midgets and serial killers

Tough Crowd

2007-06-01T21:53:00.000-07:00

Man shot dead for bad singing in Philippine karaoke bar
Thu May 31, 4:21 AM ET
MANILA (AFP) - A jobless man was shot dead by a security guard for singing out of tune in a Philippine karaoke bar, police said Thursday.
Romy Baligula, 29, was halfway through his song on Tuesday night in a bar in San Mateo town, east of Manila, when 43-year-old security guard Robilito Ortega yelled that he was out of tune. As Baligula ignored his comments and continued singing, Ortega pulled out his revolver and shot him in the chest.
Senior Superintendent Felipe Rojas said Baligula died instantly. The security guard was detained by an off-duty policeman shortly after the shooting.
Deaths and violence are not uncommon in Philippine karaoke bars.The popular Frank Sinatra song "My Way" has been taken off many karaoke bars in Manila after it was found to be the cause of fights and even deaths when patrons sang out of tune.

Conan Calls Bullshit On Sick Day

2007-05-25T03:28:00.000-07:00

If only we could pull this with (name withheld for legal reasons), one of the bartenders I work with.

Creepiest Tattoo Ever?

2007-05-21T00:11:00.001-07:00

Dick Cheney vs. The Hippies

2007-05-17T05:20:00.000-07:00

Now, I'm as liberal as the next guy (hell, I voted for Gore and Kerry) but that doesn't mean I'm knee-jerk. See, I can tell when someone's being an asshole no matter what side of the aisle they're on. Like this next clip: I know we all should be cutting down on gas consumption, perhaps riding our bikes more, but that's a personal decision. What we don't need is a bunch of unemployed hippie-fruitcakes riding around on their bikes blocking traffic to tell us this. So sue me if I take a little personal satisfaction from this old fart saying "screw you" and barrelling through 'em like so many unwashed bowling pins.

Crazy Anti-Car Protesters - Watch more free videos

Hell On Wheels

2007-05-14T04:21:00.000-07:00

Ever wonder Stephen Hawking might be like if he was less Albert Einstein and more Charlie Sheen? Neither had I until I stumbled onto this story.

The Spanish newspaper Ideal Gallego reports today on one of the strangest traffic offences ever to be seen in Spain. It happened last Friday when drivers on the motorway in Ferrol were surprised to see a disabled man travelling along the road in his motorised bed. The paper says that 42 year old Antonio Navarro, who is 95% disabled, and who drives and controls his motorised bed with his mouth, had got drunk and was intending to visit ‘Jade’ a local whorehouse, but took a wrong turning off a local roundabout.

To Go Where No Midget Has Gone Before

2007-05-13T04:34:00.000-07:00

Perhaps you know John and Greg Rice from the TV show Real People, as do I. Or from those annoying real estate "You, too, can make $$$" infomercials. But what you may haven't known is that, until Greg died in 2005, they were officially the world's shortest twins (now that title has apparently passed to Mike and Pat Short of Creswell, Oregon). Which brings me in a roundabout way to today's post. One Halloween, in college, I was witness to the Short boys donning their infamous good Capt. Kirk/evil Capt. Kirk costumes. After spending several years in therapy I thought I was cured. Until, that is, I witnessed this...

This Won't Hurt A Bit

2007-05-10T04:40:00.000-07:00

I knew there was a reason this kind of hippie, new-age, alternative medicine crap scared me.

Telemarketer= Rapist, Life Destroyer

2007-05-09T04:04:00.000-07:00

This lady has obviously had it with all the telemarketing calls she's been getting. Oh, and I think she's stopped taking her medication.

Thanks again to Russ.

m-i-c-k-e-y m-o-u-s... DIE INFIDEL!

2007-05-09T03:54:00.000-07:00

I guess I shouldn't be surprised at this, but it's disturbing nonetheless:

DUII Sobriety Test Tip #23

2007-05-05T21:54:00.000-07:00

Don't deride the state trooper's "pussy-ass" tests unless you're damn sure he isn't taser happy. Better yet: if you're gonna be a smart-ass, just save yourself the "arrgghh" mess and wear some "arrggghh" adult diapers.

Wine + Connoisseur = Swirling Asshole

2007-05-03T05:03:00.000-07:00

I wrote this rant for the Oregonizm but it didn't make the cut. Therefore, I've submitted it to Modern Drunkard Magazine. Here's your preview. (My apologies to Max and all the other swirlers out there).

Is it just me or are wine drinkers fucking annoying? They sit there all smug and superior, sipping their glorified Kool-Aid like they're better than the rest of us alcoholics.

"It's not about the buzz at all," they slur red-toothed. "It's about the bouquet of a fine vintage, the experience of it."

Bullshit. Why do you think those most dedicated of our brethren are called winos? Because swilling fermented grape juice is the purest form of alcoholism. It doesn't require a mixer or carbonation or even refrigeration. All you need is a paper bag, a bottle and an affinity for wallowing in your own filth. How do you think Skid Row's Neck Lump Willy started out? That's right. The exact same way as these assholes.

"Hmm… yes," he smiled all those years ago, swirling his girly glass. "I can taste the caramel and the woodchips. Oh, and is that just the slightest hint of panda scrotum?"

Yet now he's eating week-old deli castoffs and shitting in the bushes behind McDonald's. Oh well, at least he's still clutching a bottle of his beloved vino in that filthy little hand of his. Although this one more than likely has a train on the label and a screw top. Not to worry, though, Merlot Boy. It's still a great future you've got ahead of you. So keep right on swirling.

And speaking of swirling, what about the way these cocksuckers insist on holding their wine glasses? Pinkies raised and dainty wristed like they'd just come from buggering the houseboy in the water closet. Who do they think they're fooling? You know in private all these pretenses go away and it's simply glug glug glug from the gravy tureen like the rest of us. But in public? Goodness, no. Nothing so barbaric for these pompous pricks. It's all eyes-closed sniffing and swishing and swirling like God Himself had jerked off in the bottle.

"Oh, Martha. This vintage is so divine I think I've soiled myself."

Give it up, Little Lord Fauntleroy. You're not fooling anyone. We all know it's only a fucking act. That you're just farting around so you can feel better about yourself while you get your buzz on. That no matter how much you'd like us to think otherwise, your shakes are only a misplaced corkscrew away. But what you've failed to grasp is that nobody fucking cares. No one. So go ahead. Grab the bottle, tilt your head back and pour it on down, for fuck's sake. Live a little.

Still not convinced of the hypocrisy of it all? Of the disconnect in these miscreants' brains? Of the utter stupidity it takes to think that you can obsess over an alcoholic beverage, consume copious amounts of said alcoholic beverage, and yet still claim it's about something else entirely? Well then, why not visit one of their homes? What you'll find are wine bottles stacked like cord-wood on every surface. On the counters, the fridge, even the kids' fucking dressers. And those are only the visible bottles. There are also ceiling high racks of 'em in the pantry, cellar and laundry room. Christ, and I thought I was bad with my kegorator and well-stocked wet bar. It's like these closet drunkards got a call from Nostradamus and are now stockpiling for the end of the world. But that's not what they'll tell you. Hell, no. They'll say it's an investment. That this bottle is worth this much and this one goes for that. Yeah, right. And I've got a kilo of heroin in my crawlspace 'cause I wanna diversify.

So, seriously, wine boy. Drop the act. Take off your panties, roll up your sleeves and a grab a real drink. Enough with the kiddie shit already. It's time to stand up and admit proudly you’re no better than the rest of us drunkards. And if not. If you're still sticking with your bullshit story that you could care less about the alcohol content. Then, here: I've just shit in this chalice. Start swirling.

Screw Grizzlies; Bring On The Terrorists

2007-05-03T04:53:00.000-07:00

Awhile ago I brought you Troy Hurtubise (You know, the guy who built the grizzly bear-proof suit). Well, he's now entered the 21st century and invented the first armored, exo-skeleton suit for use in combat. Bring on Al-Qaeda (or the Chinese if they happen to be your "fear du jour").

Thanks again to Russ' labour force.

Old School Rat-vertising

2007-04-25T03:07:00.000-07:00

Is this Weiden + Kennedy? Or Kramer + Gibson?

More Weng Weng

2007-04-24T04:57:00.000-07:00

It's our new favorite super-agent showing us his Karate Kid moves. Beware!

"Pulleth Mine Finger," The Lord Said Unto Abraham

2007-04-21T14:06:00.000-07:00

In a cosmic jest right up there with God tricking Abraham into releasing The Almighty Wind (which slew the Phoenicians), The Vatican announced this week that for centuries His Lordliness has been pulling our collective leg about the whole Limbo thing. What a wiseacre. For almost two thousand years the parents of newborns who died before baptism have wept, believing they would never see their children in Heaven. That, instead, these innocents were sent to a lower plane, away from the presence of God. But guess what? Zing! It was only a joke!

So who let the punchline finally slip? Was it The Lord His-Damned-Self in an HBO Special, perhaps? Or in a profanity-laced set at The Comedy Store? Nope. It was none other than The Lord's straight man, His Holiness The Pope. That's because The Big Guy doesn't make personal appearances like he used to: every other week from a burning bush and or sinister cloud. Nuh-uh. Nowadays he just sits up there on his throne, whispering in The Pope's ear and chuckling at his handiwork.

And so it happened this week. His Benedictness the XVI was sitting quietly in his study, re-rereading his favorite naughty bits from the Book of Obadiah (Letter from Esua to the char-woman), when he found out:

The Lord (off-camera): "You busy?"
His Eminence (quickly pulling his hands above the table): "Huh, Whoozat?"
The Lord: "'Tis me. The One True God. You got a minute?"
His Eminence (meekly): "Sure, I was just, uh, slogging my treatise."
The Lord: "Never mind that. Have I got a doozy for you..."

Okay, so that's not the official version. The official version goes something like this:

Catholic experts are expected to advise Pope Benedict XVI that teachings on the state of limbo - somewhere between heaven and hell - should be amended. For centuries many Roman Catholics have believed that the souls of babies who die before baptism remain in limbo. But the Catholic Church is concerned about the grief suffered by the parents of stillborn babies, which could be compounded if they believed the souls of their children were to be excluded from heaven.

It's the old "Whoops, We Read That Wrong" defense. Not very assuring, if you ask me, but quite a bit better than the "The Man Upstairs Is Fucking With Us" alternative. So where do they go from here? Do they finally admit they haven't a clue about condoms or gays or the end of the world? Nah, there's still too much money in it, even with the pedophilic priest lawsuits. So they'll just keep muddling along, tut-tutting the rest of humanity whilst waving their collection plates about. It's really all they know.

Screw James Bond. It's Weng Weng!

2007-04-20T04:26:00.000-07:00

This clip really needs no introduction (it's one of the funniest things I've seen) except to give the usual props to Russ for sending it my way. I also have a few more clips he's sent me I need to post and, if you add those to the barrage of great stuff he's cramming on his own blog, it makes you wonder: Does he have a staff of undocumented workers in his basement, hunched over monitors, trolling YouTube 24 hours a day? An "internet sweatshop," if you will? It might explain things...

Half-Man/Half-Chimp?

2007-04-16T03:56:00.000-07:00

He's bald, he walks upright and he forces himself on women. No, it's not Bob Packwood. It's Oliver, the weirdest chimp you'll ever meet.

Who Knows Where That Hand's Been?

2007-04-16T03:42:00.000-07:00

Just a little tidbit my "normal" brother, Royd, sent along. Must be genetic.

Mr Po-yu, a 28-year-old vet at a zoo in Taiwan, had the arm severed at the elbow as he tried to treat the fearsome 18ft creature with antibiotics because it had lost its appetite. As he reached through iron railings, the 17-year-old Nile crocodile lunged and snapped off his arm at the elbow.
Stunned colleagues applied a tourniquet to the shocked vet as the croc wandered off with the limb in its jaws. A worker fired two bullets at it to kill it so the arm could be retrieved, but he missed. The sound of the gunfire, however, caused the crocodile to drop its anticipated snack and a courageous official jumped into the pen and retrieved the arm, which was packed in ice.
After a seven-hour reattachment operation, doctors were confident that it would be a success, but warned Mr Po-yu that because they had to remove damaged bone and skin, his arm would be shorter than before.

