shot pistols and their pictures appear on paper money – Hamilton on a $10 bill and Lincoln on a five. Look what happens when you add a zero to the five. You get a fifty with Ulysses S. Grant. Put a decimal point in front of the ten and you get ten cents with Franklin D. Roosevelt (Frank Drebin).

The "D" that Bob drops on Elvira’s head (Nicole was hit in the head) comes from the word DUCK, the second film in a G-rated double feature.The first feature is called WILDLIFE ADVENTURE. The second is HOW TO HUNT DUCK. Bob had taken down the LIFE (taking a life?) part of WILDLIFE from the first feature and the HUNT from the second feature when he dropped the D on Elvira’s head. Remember that Mark Fuhrman used the word "cocksucker" with Laura Hart as a substitute for "motherfucker" for his "down and dirty" example of "cop talk" and he implied doing violence to anyone who called him a motherfucker. With this said you can see what’s coming the instant Elvira spots the second E in MATINEE and insists on "correcting" the spelling by climbing up Bob’s ladder and taking down the final E. Holding her hand over the part of the E (as in Elvira) that turns it into an F, she slips and regains her balance by falling against the marquee. The position of her head in this context means nothing to anyone but Mark Fuhrman. Here, it becomes a substitute for the word "mother." You know what the F stands for in MF. But did you know that Cassandra Peterson’s husband, the
producer of Elvira, is named Mark?

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If you're still interested you can go HERE and either a) crack the case or b) see what happens when a lunatic somehow gets his hands on a word processor.

How to Succeed in Sales

A funny and truly bizarre clip from the hit or miss Upright Citizens Brigade. Strangely enough, this is the exact same advice my father gave me and my brothers when we left home. So, lets see: (3 of us) x (say 20 years each) x (3000 pennies a day) ...

Men's Synchronized Swimming

One of my all-time favorite SNL sketches. It features Martin Short at his best: playing someone not quite all there. (Too bad it's not the whole thing)

Top Ten All-time Dwarfs

Just published in a Portland Magazine (Oregonizm), this is my attempt at ranking the unrankable--who can play favorites with their children? And, just in case you're wondering:

a) Billy Barty was included in the first draft (coming in a strong 3rd). I had to yank him when the editor/publisher said he had no idea who Mr. Barty was. At only 27 years old I guess he missed the whole Dr. Shrinker/Sigmund and the Seamonsters craze. (No wonder kids are so screwed up today).

b) According to the Little People of America (LPA), anyone under 4'10" is technically a dwarf. This means you, Gary Coleman!

1) Tattoo (Herve Villechaize); d. Sept. 4, 1993. (3'11")-
Most famous for his ‘78- ‘84 role as Mr. Rourke’s sidekick on Fantasy Island (“Da plane, Boss!”), Villechaize’s "acting" career actually started ten years earlier. In 1974 he even co-starred with James Bond, playing evil henchman/assassin Nick Nack in The Man With the Golden Gun. In the end, though, with no money left and in severe pain due to his freakishly undersized torso, he took a gun in his nubby little hands and shot and killed himself.

2) Gary Coleman; b. Feb 8, 1968. (4'8")-
Although Emmanuel Lewis (Webster) got to spend a few years as Michael Jackson’s personal fuck toy, it was Gary Coleman who dominated the 80's undersized, television child-star wars. His Diff’rent Strokes line “What you talkin’ ‘bout, Willis” was a cultural catchphrase and just recently VH-1 voted him the #1 child star of all time. Whether it's appearances on The Surreal Life or running for Governor against The Terminator, he's the dogshit we just can’t seem to scrape off of our collective shoe.

3) Mini-Me (Verne Troyer); b. Jan. 1, 1969. (2'8")-
Best known for playing Dr. Evil’s tiny henchman in Austin Powers and for pissing on the carpet on The Surreal Life, Verne Troyer actually began his career doing stunt work. In fact, before Mike Myers began whoring out his aborted-fetus physique, Troyer had already played a 9-month old baby (Baby’s Day Out), a young gorilla (Mighty Joe Young) and a sadistic puppet (Pinocchio’s Revenge). Now he’s hanging out with Hef and screwing Playboy Bunnies. Go figure

4) Tony Cox; b. Nov.10, 1945. (3'0")- After making his feature film debut in Cheech and Chong’s Nice Dreams, Cox worked as an Ewok in Return of the Jedi and the two Ewok TV Movies. It wasn’t until the 90's that he really hit his stride, though, leaving George Lucas’ pedophilic/Care-Bear infatuations far behind. In recent years he’s had substantial roles in Friday, Me, Myself & Irene and Bad Santa. It's just too bad "Dwarf Movie Stars" are really only a half-step above "Gay Porn Stars" on today's Hollywood Power List.