Come To Daddy (by request)

2007-04-11T02:47:00.000-07:00

Here's one more Aphex Twin video by Chris Cunningham (creator of Rubber Johnny). It was requested by (and is dedicated to) fellow deviant Max.

Nightmares Anyone?

2007-04-10T05:51:00.000-07:00

Quite possibly the most disturbing thing you'll ever see. "Rubber Johnny" by Aphex Twin. (You've been warned).

The Amazing Screw-On Head

2007-04-08T22:40:00.000-07:00

From Mike Mignola, the creator of Hellboy, comes this strange animated tale of Abraham Lincoln, an undead evil genius, and a mechanical cranium-only secret agent. With the voice talents of Paul Giamatti, David Hyde-Pierce and Patton Oswalt. Interesting stuff.

My Favorite Man Law

2007-04-06T03:37:00.000-07:00

In case you didn't know: the "If the tops touch then our saliva's are touching..." guy is Aron Ralston, the rock climber who sawed his own arm off after it was trapped under a boulder. You can just make out his stump.

Britney Spears Back In Rehab

2007-04-05T04:50:00.000-07:00

Just kidding. Actually it's an interesting tale of a volunteer fireman, a bikini, and a 40 oz. Budweiser.

MASON – A Wayne Township volunteer firefighter is scheduled to appear Thursday in Mason Municipal Court on drunken driving and other charges after he was found wearing a woman’s blond wig and bikini in a public park.
Steven S. Cole, 46, Waynesville, was arrested about 5 p.m. Tuesday at Heritage Oak Park off U.S. 42 after Mason police received a report of an intoxicated man. Cole was charged with drunken driving, having an open container, public indecency and disorderly conduct.
Cole was arrested after a Mason father enjoying the balmy spring weather at the park spotted him and called police.
“It was like this freak show,” said Troy Harphant, 35.
Harphant was at the park with his wife, Wendy, as they watched their daughter, Hayley, 6, zip around on a bike path on her pink Barbie Princess scooter. At least 100 other adults and children also were at the park, Harphant said. Harphant said he saw what appeared to be a naked person on the bike path, fondling or exposing himself or herself. Harphant then said he saw the person hop into a parked blue Ford F-150 pickup truck with red emergency lights on top. He followed the truck as it drove around the park – including by the children’s playground - and called police on his cell phone.
Mason Police Officer Scott Miller pulled the truck over. His report states: “I observed Cole to be wearing a very skimpy woman’s … bikini with two tan water balloons taped to the top to simulate two woman’s breasts and a pair of pink Speedo flip-flop sandals.”
Cole was unsteady and twice fell against the truck, Miller reported. Cole also fumbled through his wallet and handed him a debit card and a credit card when asked for his driver’s license. The officer looked through the wallet but could not find his driver’s license, although Cole did provide a Social Security Number.
“I asked Cole what he was doing wearing a woman’s bikini at the park where families frequent,” Miller wrote. “Cole did state he was headed to a ‘gay bar’ in Dayton to perform as a woman for a $10,000 prize."
As the two spoke, Miller reported smelling alcohol on Cole, who also had slurred speech. Police found an open, half-empty 40-ounce bottle of Budweiser in Cole’s truck. They also found a black gym bag with more blond wigs, women’s bikinis, long silver go-go boots and other women’s garments.Cole’s blood-alcohol test registered 0.174, more than twice Ohio’s legal limit of 0.08.

Don't Try The Brown Acid

2007-03-31T01:31:00.000-07:00

Don't worry if it's too late, though. Just stay calm and head on over to the Freak-Out Tent.

David Koresh Wanna Be

2007-03-30T16:26:00.000-07:00

Ever wonder what David Koresh would've turned out like if he he'd been born without charisma. You know, delusional, gun crazy and obsessed with sex but without the tools to gather weak-willed women and men around him. Well, thanks to my brother, wonder no more. That's because Russ has sent along the following creepy clip of just such a parallel-universe, charisma-lacking Waco wacko. You'll have to be patient, though. Perhaps give this "cult leader" a few years until he boards himself up in a cabin with his cache of weapons and his flock and then calls out the FBI. You see, he looks like he works at a gas station and his "cult members" cost upwards of $10,000.

The Evolution Revolution

2007-03-26T23:42:00.000-07:00

No explanation necessary.

John Popper And The Apocalypse

2007-03-23T03:29:00.000-07:00

When the end of the world comes and humanity is on the brink of extinction, at least now we know that the lead singer of Blues Traveler will be there amongst the rubble and radiation, spreading his seed.

By Associated Press
SPOKANE, Wash. (AP) - Blues Traveler singer and harmonica player John Popper was arrested near Ritzville after the vehicle he was riding in was clocked going 111 mph, the Washington State Patrol said Wednesday.

Popper, 39, was arrested Tuesday afternoon on Interstate 90 near the Spokane/Lincoln county line, the Washington State Patrol said. Inside the black Mercedes SUV, officers found a cache of weapons and a small amount of marijuana, the Patrol said.

Popper, who lives in Snohomish, Wash., is the owner of the vehicle, which was being driven by Brian Gourgeois, 34, of Austin, Texas, said state patrol Trooper Jeff Sevigney.

A police dog searched the vehicle, finding numerous hidden compartments. Inside those compartments were four rifles, nine handguns and a switchblade knife. They also found a Taser and night vision goggles.

Popper told officers he collected weapons, the Patrol said.

The vehicle also had flashing emergency headlights, a siren and a public address system, the Patrol said.

"Popper indicated to troopers that he had installed these items in his vehicle because (in the event of a natural disaster) he didn't want to be left behind," the Patrol said.

Do I Make You Horny?

2007-03-22T05:39:00.000-07:00

Sorry for the pun... this story is unsettling enough as it is:

SUPERIOR, Wis. - A 20-year-old man received probation after he was convicted of having sexual contact with a dead deer. The sentence also requires Bryan James Hathaway to be evaluated as a sex offender and treated at the Institute for Psychological and Sexual Health in Duluth, Minn.
"The state believes that particular place is the best to provide treatment for the individual," Assistant District Attorney Jim Boughner said.
Hathaway's probation will be served at the same time as a nine-month jail sentence he received in February for violating his extended supervision. He was found guilty in April 2005 of felony mistreatment of an animal after he killed a horse with the intention of having sex with it. He was sentenced to 18 months in jail and two years of extended supervision on that charge as well as six years of probation for taking and driving a vehicle without the owner's consent. Hathaway pleaded no contest earlier this month to misdemeanor mistreatment of an animal for the incident involving the deer.
"The type of behavior is disturbing," Judge Michael Lucci said. "It's disturbing to the public. It's disturbing to the court."

Stephen Hawking Will Rule The World

2007-03-14T05:18:00.000-07:00

We must not let Prof. Hawking get his hands on this chair. He will become a dark overlord, laying waste to every city and enslaving us all. You have been warned.

Holy Crap!

2007-03-14T05:00:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure how to preface this clip other than to say, "I hope your sitting down."

By the way, in case you're wondering: Yes, he did play Marlon Brando's rat-man pet in The Island of Dr. Moreau.

Ah, The Old Knife Thru The Hand Trick

2007-03-08T01:50:00.000-08:00

I remember seeing Harry Anderson do this trick on SNL in the 80's. Although I'm pretty sure he used fake blood.

More Boxing?

2007-03-08T01:09:00.000-08:00

I stumbled onto these photos whilst yakking at my brother Russ on Skype. The boxer on the left is Lamon Brewster. On the right: I think that's Sloth from the Goonies.

Just kidding. Actually, that's heavyweight contender Luan Krasniqi. For comparison, I've also included a "non-punching bag" photo of Mr. Krasniqi. As you can see, his head is not always shaped that way.

For The Man Who Has Everything

2007-02-28T04:35:00.000-08:00

Created by Israeli artist Boaz Arad, this creation represents "what a Nazi hunter would do if he caught the ultimate prize, the Nazi leader." We can only hope it's only the first in a series of genocidal dictators: Stalin, Hussein, Bush...

Fee Fi Fo... Fum?

2007-02-23T03:11:00.000-08:00

Alright. Here's the deal. We have a new heavyweight champion. Now, I know, there are like five different belts, it's all politics and blah, blah, blah... But screw all that. Take one look at the picture above and know this: the guy on the right is the former WBA champ John Ruiz. He's 6'2" 220 lbs. The guy on the left? He's the new champ. His name is Nikolai Valuev and he stands 7' 0" tall and weighs 330 lbs. Making him the tallest, heaviest and (unofficially) hairiest champion ever. Now if we can only reincarnate Andre the Giant...

I Guess The Tunnel Of Hate Was Closed

2007-02-20T02:08:00.000-08:00

Jack Frost Nipping At Your... Balls?

2007-02-16T02:48:00.000-08:00

It's hard to argue Global Warming when a fat guy dances by in sub-freezing weather with his shrunken manhood aflap-flap-flapping. Obviously George W. and his Exxon cronies paid this guy to frolic butt-naked in Cleveland's worst blizzard in a decade. Either that or he's had too much to drink. Your call.

Darwin's Theory Is Not Fool Proof

2007-02-14T04:29:00.000-08:00

So a drunken sailor puts a gun to his head, slurs a few words and accidentally pulls the trigger. You'd think natural selection would do the rest, right? Well, not if said seaman has a skull thick as a rhino and the gun happens to fire flares. Ah, where's the perfect storm when you need it.

You Know You're Getting Old...

2007-02-10T00:15:00.000-08:00

So, I was at work the other day when a couple of customers pointed at my shirt and wondered who the gentleman on it happened to be. I looked down (as usual unsure what shirt I'd put on that day) and saw the picture you see above. Ah, I thought to myself, it's good ol' Herve Villechaize from The Man With The Golden Gun. But I couldn't say that. The inquisitors were young (very young) and I knew from past experience people younger than myself rarely know his real name, let alone this role he played. So I figured I'd just cut to the chase and use the name all of America know him by (and which never fails to exhibit the usual, "Oh, Yeah."): Tattoo. But this time, unlike all the rest, the stares remained blank.

"You know, from Fantasy Island?" I continued.

But this didn't help either. They were completely lost, even when I tried describing the show. And that's when I started to do the math: these girls were 21 years old. That means they were born two years after Mr. Villechaize left the show in 1983. And were all of eight when he died in 1993.

"Christ," I thought to myself as I slunk away, "I'm old." And then, when this brief moment of self-pity had passed: "The little bugger's disappearing. This titan of seventies culture is slipping from our collective conscience." And so, to combat this in my small way, to keep the hounds of oblivion away from his tiny bones a moment more, I give you Herve "Da Plane!" Villechaize. Enjoy.

Spider-Wha???

2007-02-09T03:30:00.000-08:00

A while ago Russ posted a clip to one of our favorite shows growing up: Ultra Man. Well, recently I stumbled upon another Japanese-produced 70's clip that is infinitely more confusing than even THAT! And so, without further ado, I present "Kung-Fu Spiderman and the Mariachi Machine-Gunner."

The Evil of Siegfried & Roy

2007-02-02T23:36:00.000-08:00

Cult Leader? Messiah? Oak Ridge Boy? Nope. None of the above. It's former USC and Oakland Raider kicker Cole Ford after being arrested for shotgunning the front of Siegfried & Roy's Las Vegas mansion. So, why did he do it? And why does he look so crazy? Well, let's let Vegas' "Review-Journal" explain:

Cole Ford came to Las Vegas to find justice. Instead, the former pro football kicker found what he believed was a global conspiracy involving his father, famed magicians Siegfried & Roy, and the spread of disease, according to a psychiatric evaluation report.

"While watching Siegfried and Roy, he had a sudden realization that what was wrong with the world was linked to the illusionists' treatment, dominance and unhealthy intimacy he saw them having with their animals," psychiatrist Norton Roitman wrote in the report. "He saw their illusions as their power to distort and change reality. He felt they threatened (the) world, and he began trying to figure out how he could stop them."

The evaluation was performed Nov. 10, a week after Ford was arrested and charged with firing several shotgun blasts at the Jungle Palace home of the magical duo. Ford told the psychiatrist he never intended to harm anyone and that his actions were enough to "warn the world of the illusionists' unhealthy danger to them and to animals," the report said.

Ford, 32, has been ruled incompetent to stand trial and sent to a mental health facility in Sparks for treatment. During his evaluation, Ford told Roitman that he thought the magicians' contact with their animals was related to the development of viruses, such as AIDS, the report says. Ford also drew a connection between the magicians and his father, who killed the family's 28-year-old horse while Ford was in college. Ford was close to the horse and viewed the killing as sadistic and part of a global conspiracy, the report says.
"Mr. Ford was completely unguarded in his report of his beliefs of unhealthy sexual contact being committed by the illusionists against their animals, and the assertion that they were under the authority of his father," Roitman wrote.

Ford's pro football career began in 1995 with the Oakland Raiders. He was successful in his first two seasons, but his performance took a turn for the worst in 1997. He was cut after that season. The next year, he played one game with the Buffalo Bills before disappearing from professional football.

Around the same time, he grew reclusive and drifted from his family until they had no idea where he was. Ford moved to Las Vegas about three years ago to pursue a lawsuit against casinos which Fordbelieved were exploiting athletes by making money off sports bets, the report states. He sued the Monte Carlo in January 2004, demanding $5 million in damages. The lawsuit was dismissed.

Police have said Ford spent his time in Southern Nevada working as a day laborer. Sometimes he lived in various short-term motels. Sometimes he drove to wilderness areas and slept in his Chevrolet Astro minivan. Ford's minivan was seen driving from the scene of the Sept. 21 shooting at the Jungle Palace, prompting police to identify him as their suspect. They arrested him in November after an employee at a Kinko's store recognized him and called police.

At a court hearing in January, District Judge Jackie Glass ruled Ford was unable to stand trial because of his mental illness. Ford insisted he was competent and wanted to plead guilty to the charges. Ford has been sent to Lakes Crossing in Sparks, where doctors will treat him in hopes he eventually will be competent to face the charges.

Sounds pretty sane to me.

We've Met The Enemy And The Enemy Is...

2007-02-01T16:24:00.000-08:00

A Mooninite? Yep, George Bush and Co. have whipped us into such a frenzy with his terror-speak that some Lite-Brite ads featuring a cartoon alien can shut down a whole city. Nice going, oh Fearless Leader. Bin Laden attacks us once five years ago and you take it from there. First civil liberties and now common sense. What'll you strip us of next? In case you missed it, here's the news clip of this fiasco:

And a short clip of the "terrorist" in action:

Watch out! They've got lasers!

R.I.P. Cowboy Lang

2007-01-29T04:34:00.000-08:00

I'm obviously a little late with this since Mr. Lang passed on almost a month ago (Jan. 4th) but I figured "better late than never." Why? Well he obviously deserves a spot on this blog because of his stature, but (as stated below) he also died here on the cold, cold streets of Portland.

As a wrestler, Cowboy Lang played some of the biggest venues in the sport on some of the biggest nights -- Madison Square Garden, the Superdome, the Metrodome forWrestleRock. But at the end of his life, he died virtually penniless, a homeless person on the streets of Portland, Ore. He was 56.

He also seems to have been a friend of Ric "Nature Boy" Flair :

In his autobiography, Ric Flair talked about Cowboy Lang behind the scenes. "He'd walk around the dressing room in his cowboy hat and boots, with his dick hanging practically below his knees. He was a good guy, and loved to party after the shows. But he always expected me to get him laid," Flair wrote, launching into more sordid details.

Thanks to Mike for the heads-up.

Look! Up In The Sky!

2007-01-29T01:35:00.000-08:00

It's Cheapo Cartoon-Man!

Ah, My Old Alma Mater

2007-01-20T00:23:00.000-08:00

Ever wonder what the guys you went to high school with are doing right now? Me neither. Except when I stumble onto one of them searching the internets...

Jason Wayne Rose
Born: 1/10/68
Sentenced to death: 5/16/1989
Rose was convicted in the 1988 machete attack and strangulation of Melissa Ann Meyer, 19, whose body was found near a water-filtration plant in Springfield in 1988. Prosecutors said Rose and a companion, John Ray Jones, spent an hour killing Meyer in a ritualistic human sacrifice. Jones was sentenced to life in prison. Rose was one of nearly two dozen Oregon Death Row inmates whose sentence was overturned by a 1989 U.S. Supreme Court ruling.

I know, you think I'm screwing with ya. But I'm not. I shared many a class with this guy from the sixth-grade until he dropped out sometime during our senior year. Hell, we were in band together. I even remember watching the news when they was hauled him in for this crime--dishevelled hair dyed jet-black, all pale and pasty except for black Dolphin shorts and pair of black Nikes. Yep, one of Springfield High's proudest moments. What I didn't know, though, was the following tidbit.

Interesting fact: Rose in 1997 filed a civil rights lawsuit, claiming that state corrections officials were violating his constitutional right to exercise his faith when they took away his Dungeons and Dragons game.

Somehow it all makes sense now.

Self-Cleaning House? Or... Murder?

2007-01-17T00:57:00.000-08:00

In doing a little research on strange Oregon sights, I stumbled upon the fascinating story of inventor Frances Gabe and her unique home. Located in nearby Newberg, this home does exactly as advertised-- it cleans itself at the push of a button. Well, let's let the folks at About.com explain it:

Each of the rooms in the termite-proof, cinder block constructed, self-cleaning house is fitted with a 10-inch, ceiling-mounted cleaning/drying/heating/cooling device. The walls, ceilings and floors of the house are covered with resin, a liquid that becomes water-proof when hardened. The furniture is made of a water-proof composition, and there are no dust-collecting carpets anywhere in the house. At the push of a sequence of buttons, jets of soapy water wash the entire room. Then, after a rinse, the blower dries up any remaining water that hasn’t run down the sloping floors into a waiting drain.

Sounds interesting enough, right? If not a little too mainstream for my usual posts. Well, that's what I thought until I stumbled upon the following clip at Weird America.com. It's a great lesson for us all: Clean up after yourself or you may be killed!

Bush & Bush in 2008

2007-01-15T00:54:00.000-08:00

Until now, the 2008 presidential field was wide open. That is until Larry Flynt threw his hat in the ring and chose W's brother Jeb as his running mate. Now let's hope the White House is both wheel-chair and porn accessible.

(Thanks to Russ for this clip)

Oh, and how about some outstanding (and relevant) logic from our soon-to-be Pornographer-in-Chief. (It's definitely not suitable for work).

Oliver Reed & Mr. Nasty

2007-01-09T02:59:00.000-08:00

You may remember Oliver Reed from Oliver!, The Three Musketeers and (his last film) Gladiator. Impressive, sure. But who knew he was also a world-renowned hellraiser? So much so that his friends had a nickname for him when he got so shit-faced he turned mean-- Mr. Nasty. If I'd known all this I might've followed his career more closely. Luckily I've stumbled on a few clips in all his drunken talk-show glory:

I'll also include links to a BBC documentary on him (in five parts). It shows more of his hellraising (especially pts. 4 & 5) as well as interesting tidbits like his disdain for the rich and famous (he always brought his old working-class drinking buddy "Dobbo" to the high society parties so he'd have someone to drink with). Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

The Evil One

2007-01-04T06:27:00.000-08:00

Are you familiar with Roky Erickson? Well, if you like Halloween, rock music, and certifiably insane individuals, you should. You see, Roky Erickson is a kick-ass guitarist, writes great music-- oh, and he's also crazy as a moon-bat. You see, in the 60's, Roky was a founding member of The 13th Floor Elevators, arguably the first Psychedelic band ever. Then, in 1969, he was busted for pot (he had one joint on him) in Austin, Texas. Instead of going to prison for ten years, though, he pled insanity and was sent to the Rusk State Hospital for the criminally insane where he received electroconvulsive and Thorazine treatments. When he was released in 1972 he was full-fledged lunatic, obsessed with the occult and b-rated horror movies. And that's where Creedence Clearwater's Stu Cook comes in.

In 1979, Cook began working with Roky, hoping to channel some of his "energies" into an album. The only problem was that, at this time, Roky was back in the loony-bin. Well, let's let Stu finish the story:

"Initially, when I started working with him, he was incarcerated in a Texas State mental hospital in Austin. The task at hand was to get him sprung from there to take him to recording sessions (laughs). I went actually down to the hospital with Craig (a friend of Roky's). I was going to go out and meet Roky's doctor and explain to him what was going on. That I needed to get him for a while and bring him back at the end of the day. I'll never forget this--I had to wear a tie. I didn't have one at the time, so I borrowed one from Craig. I was wearing this tie, I went into the mental hospital, and all the inmates, the patients, started acting weird to me. Because I had a tie on, they thought I was a doctor. I walk into this room, and there's just all this people drooling and popping the walls. It's like bedlam. Then we got Rock, and Rock was calm, he's on his medication. When he takes his medication, as bad as that stuff is in the long term, it definitely works in the long term. He was cooperative, inquisitive, alert. But not really focused on the recording."

"I finally figured out, the way to do it is to just get him in the studio and just keep coming at him. Don't let him have a chance to start talking about his apartment or dinner. Just keep him with flooded with musical paths. That way, I found I could keep his attention. And whenever he started to lose it, I'd use my bag of tricks.

(And, about his lyrics): "He's very concerned about aliens and things like that, other life forms, interplanetary invasion and stuff like that. His darkest psychosis--there's that fear, and all that concern about that. "Creature With the Atom Brain," "Night of the Vampire," "Two-Headed Dog." One of my favorite songs by him, and I think I consider it a love song, is "I Think of Demons." "I think of demons for you" is the hookline for the chorus."

What resulted is Roky's best album, "The Evil One" (pictured above). In addition to the one's listed above, it includes tracks entitled, "Bloody Hammer,""Don't Shake Me Lucifer," and "Stand for the Fire Demon." If you don't already own it, go out and buy it, now!

For the final sell, here's a clip of Roky performing "It's a Cold Night for Alligators."

Please Hold For An Important Message...

2007-01-03T05:37:00.000-08:00

If you hate Tele-Marketers as much as I do, I think you'll like these:

Braniff Air Buddies

2007-01-02T04:56:00.000-08:00

Ya think these guys actually hung out after the shoot?

Andy Warhol & Sonny Liston

Whitey Ford & Salvadore Dali

R.I.P. Gerry Ford

2006-12-27T06:08:00.000-08:00

What better way to mourn the death of the only U.S. President never elected than with the words of the woman who attempted to assassinate him: Squeaky Fromme. (I love the fact that she is surprised at being manhandled after sticking a gun in Ford's gut).

R.I.P. James Brown

2006-12-26T01:51:00.000-08:00

Seriously, we lost a great one. So here's a real clip.

Star Wars Christmas Special?

2006-12-25T22:53:00.000-08:00

As a feral child raised by TV it always surprises me when I stumble onto something I should remember but have no recollection of. Released in 1978, during the height of my Star Wars mania, this special somehow came and went under my radar. Or maybe I did see it and suppressed the horrific memory. Either way, since the latest trilogy/fiasco has long since knocked all-things-Star-Wars from its once vaunted perch in my heavens I was able to watch this with only the slightest damage to my psyche. I hope you are as strong.

And so, with this warning, and without further ado, I give you an edited version of George Lucas' long lost holiday folly.

Oh, and because Harvey Korman and Bea Arthur's awkward/surreal cantina love scene is missing, I also give you that.

A John Wayne Gacy Christmas

2006-12-23T01:13:00.000-08:00

Tired of the boring, old-fashioned way you've been celebrating X-mas? Well, how 'bout mixing it up this year and throwing it Pogo the Clown-style! In this clip Gacy goes all-Martha-Stewart-on-your-ass and gives you step by step pointers on how to do the whole deal: stockings (well, paper bags), dinner and everything (feeds 100 prisoners... er, guests). And he tops it all off by joining his cell-mates for a rousing bit of caroling. God bless us, every one.

Thanks to Russ for the clip and idea.

More Car Salesman Lunacy

2006-12-21T07:08:00.000-08:00

No wonder you can't trust a freakin' car salesman (even one you're related to!).

Buy This F@%*ing Winnebago

2006-12-19T06:13:00.000-08:00

If anyone needs to hop in a RV and head off down the highway it's this very frustrated Winnebago salesman. It's hilarious but also definitely Not Suitable For Work and/or Kids' Parties.