5) R2D2 (Kenny Baker); b. Aug. 24, 1934. (3'8")- Although you may not recognize his face, Kenny Baker holds the distinction of being one of only two actors to appear in all six Star Wars films (the other: Anthony Daniels as C3PO). He was even a double threat in Return of the Jedi, playing both R2D2 and an Ewok. To see him in all his freakishly-stunted glory (sans masks and circuitry) just rent The Elephant Man, Time Bandits or 24 Hour Party People. Then keep your eyes open for the mutant looking everyone in the crotch.

6) General Tom Thumb (Charles Sherwood Stratton); d. July 15, 1883. (2'9")-
One of P.T. Barnum’s first big draws, Gen. Tom Thumb became world famous after a tour of Europe in which he twice appeared before Queen Victoria. He was so well-known that his 1863 marriage (to fellow midget Lavinia Warren) was front-page news the world over. In fact, the newly wedded couple was received by Abraham Lincoln at the White House. It is not known for sure if he peed on the Oval Office carpet, or tried to hump Lincoln's dog.

7) Willow (Warwick Davis); Feb 3, 1970. (3'6")-
After getting his start as the head Ewok in Return of the Jedi, Warwick Davis went on to land the titular lead in Willow, the role of Prof. Flitwick in the Harry Potter series and prominent gigs in Ray and Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. He also runs Willow Personal Management, the largest dwarf acting agency in the world. So if you’re creeped out each Christmas when every goddamn commercial seems to have a gaggle of elves prancing about, now you know where to send the shrapnel-laden fruitcake.

8) Hank the Angry Drunken Dwarf (Henry Nasiff); d. Sept. 4, 2001. (4'1")-
Hank was “discovered” after showing up wasted in the lobby of Howard Stern’s radio show. This led to regular on-air appearances showcasing his main talents: being angry and wasted. He is then sent on the road, making appearances across the country where he always showed up, you guessed it, wasted. Long story short: drinking led to seizures and seizures led to death. Ah, fame.

9) Wee-Man (Jason Acuna); b. May 16, 1973. (4'7")-
Let’s see... what do kids love these days: skateboards, watching people get hit in the nuts and dwarfs. Hmm, who does that remind me of? Oh yeah. Although he started off as a professional skater Jason Acuna didn’t hit the big time until he hooked up with the Jackass crew and started screwing aardvarks and eating human feces. From there he landed a gig hosting a show on Fox Sports and doing voice work on Tony Hawk’s Underground 2. If only he could get his dignity back.

10) Webster (Emmanuel Lewis); b. March 9, 1971 (4'3")-
Just as Coke has it’s Pepsi and Nike it’s Reebok, so did Gary Coleman have his Emmanuel Lewis. Just picture it: a show featuring a cute, black kid living with a well-to-do white family strikes a nerve in Reagan’s racist/elitist America and rockets up the Nielsen’s. First reaction: copy it! From ‘83-‘86 Webster not only helped “white” America feel good about itself but also made us forget Reagan called Nelson Mandela a terrorist.

Tattoo sings

What better way to kick it all off than with the song-stylings of the greatest other-statured star of all time. And so, from beyond the grave, here's Mr. Herve Villechaize:

My manifesto

Alright, I admit it. Strange people intrigue me, always have. I want to figure out how they function in a world not quite made for them, how they survive day to day. But they also make me nervous. Very nervous. That's why I watch them at a distance. From across the food court, perhaps, while pretending to read the newspaper. Or from the safety of my car. What I'm getting at is I'm no Jane Goodall. See, I don't want to be accepted into their social groups, or even make conversation with them. And I sure as hell don't want them touching me. I just want to kick back, in hiding, and observe them. So give me a misshapen priest, or a paraplegic Eskimo, or (my white whale) a MIDGET SERIAL KILLER and I'm happy. Just keep them at a safe distance and, for God's sake, don't let them make eye contact!