Tony Curtis' High Heat

2006-12-16T22:38:00.000-08:00

After hacking his way through possibly the worst acting performance of his illustrious career, Tony Curtis hauls off and fires a cell-phone/brick off the forehead of a co-star. Oh well, it's a long way from Some Like it Hot and the guy was asking for it.

The Odd Couple 2?

2006-12-13T03:18:00.000-08:00

How come I don't remember this?

Bon Voyage, Asshole

2006-12-11T22:37:00.002-08:00

Strange, this is the exact same thing I did before taking off on my last vacation.

Holy Crap!

2006-12-08T02:55:00.000-08:00

I'm guessing this guy's REALLY gonna celebrate Arbor Day this year.

Animator, Lost Soul

2006-12-05T02:24:00.000-08:00

Am I the last guy on Earth to hear of this guy? If so, disregard this post.

As I just recently discovered, Ryan Larkin was a young Canadian animator who came to prominence in the late 60's. Acadamy Award-nominated in 1967 for his animated short Walking, Larkin also produced several other ground breaking films (Street Musique and Syrinx) before beginning a downward spiral of drug abuse and alcoholism. By the eighties not only had he dropped completely off the animation map, but he was also homeless (supposedly pan-handling to this day outside a deli in Montreal).

Things began to change a bit 2004 when another animator, Chris Landreth, picked up an Oscar for his short CGI bio of Larkin entitled Ryan (supposedly Larkin is animating again). I've posted this bio below (in two parts) and I'm sure you'll agree its pretty damn amazing.

RYAN PT. 1

RYAN PT. 2

And here are links to Larkin's original shorts: WALKING, SYRINX , STREET MUSIQUE

Oregon's Political Infamous

2006-12-02T01:58:00.000-08:00

This is my latest contribution to the Oregonizm Magazine (issue #3). Enjoy.

Now that the 2006 elections have swept the corruption out of Washington we can breathe a lot easier. Gone are all the money-grabbing sleaze-meisters. The Jack Abramoffs, the Tom Delays, the Mark Foleys. We can all rest assured our government will never again sink so low… Yeah, right! It's politics. And politics and scandal go together like "date" and "rape." So, how 'bout joining us for a little sentimental journey down our own state's sordid political history? Just remember to hold onto your wallet and/or panties.

1) Bob Packwood--
Ah, it all seems so quaint now: There were no drunken attempts at entering the page dormitories, no NAMBLA text messages. Hell, there wasn't even a cum-stained cocktail dress. There was only an aging Senator with an eternal hard on and a bad habit of shoving his tongue down unsuspecting women's throats. As these things go "The Bob Packwood Story" is almost G-Rated.

It all started to unravel with the 1992 U.S. Senate inquiry into Packwood's frat boy high jinks. After countless interviews and feverish readings of his diaries they came to one conclusion: Bob liked to fuck! In fact, he seemed to spend every waking moment trying to get his dick wet. Chasing an assistant around his desk? Check. Running his hand up a waitress' skirt, tickling her crotch? Oh yeah. Groping an elevator attendant, pinning his secretary to the wall, tackling another one on a couch? Yes, yes and yes.

When all was said and done, Senator Packwood's 27-year political career was history. He slunk out of the Senate disgraced, with only his pension and a groin-full of VD to show for his years of public service. To this day Bob Packwood, beat down and broken, is forced to eke out his living in the lowest of low professions: high-paid lobbyist.

2) Neil Goldschmidt--
Neil Goldschmidt was once Oregon's political golden child. Born June 16, 1940 in Eugene, Goldschmidt was Portland's mayor at 33, Jimmy Carter's Sec. of Transportation at 39, then Oregon's Governor at 47. He was young, popular and well-connected and that's why his decision not to run for re-election in the 1990 raised a lot of eyebrows. At the time he cited marital problems for not seeking a second term as Governor. It would be fourteen years before we learned the truth.

You see, it turns out that, as P-town's mayor in the seventies, good ol' Neil had a little secret: he was a pedophile. Yep, for the better part of a year Neil Goldschmidt repeatedly, and I mean repeatedly, screwed his kids' babysitter-- beginning when she was all of 14 years old. Of course, in his May 6, 2004 Oregonian confession, he tried to downplay the whole thing, saying he'd merely had "an affair with high-school student." Yeah, right. And Michael Jackson just likes to cuddle with midgets.

So why didn't anyone know about this until 2004 when The Willamette Week broke the story. How was it kept a secret all those years? Power, my friends. Power and Influence. Something Goldschmidt and his ilk have always had in ass-loads. He simply cut a few checks, made a few phone calls and he got off scot-free. It's the same reason Dick Nixon never spent a day in jail and George W. never saw Viet Nam. They're untouchable, boys and girls, they always have been.

3) Monica Lewinsky--
Monica, Oh Monica… Oregon's own President-pleasuring, cigar-screwing shooting star. Although you only lived in our fair state a short time, you most certainly drew inspiration from our lush landscapes and liberal views. For it was here you dreamed your dreams (Please, I wanna fuck the President) and said your prayers (Yes, Lord, I mean THE President) and saw all you life's ambitions unfold before you (No, Bill, not in the face!!!)

Monica Lewinsky was not born in Oregon, you see, nor was she even raised here (those honors go to Beverly Hills, CA). But she did attend Lewis and Clark for a couple of years (graduating in 1995 with a psychology degree) and she did use her student housing to continue the affair she'd been having with an older, married man (practicing no doubt for the world stage). And it was here she remarked off-handedly about going to Washington to "bag the President" and, most likely, learned to suppress her gag reflex.

So, please, don't disparage Monica for only living here a short while and, therefore, not being "Oregonian" enough. We are an accepting lot. And, remember, she's more than willing to go down on her knees to get her way.

4) Ma Anand Sheela--
So you've heard all the tricks Karl Rove has used to keep the Democrats away from the polls: misinformation, theft of ballots, intimidation, paperless voting machines. Well, count yourself lucky he hasn't called on Ms. Sheela for tips, at least not yet. Because, seriously, if that ever happens we're all screwed!

You see, at first everything was cool when the Bhagwan and his followers set up camp in the tiny eastern Oregon town of Antelope. Sure the sight of a guru, his dozens of Rolls Royce's and several thousand red-clad followers in redneck country was a bit weird. But no one really seemed to care, at least in the beginning. Eventually, though, the Rajneeshees had control of the Antelope's city government, then they decided to rename it Rashneeshpuram. And that's when things got ugly.

In every question Ms. Sheela saw a conspiracy, in every criticism-- persecution. Soon she was stockpiling weapons and trucking in 4500 homeless people to swamp the ballots. And then she struck upon the idea that would make her immortal: What's the best way to keep opposition voters away from the polls? Poison the motherfuckers! And so, mere days before the 1984 election, the Rajneeshees fanned out in The Dalles area restaurants, sprinkling salmonella on their salad bars like so much bowel-clenching Ranch Dressing. In the end 751 were sickened and Ma Anand Sheela was sentenced to 29 months in prison. To this day it is still the largest bio-terrorist attack ever in the U.S.

5) Kelly Wirth--
Let's see… Well-dressed 39 year-old woman is run down in parking lot by teenage girl. Seems the teenage girl is furious that the well-dressed woman is screwing her boyfriend. It just so happens said boyfriend is a janitor at the well-dressed woman's place of business. When the police arrive they find meth in the well-dressed woman's car. Turns out, janitor is not only her fuck-toy, but also her tweak connection.

Wow. Only in Oregon, the land of Tonya Harding and flying hubcaps, of meth and monster trucks, could such a tale of pure unadulterated white-trash take place. It's simple and straight forward. It hits all the notes. It just couldn't be more perfect…

Wait!! What was that?!!? You say the well-dressed woman was an Oregon Representative??!! And all this sleaze took place in Salem? At the Capitol? In the Capitol Building? Oh Lord, you've gotta be kidding me. I… I can't take it. I've gotta go masturbate.

Carlin's 10, er... 2 Commandments

2006-11-28T00:08:00.000-08:00

I think there's a lot of wisdom here.

I Can Walk, Mein Fuhrer!

2006-11-26T22:31:00.000-08:00

As a fan of bizarre characters it's probably no surprise that Peter Sellers' turn as Dr. Strangelove is one of my all-time favorites. The hair, the glove, the wheelchair, the accent. It's quite possibly the greatest comedic performance ever.

How Not To Begin Your Sobriety Test

2006-11-25T21:03:00.000-08:00

As a long-time bartender you'd think I'd be sick and tired of watching shit-faced shenanigans. Well, as you've seen from some of my prior posts, that couldn't be further from the truth. I just love watching people who just can't seem handle their liquor, especially when some sort of self-inflicted pain is involved. Here's my new favorite.

Drunk Fails Sobriety Test - video powered by Metacafe

Grizzly Man Meets Robo-Cop

2006-11-22T03:48:00.000-08:00

Back before Werner Herzog made Timothy Treadwell and his Grizzly-fetish famous, there was Troy Hurtubise. After a close encounter with a Grizzly in 1984, Hurtubise decided he wanted to know more about these beasts. Instead of renting a video, though, or even buying some freaking binoculars, he set about figuring out a way he could get up close and personal with them. Seven years and $150, 000 later the Mark VI armour-suit was born. The following clip, which shows each suit incarnation being tested for durability (with Hurtubise inside), is taken from 1996 film Project Grizzly.

I'm guessing all that punishment has caused Mr. Hurtubise some brain damage. Why? Because in the last couple of years he has made the jump from designing monkey-suits to inventing:

a) Firepaste: a heat resistant paste which can withstand temperatures greater than those the Space Shuttle faces upon re-entry (one ingredient of this paste is Diet Coke).

b) Angel Light: a device which can see through objects, detect stealth aircraft, see through flesh, and disable electronic devices (it came to him in a dream and worked on first try).

c) God Light: a device which can make blind men see and lame men walk. It has also, supposedly, cured Parkinson's disease and shrunk tumors.

From left to right-- Troy Hurtubise, the Angel Light, the Mark VI.

The Three Murderers

2006-11-19T01:31:00.000-08:00

Who else but the guys at South Park could make three of our nation's most notorious serial killers funny? No one, that's who! In this clip they cast Ted Bundy, John Wayne Gacy and Jeffrey Dahmer as The Three Stooges and then send them off to buy a cake for Satan. So grab some popcorn and then sit back and enjoy the ensuing hilarity (and gore).

Rush Limbaugh In Funkytown

2006-11-18T00:47:00.000-08:00

I know, I know. This is a very short clip. But watching Rush bust a move to Herbie Hancock's "Rock It" is mesmerizing. I just have to keep clicking it over and over again.

Ay, Caramba!

2006-11-17T01:14:00.000-08:00

Lott's Dream Job

2006-11-15T13:25:00.000-08:00

As William Bunch pointed out in his own blog, we now know why Trent Lott was so driven in the last couple of days to secure a certain GOP leadership post. It's the job he grew up fantasizing about, the one his idol, Strom Thurmond, always pined for: Minority Whip! And it's finally his!

Aw, I can just see all the good ol' boys back home in Mississippi getting misty-eyed right about now.

Sexual Assault In The 21st Century

2006-11-14T04:07:00.000-08:00

Growing up, I was a casual fan of the 70's version of Buck Rogers. Sure, even then it seemed a bit stupid (insert Twiki joke here) but it was a helluva lot better than Space 1999 and Battlestar Galactica. Maybe it was because there were more freaks, or maybe it was because of Erin Gray. Who knows? What I can say with certainty is I don't remember this episode. In it Wilma Deering (Erin Gray) finds herself surrounded by a gaggle of space dwarfs who seem intent on recreating (or inspiring if you wanna get technical) the infamous "That's you college boy" scene from The Accused. Thankfully it's cut before they move over to the pinball machine.

Also, look for a young Tony Cox (Bad Santa, Me, Myself & Irene).

The Man, The Myth, The Eye

2006-11-13T05:33:00.000-08:00

Jack Elam, one of my all-time favorites, was born on this date in 1918. He started out his career playing "The Heavy" but I'll always remember him for his comedic turns in Support Your Local Sheriff and The Cannonball Run. So think kindly of the homely ol' bugger today and, if you happen upon someone with a wall-eye of their own, feel free to thank 'em for all they do in keeping the world interesting.

Elam trivia:
1) he lost the sight in his left eye after another Boy Scout stabbed him with a pencil during a fight at a troop meeting.
2) He "retired" to Ashland, Oregon many years back and died at home there in 2003. (I went to school there in the 80's and we used to see him shuffling around town once in a while).

Video Nearly Killed The Radio Star

2006-11-06T03:07:00.000-08:00

Who says you have to be pretty to be a rock and roller? Well, MTV for one. But thank God they don't have the final say or we'd have missed out on some great music over the years. And so, in no particular order, I give you my 6 all-time genetically-challenged, ill-favoured rock stars.

Thom Yorke- Radiohead

Joey Ramone- The Ramones

With a special appearance from Lemmy- Motorhead

Geddy Lee- Rush

Ric Ocasek- The Cars

Tom Petty

Johnny Winter

Good Riddance

2006-11-02T05:11:00.000-08:00

Botha and Reagan's Legacy

P.W. Botha died this week (10/31/06). Thank god his political career passed on some 17 years ago. Why? Because good ol' P.W. was the Prime Minister of South Africa, quite possibly the most racist country of the 20th century. Sure, it took the combined will of the entire world but, in the end, even this racist redneck saw the error of his ways.

Well, actually, the entire world wasn't against Botha and his racist regime. During the 80's, you see, while South Africa brutalized it's black majority, jailed and tortured it's leader (Nelson Mandela), and set racial equality back 100 years, one other country's leader stood by its side in full support. That leader: our own Ronald Reagan. Ol' Ronny joined Botha in calling Mandela a terrorist and even vetoed our Congress' attempt at joining the world in sanctions. Luckily there were enough votes to override this veto (no thanks to Dick Cheney who, as representative from Wyoming, voted against them both times).

So, please, do not weep for P.W. Botha. He does not deserve it. And also remember that Ronald Reagan, the GOP's God-Incarnate, was his ideological brother.

Come Play With Us, Danny

2006-10-31T17:10:00.000-08:00

One more reason you can never trust twins (although I'm sure this would've been a lot creepier if Kubrick had cast Billy and Benny McCrary).

Know Your Political Porn

2006-10-31T12:49:00.000-08:00

Think Bill O'Reilly is the only one with a dirty mind? Wrong. The world of politics is full of pornographers and smut peddlers. So, see if you can match the politician with their published filth.

Warning: the writing is usually more cringe-inducing than explicit.

The Politicians:
A. Barbara Boxer, senator, D–Calif.
B. William F. Buckley, former candidate for mayor of New York City
C. Jimmy Carter, former president
D. Lynne Cheney, wife of Vice President Dick Cheney
E. Winston Churchill, former prime minister of the United Kingdom
F. William Cohen, former secretary of defense, and Gary Hart, former senator, D–Colo.
G. Susan Combs, Republican candidate for Texas comptroller
H. Newt Gingrich, former speaker of the House, R–Ga.
I. I. Lewis "Scooter" Libby Jr., former chief of staff to Vice President Dick Cheney
J. Joseph Nye, former assistant secretary of defense for international security
K. Kenneth Starr, former independent counsel
L. William Weld, former governor of Massachusetts
M. Jim Webb, Democratic candidate for Virginia Senate seat

The Dirty Bits:
1. "Suddenly the pouting sex kitten gave way to Diana the Huntress. She rolled onto him and somehow was sitting athwart his chest, her knees pinning his shoulders. 'Tell me, or I will make you do terrible things,' she hissed."

2. "She was overwhelmed with a desire to nurture her husband. She soon bared her breast and held him close against it, and he responded eagerly to this unprecedented intimacy."

3. "She romped on top of Simolzak's huge frame, straddling him with her hands on his chest, her back arched and her breasts flailing wildly in the air. Her back was to him and her long hair swung from side to side as if accentuating the abandonment of her screams."

4. "I set the edge of my teeth halfway up her breast, just at the point of tension but not, so far as I could tell, of pain. This was the sweetest flesh I had ever tasted, including fish and fowl."

5. "After dinner, they went dancing at Charlie's Jazz. Elaine felt detached from herself, floating in Tom's arms. The hell with [CIA director] Trevor, she thought. And when Tom pulled her close to him, she knew that for tonight at least, it would be just plain Tom and Elaine. Later, back at her house, they made love. It was fierce, two rivers of energy rushing together, gloriously, powerfully. No words were needed."

6. "The women who embraced in the wagon were Adam and Eve crossing a dark cathedral stage—no, Eve and Eve, loving one another as they would not be able to once they ate of the fruit and knew themselves as they truly were."

7. "He held her breasts in his hands. Oddly, he thought, the lower one might be larger. ... One of her breasts now hung loosely in his hand near his face and he knew not how best to touch her."

8. "The woman came down the stairs and they met midway. He took both her hands in his and smiled affectionately; she, standing one step above him, bent forward and kissed him. It was an amiable, though formal, salutation."

9. "The President fondled and kissed her bare breasts. He touched her genitals, both through her underwear and directly, bringing her to orgasm on two occasions. On one occasion, the President inserted a cigar into her vagina."

10. "I kissed her breasts and ran my hand between her thighs. She gripped my shoulders tightly. Unlike the first time I made love to Alexa, when the ecstasy had been eroded by a sense of anxiety and uncertainty, I was sucked into this moment as quickly and completely as if I had placed my feet in quicksand. Memories from years ago blended with intense physical excitement in a driving, pounding torrent of passion."

11. "He didn't notice Jane taking her clothes off but suddenly she was naked: long legged, lithe, and bronzed. The sheets were cool, her body warm, her limbs strong and supple, and they meshed with his just as he remembered. 'Oh Greg, dearheart,' she whispered in his ear, 'I've missed you so. Welcome home.' "

12. "But this time she led him upstairs into a room he had never laid eyes on, a bedroom with a king-size bed and not less than six oil pictures of Ayn on the walls, one of them showing her bare-breasted, the Ayn of twenty years ago. The shades had been drawn and Nathaniel could savor the scent. Today her lover was being welcomed with synesthetical concern for all the senses, only the music missing. But as he lay and later groaned with writhing and release, he brought the full force of his mind to transmuted, voluptuarian elation in this physical union with the very woman who had created John Galt and Dagny Taggart and Henry Rearden, and had touched down her scepter on him, Nathaniel, igniting his mind, and his own scepter, which paid, now, devoted service."

13. "With devastating slowness, his hand cupped her completely before he slowly slid a finger into her warmth. She was burning up. Heat sliced through her. Emily gave herself up to the sweet torment of his hand as her hips rocked against his touch. Clutching his shoulders, her mouth blindly sought his. Desperate for release, she tightened her grip. 'Ross,' she managed, feeling as though she were spinning out of control."

The Answers:
1. H. Newt Gingrich and William Forstchen, 1945. (Baen, 1995)
2. C. Jimmy Carter, The Hornet's Nest: A Novel of the Revolutionary War. (Simon & Schuster, 2003)
3. M. James Webb, Lost Soldiers. (Bantam, 2001)
4. L. William Weld, Stillwater: A Novel. (Simon & Schuster, 2002)
5. F. William Cohen and Gary Hart, The Double Man. (Avon, 1985)
6. D. Lynne Cheney, Sisters. (New American Library, 1981)
7. I. Lewis "Scooter" Libby Jr., The Apprentice. (Graywolf, 1996)
8. E. Winston Churchill, Savrola (Longmans Green, 1899)
9. K. Kenneth Starr, Starr Report, 1998.
10. J. Joseph Nye, The Power Game: A Washington Novel. (Public Affairs, 2004).
11. A. Barbara Boxer, A Time To Run. (Chronicle, 2005)
12. B. William F. Buckley, Getting It Right. (Regnery Publishing, 2003)
13. G. Susan Combs, A Perfect Match. (Meteor Publishing Company, 1990)

Stolen from Slate Magazine.

Guinness Memories Pt. II

2006-10-28T03:45:00.000-07:00

In googling photos for my previous post I came across another set of Guinness icons from my childhood:

Billy and Benny McCrary, the World's Largest Twins...

and Hank Williams, Jr. look-a-likes.

At 743 and 723 lbs. respectively, Billy and Benny still hold the title even though they have both passed on. They now lie under what is claimed to be the world's largest granite gravestone at 13 ft. wide and over 3 tons (I'm not sure if this record has been confirmed by THE BOOK).

I now leave you with a picture sure to haunt your dreams for years to come. My apologies.

Robert Wadlow-- Tallest Man Ever

2006-10-25T05:15:00.000-07:00

Growing up, my favorite book was The Guinness Book of World Records. I used to spend hours pouring over those pages, memorizing the names and dates of mankind's best. But, really, it wasn't the whole book I enjoyed, it was just one section in particular. The Human Body. Who cared how tall the highest bridge was or how many eggs some idiot could consume in a minute? I wanted to know who had the largest cranium that year, or the most fingers.

I read it so much, in fact, that not only do I still remember the particulars of some of my favorites, their pictures are also seared eternally into my brain:

Robert Earl Hughes (1069 lbs.)

Don Koehler (8 ft. 2 in.)

The only problem is that I stopped reading it probably 25 years ago and these guys are long since gone from the sacred tome. That's because Mr. Hughes' all-time record has been eclipsed by John Brower Minnoch (1400 lbs.) and Mr. Koehler, who died in 1981, was simply the tallest "living" man. (Ah, the fickle hand of fame). But there is one of my early heroes still residing in those hallowed pages: Robert Wadlow, who stood an incredible 8 ft. 11 in. tall.

Now you may remember me posting the clip about Sun Ming Ming, the Chinese Basketball Player/Freak who stands a hair over 7 ft. 8 in. Well, just for reference, keep in mind as you watch the following short documentary that Mr. Wadlow stood 15 inches taller than this guy!! That's 1 ft. 3 in. if you're keeping score at home.

The God Of Hellfire

2006-10-22T23:52:00.000-07:00

I thought I'd post this video for a few of reasons:

1) I've always had enjoyed this song.

2) It's getting close to Halloween, so I thought it's satanic theme was appropriate.

3) Arthur Brown is a Reverend in the Universal Life Church, just like my brother Russ! In fact, I now regret talking Russ out of wearing the flaming head gear during my wedding ceremony.

Other famous Universal Life ordained ministers?
1) Johnny Carson
2) Hunter S. Thompson
3) Tony Danza

Today's CSpan Issue: The Robot Wars

2006-10-18T14:05:00.000-07:00

I, too, am undecided on this issue. There are many benevolent robots among us (the Roomba, R2D2) and that's why it's such a tough call. But, let me make myself perfectly clear: The Cylons are evil! Death to the Cylons!

Northwest Serial Killer All-Stars

2006-10-18T13:39:00.000-07:00

Here's another recently published article of mine (Oregonizm #2). I apologize if you've already read it. (Also, I've linked Kip Kinkel because I know he's not as well known outside Oregon-- and the morbid community).
Warning: It's not for the faint of heart.

Maybe it’s the rain, or the surplus of titty bars, or all the coffee we drink. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s because there’s so many goddamn white people* up here. Whatever it is, one thing’s for sure: we certainly seem to have more than our fair share of serial killers in the beautiful Northwest. In fact, not only do we have what seems an excess of ‘em, but quite a few did such a bang up job they’re right up there with the best the nation has to offer. And so, without further ado, here are our All-Stars:

* serial killing is almost exclusively a white male past time.

1) Ted Bundy- 30 victims
If there was such a thing as a national Serial Killer All-Star Team we’d never have to bitch about our guys always getting left off it. Not with ol’ Ted lacing ‘em up for us. Ted Bundy, you see, was the Kobe Bryant of psychopathic corpse-fuckers. And he’s all ours. Sure he eventually took his talents on the road, but he was raised right here in the NW. And it was here he honed his skills and began fleshing out his all-star resume.

As the Casanova of serial killers ol' Ted was a ground breaker. He was handsome and intelligent and, therefore, didn’t have to sneak up on his victims. Instead he sweet-talked them to their doom. He showed the world that, rather than always being some hunchbacked misanthrope lurking in the shadows, your neighborhood serial killer just might be the home-coming king. And that scared the shit out of everyone.

In the beginning, Ted worked exclusively in and around the campus of his alma-mater, the University of Washington. Sometimes he liked to lure these sweet, young coeds into his car and sometimes he just sneaked into their dorm rooms. It didn't really matter because either way they ended up battered, brutalized and screwed six ways 'til Sunday. It was fun-- but after 11 victims Ted decided it was time to hit the road.

Maybe he’d started to feel the heat, or maybe he’d just realized that no matter how fast he worked he’d never be able to kill all of those fucking Huskies. Who knows? Whatever the reason, he enrolled in the University of Utah law school and high-tailed it to Salt Lake City. Once there, though, his studies were definitely not first and foremost in his mind.

In 1976, just two years after he began his bloody spree, Ted was convicted of attempted kidnapping and sentenced to 15 years in the Utah State prison. Even though it wasn’t the murder conviction the authorities had worked for, at least they were hopeful he'd be off the streets for a while. Instead, he wouldn’t even stay there long enough to start enjoying the sodomy.

Just over a year later Ted found himself in Aspen, awaiting trial for a 1975 murder he’d committed there. It was a small town, though, and the police were dumb as chimps. In short time Ted escaped and spent a week on the run. And then, not six months later, he slipped out of the same jail and headed for Florida.

Later, in Death Row interviews, he would say he felt this time behind bars had changed him, perhaps doused his killing rage. He’d hoped to settle into a new identity and leave all the ugliness behind. He was, he would soon find out, dead wrong.

Just a week after arriving in Tallahassee, Ted broke into a Florida State University sorority house. He was not just in the mood for a good ol’ fashioned panty raid, though. Instead he savaged four women there, killing two and severely injuring the others. And then, just an hour later, did the same to another female coed in her apartment a few blocks away.

Where once he prided himself on seducing his victims, he was now a mindless machine. Hannibal Lecter on tweak. He tore at the flesh of his victims with his teeth, beat one woman’s head flat into her pillow with a tree limb. Ripped another girl open from crotch to asshole with a can of hair spray. He was a full-fledged maniac now and it would soon cost him his life.

Within the month Ted Bundy would be caught for the final time and convicted when his teeth were shown to match the bite marks on one of the dead sorority girls. He spent a few weepy years on Death Row, lamenting that so many people hated him, and finally fried in the electric chair on January 24, 1989.

Fun Fact: Jane’s Addiction’s song “Ted, Just Admit it,” with its “Sex is Violent” refrain is about Bundy.

2) Gary Ridgway (The Green River Killer)- 46 victims
Like Bundy, Gary Ridgway is another home-grown, corpse-fucking All-Star. During interviews, in fact, he told police he often returned to the dumpsite to screw the decomposing body-- at least until there were just too many maggots. He also said that on at least one occasion he busted a nut with one while his young son slept only feet away in his truck. As you can see, his credentials are impeccable.

The only thing strange about Ridgway's case is that he is officially tied to only 46 murders. Now these may already seem like Michael Jordan-type numbers but, if you look at the dates, you’ll realize that there’s something odd about this final tally. That’s because although he was arrested in 2001, all but two of his victims died between '82-'84.

“Well,” you may be asking yourself, “what the fuck was he doing those other 17 years, playing Scrabble?” If so, you’re not alone. And it was because of the sheer incompetence of the Seattle Police force that his Hall of Fame career lasted so long.

Gary Ridgway, you see, was well known to the Seattle Police, even before the dead hookers started piling up. Here, in fact, are a few of their run-ins:

1980: Ridgway is arrested and accused of choking a prostitute near the Sea-Tac airport.

1982: He is questioned with a prostitute who was later added to the Green River list.

1983: The police interview Ridgway when a man tells them he last saw his missing hooker-girlfriend with Ridgeway in his dark pickup truck. Ridgway denies it and so the matter is dropped. This even though a month earlier another prostitute is last seen in a dark truck with a man matching Ridgway's description. Both women end up on the Green River list.

Now, fast forward to 1987: after 4 ½ years and a body count pushing 40 the police set its sight on a “new” suspect. They learn from Ridgway’s ex-wife’s that he often visited the dump sites of the victims, in fact most of the sites are along his daily drive to work. They also find that Ridgway was off-work during each disappearance. Then they get “bodily samples” from him.

Now wait a minute, you may be saying. They had him in 1987? Fifteen years before he was officially charged with the crimes? How the hell did that happen? Well, the answers to that question are really just goddamn disturbing.

In 1987 all the aforementioned evidence the police had gathered was deemed insufficient. It wasn’t until 2001, nearly 20 years after the first murders, that the case was reopened and forensic samples of the victims and a few suspects were sent for DNA testing.

So what’s strange about all this? First of all, DNA testing has been used since 1988 to narrow suspect lists and strengthen cases. So what happened? Well, it appears the Seattle Police was simply sitting on Ridgway and his victims’ forensic samples. Why? Who knows. Perhaps it was because there were no new bodies to add to the list and stir public outcry. Hell, they were only hookers anyway. But what any criminal psychologist will tell you is that serial killers cannot just stop. They can slow down for a while, perhaps. But quit cold turkey? Nope. Once they begin, they kill until they are either caught or die.

So what does that mean? Did Ridgway rape and kill forty-some women from 1982-84, then one in 1990 and one in 1998 (the only murders attributed to him) and no more? No way. Not a chance. There are almost certainly many more bodies strewn around Seattle and across the Northwest. And only Gary Ridgway knows where they are. Happy hiking.

Fun Fact: In a scene copied in Silence of the Lambs, Seattle Police repeatedly interviewed Ted Bundy on Death Row in Florida, hoping he could help crack the case.

3) Randall Woodfield (the I-5 Killer) - at least 18 victims
If Ted Bundy was the “Casanova” of serial killers, then ol’ Randy Woodfield was the "Tom Brady”of psycho sum-bitches. Not only was he tall, dark and handsome, but he was a star athlete to boot. At 20 he seemed to have it all; too bad it wouldn’t last. Woodfield, you see, was one of those guys who hit their strides at 19 and then find their twenties to be a succession of disappointments.

In the spring of 1974, after two standout years at Portland State, Woodfield was drafted by the Green Bay Packers. Sounds impressive, sure. But, truth is, he never even made it out of training camp. Ol' Randy was only 23 years old but already his lifelong dream of playing in the NFL was fucked.

Once home, though, Randy didn't spend a lot of time lying around feeling sorry for himself. Instead he found another outlet for his competitive spirit: accosting women at knife-point in Portland area parks. There was a lot of running, grunting and patting of butts, just like playing football. And it really got his adrenaline rushing. If only there could’ve been the roar of the crowd... oh, and if only that last bitch hadn’t been an undercover cop. As it was he found himself heading to the State Pen barely a year after being drafted.

Four years later Woodfield came out prison with a world-class case of blue balls. At first he took a job as a bartender and tried the "get the underage chick drunk" rape thing. But it was slow going, and not anonymous enough. And that's when things got ugly.

Over the next six months Woodfield spent most of his free time cruising I-5 from Seattle to northern California in his VW Bug. He found if he hit fast-food restaurants and convenience stores late at night he had a good chance of catching young females working alone. Then he could rob the store, rape and/or kill the woman and be on the highway before the cops even knew anything was up. In fact, he especially liked sodomizing his victims and then shooting 'em in the head at the exact moment he blew his wad. It was fun while it lasted.

Twenty-five years later Randy Woodfield still sits in the Oregon State Pen, serving two life sentences for a vicious double rape and murder he committed in Keizer, Oregon. He has no chance of parole. He spends his free time working out, wooing women through the mail and proclaiming his innocence to anyone who is crazy enough to listen.

Fun Fact: Woodfield bartended at Beaverton's Faucet Tavern (now known as The Dublin Pub) and it is there he met at least one of victims. He also bartended at the Cheerful Tortoise in Portland for a short time.

4) Keith Jesperson (the Happy Face Killer) - at least 8 victims
At 6 foot 6" 240 lbs. Keith Jesperson was a behemoth without a conscience. Before strangling his victims he often enjoyed beating them bloody with his fists. He is, therefore, what this All-Star team needs if we’re ever gonna make it to the finals: someone not afraid to hack the shit out of Shaq.

Keith Jesperson spent his childhood working his way up the animal torture/kill ladder. He started at age six, bashing in the skulls of gophers; by his early twenties he was up to strangling cats, then dogs. Then, at age 35, when he felt he really had the hang of it, he picked up a half-retarded drunk chick at the B&I Tavern in SE Portland, took her home and strangled her. She would not be the last.

Soon after Jesperson took a job as a long-haul trucker. In this line of work he found he could pick up a hooker, kill her and then head off down the highway. It also allowed him another favorite pastime: dragging some of their bodies under his semi's wheels until they looked like nothing more than big bags of meat pudding. What bothered him was that he wasn’t getting any credit for his accomplishments. Where were the accolades? The shoe endorsements? To remedy this Jesperson began writing letters to the Oregonian, bragging about his killings. He signed them with a simple drawing of (you guessed it) a happy face.

Finally, after a few years of this one-sided correspondence, Jesperson did something stupid: he killed someone he was dating. Oh yeah, and then he sent off a letter he would soon regret, one to his brother in which he confessed to his crimes. Intelligence, it seemed, was not one of his strong points-- not that such things ever bothered Bob Whitsitt.

After "confessing" to more than 160 murders, Keith Jesperson was finally convicted of 2 murders in Oregon and one each in Washington and Wyoming. He is now serving consecutive life sentences in the Oregon State Penitentiary. He spends his days working out, shooting free throws and praying for the return of Trader Bob.

Fun Fact: Early in the investigation a Troutdale woman, hoping to end an abusive relationship, “confessed” to helping her boyfriend dispose of one of the Happy-Face bodies. They were convicted and spent 4 years in prison.

5) Jerry Brudos (the Lust Killer)- 4 victims
Before Ted Bundy, before Gary Ridgfield, before most Police Departments had even heard of serial killers, there was Portland's own Jerry Brudos-- the George Mikan of NW serial killers. When he was caught in 1968 P-Town's Police Force was aghast. They'd never seen anything like him. And, although he only has 4 victims to his credit, don't think this cross-dressing freak with a shoe fetish was lazy. No, he was just thorough. Very thorough. He took his time with each of his special lady friends, painstakingly extracting multiple sick pleasures from each and every one.

First there was 19 year-old encyclopedia sales-girl who knocked on Brudos' door while his wife and kids were away. After assaulting and killing her (and repeatedly screwing her corpse) Brudos sawed off her left foot. This he put it in his freezer before dumping the rest of her body in the Willamette River. He had an extensive collection of stolen women's pumps, you see, and he needed something to model them on (can you say shoe endorsement?). This kept him occupied for awhile, at least until the foot began to rot. Then it was hunting time again.

Next there was the girl whose car had broken down on the side of the road. It was easy getting her into his garage after promising to fix it. Almost as easy as trapping her in there and strangling her, right under the nose of his oblivious wife. Then, after screwing her corpse for a while, all there was left to do was lift it into the air via a hook-and-pulley system and he was ready for hours of fun. It hung up there for several days, like a pale, pink piñata. Just perfect for dressing up and taking photos of. And masturbating to.

Then there were the attempts at abductions while dressed in drag, and the attempts at fashioning paperweights out of breasts carved from his victims. He was, as you can see, bat-shit crazy. And this made him careless. Careless enough to start hanging out on the OSU campus, hoping to lure a co-ed into a date. Careless enough to want to talk to them of the newly discovered corpses found floating in the nearby Long Tom River. And, finally, careless enough to return for a "date" with a co-ed who had just gotten off the phone with the police.

Jerry Brudos died in prison on March 28, 2006. His final days were spent doing what he enjoyed most: sitting alone in his cell, thumbing through his shoe catalogue collection and fiddling with himself.

Fun Fact: Before his death in 2006, Brudos was Oregon's longest-serving inmate at 36 years.

6) Kip Kinkel- 4 killed, 25 wounded
Alright, so Kip "Revenge of the Nerds" Kinkel is technically a spree killer. So what? He's got All-Star written all over him, no matter where you file his papers.

It all started one fine spring morning in the spring of 1998. Kip had big plans that day so he made himself a nice, big bowl of cereal--it's the most important meal of the day! Then he gathered up his school things (his book bag, his jacket, his Glock and his .22s) and headed for the door. He turned to yell goodbye to his parents, then remembered he'd blown both their brains out the day before. Oh well, no big deal. It was off to school to see if he could talk some sense into those popular kids. Tell them the Purple Nurples and Atomic Wedgies they gave him were growing a bit tiresome. Perhaps they'd see things his way today! He smiled, pulling his backpack close as he skipped off to the bus stop… I'm pretty sure you know the rest of the story.

Kinkel is now in the Oregon State Pen, serving 4 life sentences. He has many new friends. Sure they also like playing tricks on him, but at least that's not his underwear being wedged up between his butt-cheeks.

7) Dayton Leroy Rogers- 8 victims (at least)
For a short time in the late 1980's Dayton Leroy Rogers ran amok in the P-town metro area, slaughtering hookers. Known as "Steve the gambler" to Portland's whore-corp, Rogers also had a reputation for liking his sex rough. No one really knew how rough until one August 1987 night in a Denny's parking lot near West Linn, Oregon…

Just a quiet, late night "Moons Over My Hammy." That's all they wanted, these hungry night-owls. But no, it wasn't to be. Instead there were the screams of "Help, I'm being raped!" from that naked chick sprawled out on the asphalt at the back of the parking lot. And the hack-hack-hacking of that crazy knife-wielding motherfucker hunched over her. And the foot race to his truck, the license plate number, the blood.

Police were able to trace the truck's plates to Rogers' auto-shop in Woodburn. There they found blood in the truck and a partially burned shoe in the shop's furnace. After his arrest the authorities also tied Rogers to seven bodies dumped on a private farm south-east of Molalla, all of them mutilated-- some even missing their feet. On June 7, 1989, Dayton Leroy Rogers was sentenced to die by lethal injection. He's still there, on Death Row, dreaming of amputee hookers.

8) Ward Weaver- 2 victims
Ward Weaver, Oregon City's own CSI-celebrity, was not the sharpest knife in the ribcage. Why else would he kill his daughter's two best friends, bury one under his "hot tub patio," the other in a bag in his tool shed, and then, when the heat is on, try to rape his son's girlfriend? (It's called anonymity, dipshit-- look it up).

And, just like Keith Jespersen, if not for the media circus surrounding his psycho-shenanigans this retard might have faded quickly into the mists of time. But it was 2002: the networks were pimping the "child abduction" fear factor and Weaver, professing innocence to every news-bimbo with a camera crew, was the lead story for the better part of the year. Hell, he even gave interviews standing on the concrete slab covering one of his victims.

He's now residing quietly in prison, serving two life terms without the possibility of parole-- and dreaming of KATU's Anna Song.

9) Christian Longo- 4 victims
In a year (Dec. 2001- Dec. 2002) that saw 3 Oregon fathers slaughter their families, Christian Longo stood out. That's because where Robert Bryant put the shotgun in his own mouth and Edward Morris was caught soon after in Baker City, Christian Longo used his new found freedom to take off to Cancun, Mexico for a well-deserved vacation.

Married at 19, a father at 22, it just seemed ol' Chris Longo had never gotten the chance to sow his wild oats. Here he was, only 27 years-old-- saddled with a wife, 4 kids and an ass-load of debt. He just needed a break and who could blame him. So, after dumping his family's corpses in the cold waters around Newport, Oregon, Longo scrubbed the blood from his hands and headed of to Cancun, Mexico.

He spent a couple of carefree weeks there: drinking, dancing, smoking weed and getting laid. You know, the high life; not a care in the world. Well, at least not until they showcased him on "America's Most Wanted" and some Canadian bitch he'd met recognized him.

After a trial that lasted less than a month, Christian Longo's jury found him guilty of murdering two of his children and sentenced him to death by lethal injection. He still sits on Death Row to this day, basking in his lack of responsibility.

10) Cesar Barone- 5 victims
Cesare Barone liked his women mature. No, I mean MATURE. In fact, if you'd have come across his personal ad in 1991, just before he started his rape/kill spree, it might have read something like this: "YHM seeks GMILF (GM=Grandma) to torture, sodomize & kill. Turn-ons: knobby hands, loose flesh and Depends."

After raping and strangling his 71-year old neighbor in Florida in 1979, Barone seemed to take the next decade off. Maybe he spent his time peeking under the tables at his neighborhood bingo parlor or masturbating himself raw as he watched The Golden Girls. Who knows? Whatever he was up to it kept his demons in check until 1991 when he moved to Oregon and set his sights on his 61 year-old Hillsboro neighbor. She was only the beginning, though.

After raping and strangling this temptress, Barone shot and wounded his next victim as she drove home from work. Then, after assaulting her in her car, he dragged her into the street and shot her in the head. Barone managed two more before his luck with the ladies ran out, including a 51 year-old who died of a heart attack during her ordeal. He now sits on Death Row in Salem, with only his memories of all that wrinkly sex to pass the time.

Who Says Pro Wrasslers Are Stupid?

2006-10-18T06:17:00.000-07:00

In this clip a young Rowdy Roddy Piper does his best John Belushi/Animal House impression during a ringside rant. Only instead of an empty beer can, he smashes a full beer bottle against his forehead. I wonder how many stitches this stunt cost him.

Kimmel: King Of The Freaks!

2006-10-16T19:33:00.000-07:00

A couple of months ago I blogged about the newest pituitary case attempting to break into the NBA. Well, just last week Jimmy Kimmel fired up the circus music and produced him in all his freakish glory:

Dick Does Hepburn

2006-10-13T01:15:00.000-07:00

I know, I know, this doesn't really fit with the theme of my blog (other than my theory that Andy Dick is insane), but it made me laugh when I saw it the other day. So, screw you.

Happy Birthday Mr. Crowley

2006-10-12T04:32:00.000-07:00

Just thought I'd wish the self-proclaimed "Wickedest Man in the World" a happy one on this the 131 anniversary of his birth. (Oct. 12 1875- Dec. 1 1947)

Jim Jones And The People's Temple

2006-10-10T00:58:00.000-07:00

So you've got no friends, your girlfriend has left you and you're as vacuous as a light bulb. Well, then, what do you have to lose? Join a cult! But not one of those "we meet every other Thursday, it's your turn to buy the pizza" cults. I'm talking a "shave your head, swear allegiance, I'll fucking kill you if you leave" cult.

It'll be great. All of a sudden everything will make sense. Your life will have structure and you won't have to think anymore. Can't you just feel the serenity? But the hardest part is finding the right one. So here's where I can help:

Click On The Mesmerizing Fellow Below And Listen Carefully.

And Now Watch The Clip I've Posted.

Okay? So now go out and look for someone just like Mr. Jones. You're gonna be fine.

Andy Dick-- King Of The Burn

2006-10-09T00:52:00.000-07:00

Everything about motivational speakers is pretty damn creepy. The intensity, the enthusiam, the 10 steps to world domination. But at least I can see what's driving the actual speakers: $$$. My guess is most of 'em don't believe the shit they're spewing, they've just figured out a new way to separate the weak-willed from their hard-earned dough.

But what about the attendees? Are they fucking stupid? Are they sheep? I'm not sure. What I do find interesting is that the explosion of these seminars seems to have corresponded exactly with the mass suicide of the Heaven's Gate cult. See, it's my theory that the people who attend these seminars are the same ones who would've joined a David Koresh or Jim Jones-like cult only a few years ago. In fact, they may have actually been members right now if ol' Marshall Applewhite hadn't disgraced cults everywhere with his membership requirements of castration and Nike shoes.

Because, seriously folks, who really needs help with motivation. If you've got something really important to do simply drag yourself off the couch, put your pants on and go and fucking do it. And if not, don't. (See, I'm a motivational speaker, too). And, besides, I'm with George Carlin-- what the world actually needs a little less motivation:

-----------------------------------------------------------------------
The people who are motivated are the ones who are causing all the trouble. Stock swindlers, serial killers, child molesters, Christian conservatives. These people are highly motivated. You show me some lazy prick who's lying around all day watching game shows and stroking his penis and I'll show you someone who's not causing any fucking trouble.
----------------------------------------------------------------------

And so I bring you in a round about way to today's clip. It's Andy Dick (who very well might be insane) riffing on the absurdity of motivational speakers.

The Gropinator Does California Proud

2006-10-06T23:15:00.000-07:00

Okay, so I'd heard the stories, the allegations, the hints at law-suits. You know, the ones regarding Arnold and his neanderthal/frat boy ways. Everyone had. And it's not like I didn't believe them. It's just that I'm part of the MTV/CNN generation-- I need to see something with my own eyes for it to really sink in. And that hadn't happened yet. Well the time for innocence is now over, I'm sold.

The scene--
It's the late '70s and some brainiac has the wild idea to send perhaps the most over-sexed man of the last half century to Rio (with a camera crew) for Carnival. What they capture is Mr. Universe at his best: pushy, innapropriate and, in a wild dance floor scene, perhaps one cocktail short of a full-on rape. I'm still speechless.

Most Disturbing World Record

2006-10-06T04:04:00.000-07:00

Who says 7mm ain't no big thing. It's huuuge in the world of competitive eye-popping (it's the distance this fellow's eyeballs are able to jut out of his skull).

Gene Simmons Does Mike Douglas

2006-10-04T14:47:00.000-07:00

Talk about the proverbial "turd in a punchbowl." Here's Gene Simmons (circa 1974) chatting it up with an annoyed older woman and Mr. Douglas on his long-running talk show.

Ed Gein-The Chuck Berry of Psycho-Cinema

2006-10-03T03:45:00.000-07:00

Just as Chuck Berry influenced most rock stars of the 60's and 70's, Ed Gein's legacy can be found in many of Hollywood's greatest serial killer films. From Alfred Hitchcock's Psycho to Tobe Hooper's Texas Chainsaw Massacre to Jonathan Demme's Silence of the Lambs, it was Gein who shambled through the writers' feverish dreams and inspired such creations as Norman Bates, Leatherface and Jame Gumb.

So here's a short bio (with actual footage of the seemingly meek Gein) to help you understand how a man with such a small body of work (he officially killed only two people) could have influenced so many.

In Memorium: Larry "Bud" Melman

2006-10-03T03:11:00.000-07:00

Actually, Larry "Bud" Melman (aka Calvert DeForest) ain't dead. He's just retired. It's just too bad Dave can't seem to coax the demented little bastard out of the retirement home and back onto the airwaves. And so, until that happens, here is a two-part clip of vintage Larry "Bud" insanity to tide you over.

Herzog's "Citizen Kane"

2006-09-29T17:16:00.000-07:00

Way before he brought us the madness of Timothy Treadwell (aka "Grizzly Man"), Werner Herzog risked his own life by infiltrating and filming another group of nature's most savage creatures: midgets!

Filmed in 1970, Even Dwarfs Started Small is the story of a rebellion of midgets... no, wait, it's the tale of an island institution... hold it, there is that one-legged chicken... oh, and that hilarious camel... Alright, so I don't know what the hell it's about (I bet after the high-grade German LSD wore off ol' Werner didn't either).

Here are three clips from it, anyway, so go screw on your old college film-study beret; I'd like a two page summary by Monday.

Batman's Next Sidekick

2006-09-28T03:59:00.000-07:00

I'm pretty sure this qualifies as a super power:

Michael Jackson Re-Animated

2006-09-27T05:10:00.000-07:00

This was my 2nd favorite cartoon growing up-- right behind "The Gary Glitter/Peter Billingsley Power Hour." Ah, the early mornings, the Sugar Corn Pops, the amyl nitrate...

Just kidding, this is another bizarre Robert Smigel production.

"Mike Tyson Is A Homo"

2006-09-25T22:20:00.000-07:00

In perhaps the greatest bit of trash-talking in sports history, Mitch "Blood" Green calls out Mike Tyson circa 1986, hoping to land a fight. Not only does he call Tyson a homo but he seems to refer to him as Mike "Cicely" Tyson (it's kinda hard to tell). The bonus is that this clip leads into an interview with Green after the guys at The Best Damn Sports Show somehow find him and drag him out of obscurity. All these years later and not only is he still sporting the beret and corn-rows, he's also as incomprehensible as ever.

Ah, Now I Get "The Eye Of The Duck"

2006-09-25T02:45:00.000-07:00

After watching this clip, David Lynch's theory seems so simple now. The room is a 2 and the dwarf is a 7, right? Or, hold it, the statue is a 7. So that must mean the dwarf is an 8. Or maybe a 9. Wait, but what about the armchairs? And where's the fucking duck?!

The Dust And The Struggle

2006-09-24T14:48:00.000-07:00

I've always been intrigued by the scenes of Middle East riot/demonstrations. You know, where impeccably dressed young men run around in a frenzy, hurling stones at government forces. It's as if they're all afraid Joan Rivers is lurking somewhere in the shadows, just waiting to ream them for their wardrobe choices. Well, somewhere along the line, this fascination led me to write the following story:

Abil knelt in the sun-blistered street, his knees hard into the concrete, his shirt wet with sweat. All about him danced dark-skinned young men, their shoes skidding in the gravel, their hips jostling against his sharp shoulder blades. He heard them shout, watched them their hurl blunt projectiles into the sunlight, watched the sky blacken with rubble. Yet he was calm; he ignored it all. He ignored the chaos that clashed on all sides-- the hard faces, the flying asphalt. And instead knelt there in the street like the devout at prayer, arms outstretched, searching amongst the shuffling feet for the perfect stone.

His calloused hands crept along in the rubble, grasping first a chunk of splintered concrete, then a sand-smoothed stone. Yet even though he crouched there, low to this task, his back bent like an old man's, his eyes were ever up. Never straying from the shadows at the far edge of the courtyard. His hands, you see, were well accustomed to their work; he left them to it. They knew the line of a well-shaped stone, the heft of one which might fly true. His hands were confident, and his eyes were needed elsewhere-- across the courtyard. For there, in the shadows of a long abandoned tenement building, in its shallow furrow of coolness, stood row upon row of heavily-armed soldiers. The enemy.

Abil was not afraid. He was not intimidated. Instead, he simply sat there on his haunches, eyeing the squadrons from within the teeming crowd. He knew that these forces would stand there for hours, idle, holding their ground. Their shields at chin level, their dark mirrored visors cloaking any trace of humanity. Knew they would wait as long as it took. Patient for the sun to fall and prod the angry crowd, tired and weary, home. There was no hurry. The soldiers knew that the ill-equipped rioters could do them no harm, they lacked the firepower. Indeed, most of the hurled rocks fell pathetically short of their targets. Merely skipping amongst their ankles like wind-whipped locusts, brushing shoe tops or plunking feebly off armored shins. And they also knew that if a youth grew brave, if one crept close enough for any real danger, a well-placed rubber bullet would certainly halt him.

These boisterous youths were really only frisky pups, they knew. Rambunctious, a bit out of hand sometimes, but harmless. And they also knew that any action against them stronger than a swat across the nose might bring the only thing they truly feared: the news cameras. So they waited, patient, as still as the stone columns that lined the boulevard.

Abil felt his left hand snare a promising stone, pull it close. Then he glanced down. He quickly counted the arsenal he had gathered between his knees: several well-rounded cobbles, a handful of sharpened bits of concrete, three halves of brick. Good enough.

He spat into his palms and rubbed them together. The dust that swirled in the heat and gathered on his fingertips could make a perfect throw go awry. And that would not be acceptable. Each stone had a purpose, each stone must ring true. So he spat again into his palms, rubbed them clean. And when he was satisfied, he wiped them on the cuffs of his pants, stood.

Looking down, though, he noticed that the dust had, almost at once, began clinging again to his hands. He sighed. It was always the way. No matter where he found himself. In any number of cities, on any of a thousand sweltering afternoons. There was always the dust. Swirling about him like a pestilence, blotting out the sun.

It seemed sometimes that the dust was the only common thread in his long march of days. The dust and the struggle. The faces of his fellow rioters changed from fight to fight, as did each strange language they barked into the dry air. He'd stood in the Gaza Strip with Palestinians all about him, hurling stones at the Israeli army. Then, years later, at their own police force. He'd stood shoulder to shoulder with Hezbollah. Hamas. The P.L.O. With any number of lesser known factions. He'd rioted in Jordan, in Egypt. Thrown stones in Syria, Turkey, the Golan Heights. First on one side of the government, then the other. And had long before lost interest in keeping track of the differing camps, of the grievances. Instead, all he noticed was that the dust kicked up by the expensive shoes of his companions, that crept into their silken shirts, it was always the same. Always rising slowly into the hot heavy air like quick lime, forever coating his tongue.

It was as if the dust was connected to all of it, somehow an integral part of every skirmish. As if it somehow strung his days together like a child's daisy chain. Perhaps if there was no dust, he sometimes pondered, there would be no struggle. No shouts of fury, no hurled stones, no hatred. Yet, he knew it was silly to think of such things. Pointless. There was no escaping the dust. At each demonstration it rose billowing into the air, higher and higher as the mob's fury gained momentum. Stinging the eyes, the throat. Permeating everything.

He coughed once, picked up a stone. And there, towards the western flank of the stern line of soldiers, spied a target. An inexperienced youth, perhaps, certainly one on his first assignment. From across the courtyard Abil's sharp eyes noticed the soldier had not properly arranged his bullet-proof vest. It lay askew, off his left shoulder. Leaving his left collarbone dangerously exposed. So he gathered himself, hefted his stone. Then launched it into the swirling dust.
He watched it arc across the courtyard, black and swift as a sparrow. And, just before it struck, he allowed his eyes to begin a slow scan down the ranks. He did not need to witness it strike its target. He knew the outcome, he knew his aim was true. Instead, he set about finding his next target. And because of this did not see the young soldier crumple, fall to one knee. Then get dragged backward by his fellows, into the mass of black guards, on his way to the infirmary. Instead, he merely notched an invisible tally in his head and scanned on.

One thousand, he whispered to himself for encouragement, one thousand and the afternoon was still young. It was the accepted rate: one thousand US Dollars for each soldier he sent to the hospital. The next day's paper would confirm the final tally. It was the rate he had received for years, the one he had accepted at countless such altercations. Yet the men who compensated him came from many groups, held many beliefs, followed many prophets. In fact, many of them were sworn enemies. It seemed this was the one they could all agree upon: one thousand US Dollars. Well, and also that whenever such measures were needed, whenever such force was called for, run of the mill rioting was no longer enough.

The news crews, you see, had long grown immune. They disregarded the well- dressed youths hurling asphalt that had once been deemed newsworthy, ignored the burning cars that once drew them like moths. They simply looked the other way. What was needed now was a body count. Of any sort. If not the newsmen would never drag themselves away from their air-conditioned lounges, from their Pernod and cigarettes. If not the riot would never be seen or heard. And since weapons were hard to come by and, even if they were used, the repercussions so harsh, something else was needed. That something was Abil.

So he was shepherded, from city to city, country to country, on such occasions. If news coverage was necessary, Abil was there. Standing faceless in the raging crowd as if he was one of them, picking off careless soldiers with his miracle arm. He could hit a saucer from one hundred meters away, and often did so for new interested clients. Could send upwards of fifteen soldiers to the infirmary in the span of an afternoon. It always piqued the media's interest when seemingly unarmed street youths could do this. And, as Abil's agent always told his clients, if they were lucky, if Allah smiled on them that day, such casualties might anger the rest of the standing force. Send them, in a rage, barreling into the rock-hurling crowd. With truncheons and rubber bullets. And then, perhaps, they might even make CNN.

Yet despite all his successes, despite all the money he'd made, Abil still felt unsure of himself. He felt empty. He had no real beliefs, held no people sacred. He was merely a prostitute. Selling his arm to the highest bidder, damn the ideology. He'd thrown stones with the PLO and then, years later, at them. And felt nothing. Either way.

Sometimes, though, when he was in a foreign land, in bed alone in a darkened room, he wished it were different. Wished he could somehow feel the fire he saw in the faces around him, perhaps know the strength of conviction it took to rage so. Maybe then he might be able to sleep at night. Maybe then he might know peace.

Yet, in the end, such serenity never came. He knew it was hopeless. For how could he embrace any of the ideologies he found himself aiding, how could he rally behind the abuses claimed? All about him were young men in silken shirts and gold chains, thousand dollar shoes and salon clipped hair. Most even looked as if they'd merely been on their way to the discotheque when they happened by the violence. Where was the oppression when such extravagances could be afforded? What were the abuses? The grievances?

Sometimes, in fact, he found himself looking sideways at these privileged young men beside him. Eyeing the hatred in their gazes and wondering to himself if such passion was not misplaced. If it was not simply hatred for the sake of hatred. Despising the government or rival religions merely because that was the way. Because that was how it had always been. Well, how could he embrace such views? He often asked himself. How could he support such ideas?

He could not. It was the answer that always came. He was not one of them. He was not one of any of them. He was, instead, alone. As he had always been. Merely traveling the Gulf, sometimes smuggled across borders in livestock transports, sometimes in car trunks. Hoarding the money he received so that he might one day retire to a quiet port city, away from it all. Away from such hatred. Perhaps then find something in which to believe.

Once, though, a couple of years back, Abil's agent had come with a rumor that had been whispered to him in a darkened bar. A rumor that sparked in Abil a notion that his lonely travels might be, at last, coming to end. That, perhaps, there was some something else at which his arm might succeed, away from the dust and the struggle. It seemed a rich American had heard of Abil and his wondrous arm, had heard of him and wanted him for his own. Now, precisely what this rich American had in mind Abil was not so sure. His agent had mentioned many things-- a certain national pastime, and a sports team, and millions of dollars. But to Abil it was all merely a mystery. All he knew was that the task he was needed for was in the United States. And that was enough.

Abil, you see, had watched many movies about the United States. And in all those movies there had never been any of the swirling dust that plagued his dreams, not one pinch. It seemed a magical place. The air was clear, the sky azure blue. There was no dust and, therefore it seemed, no hatred. And so for weeks he lay awake in his narrow cot, far into the night, dreaming of his new life. Wondering what it was he would do in America, what he was wanted for. Certainly he would not hurl stones. Surely there was no need for such things there. There was no dust and, therefore, no struggle.

Over the weeks stories drifted to Abil of cases upon cases of caviar being sent to consulates, to embassies. Even Prime Ministers. All from his wealthy suitor. Abil had consorted with terrorist groups, he knew this was the reason, his name was on many lists. His emigration, therefore, would be difficult. And the caviar was supposed to grease the wheels of diplomacy, produce the necessary Visa. Or perhaps, if all else failed, generate a set of high quality forged papers. "Anything," this mysterious fellow had been overheard saying, "just get me that goddamn arm."

Eventually, though, word came that it was not to be so. That all of the rich American's gifts had gone for naught. The caviar had been thoroughly enjoyed, but Abil was still a danger. A great one. He could not be allowed to emigrate. Abil was disappointed, yet he held no grudge. America was a wondrous place, this he knew. And they certainly could not risk corrupting it by allowing in such a sinister, empty-souled youth.

Abil coughed once into his shoulder, spat. Then picked up another stone. Across the way there, in the shadows, a soldier had turned his back for a moment. He appeared to be talking to a companion behind. A painful error. One he would probably never repeat. Abil saw the exposed elbow, sheathed only in the canvas of his thin regulation coat. He grinned shallowly, with little satisfaction. And, as the stone leapt from his hand, as it arced across the dazzling blue, only one thought crept its way into his head-- one thousand Dollars. It was the only thing that drew his attention away from the dust, and from the hollowness of his heart.

Now That's What I Call A Filibustering!

2006-09-24T04:17:00.000-07:00

You've just gotta love how India hammers out an "across the aisle" deal. In fact, if Iraq's parliament holds up (which is looking pretting slim) I say it ends up looking a hell of a lot closer to this than our own C-Span yawn-a-thon.

David Lynch Is Insane

2006-09-23T00:07:00.000-07:00

Okay, I realize that if you've seen his films you've already had your suspicions. But, after watching the following clip, you'll have to agree it's a done deal. Taken from a BBC interview, his Lynchness attempts to focus the voices in his head into one coherent thought in order to explain his "eye of the duck" theory and how it pertains to life and film-making. He does not succeed (at least not in the eyes of us non batshit-crazy types).

And, as a bonus, here is Siskel and Ebert's original review of Lynch's Blue Velvet. Although Siskel has a handle on the film's twisted sensibilities (even seeming to have enjoyed it) Ebert is obviously over his head. In fact, he can't even focus enough to review the film. All he can do is worry about the mental state of the actors after being "forced" to work with such a madman as Lynch.