Jerk of The Year
Since Lowtax didn't win Entertainer of the Year, I shall honor him with the equally prestigious Jerk of The Year award. No need to thank me, Dick, you deserve it! Note how the "J" hooks his mouth like a fish. But this is one catch even the loneliest fisherman would throw the hell back!
Just to briefly follow-up on my update last week regarding Lowtax's bid for Entertainment Weekly's Entertainer of the Year, it turns out EW (as expected) basically just made up the final results themselves. They threw out all the votes for Lowtax, Will Wheaton, L. Ron Hubbard, and pretty much any musician that actually knows how to play an instrument. After all, pretty blonde girls who sing and dance are far more deserving of such an award. Boy, [INSERT NAME OF BLONDE SINGING GIRL] sure is hot! Perhaps if I buy this CD and stare at her breasts on the cover long enough, she’ll come over to my house and thank me with sex! Oh mercy! Better buy two copies!
In the article where they announce the top ten finalists, they do dedicate a paragraph to all the votes Lowtax received and even quote some emails they received from crazed SA readers, but they blame the huge number of votes on hackers (which is partly true since some forum goons used auto-voters) and say, "So Kyanka didn't make the cut. At least until next year." Which is really quite ironic since that's the same response Lowtax got when he tried out for the XFL's Los Angeles Xtreme, and there was no "next year" for the XFL. Or any fair catches. Unfortunately, there will probably be a next year for Entertainment Weekly, because there's plenty of barely literate middle-aged women out there who need a steady stream of Heath Ledger pictures. Oh, and they end the article with this strange note:
You can also check in with Rich ''Lowtax'' Kyanka, who will -- undoubtedly -- have something to say about it.
Huh? "Check in?" Are they trying to imply that we're supposed to all head over to Lowtax's house and make sure he's getting enough Vitamin C? He's probably not. And as for having "something to say about it," Lowtax had nothing to do with any of this and was drunkenly sputtering around Bat Hill, Kansas or wherever his hick-ass family lives on Thanksgiving vacation when the forum goons started their little campaign.
So Lowtax didn't win and didn't deserve to win and will probably never win anything other than a button that says, "I'm a Winner Because I Survived Liposuction." Still, it was fun to help screw up EW's retarded idea and prove - once again - that magazine people should stick with pasting words on sheets of paper and leave the Internet to us crazy hermits and social rejects.
As a person of obvious social graces, I'm sure you're familiar with the nifty-neat phenomenon that is fan fiction. It's a great way for die-hard fans of popular television shows, books, and movies to share appallingly crappy new plotlines with their fellow rabid addicts. For example, fans of the "X-Files" often write stories that revolve around Scully and Mulder going at it like wolverines on Assistant Director Skinner's desk while a wacky alien named "Strommbone" secretly videotapes the lusty scene with a Betamax camcorder. I myself wrote some Lowtax fan fiction awhile back, and Lowtax recently wrote a charming piece about scientology.
I got this on Google image search when I searched for "Friends," so this must be them.
But what I'd like to see more of is "not-a-fan fiction." These stories would be just as poorly written as regular fan fiction, but they'd be written by people who either hate the subject matter or have never seen the show they're writing about before. This seemed like a really great idea to me at around four in the morning last night, while I was searching for secret passages in my apartment, so I decided to give it a shot by writing fan fiction for a show I really don't know much about nor particularly care for: "Friends." I looked up the names of the characters on NBC's web site and got to writing. Enjoy!
FRIENDS NOT-A-FAN FICTION
By Kevin "K-Dog" Bowen
Rachel Green strode proudly into her fancy New York City apartment and slammed the door. "God damn!" she exclaimed, tossing her mini-skirt into the sink. "I need to shit so bad I can taste it in my ears! Fucking Christ, boo-yah!" She stared vacantly at Chandler Bing, who was casually puffing on a week-old blunt. He gave a faint nod and went back to staring at the coffee table. "Hey, fuck yourself up a rest stop barbecue, asswrench," said Rachel, walking towards the bathroom knock-kneed. "I've gotta deposit some shit tokens into the porcelain vending machine, if you know what I mean."
A few minutes later, Ross Geller slouched into the apartment with laid-back ease. "Sup mah nigg," he said to Chandler, who was still staring at the table. "Whuts the dilly yo mah main man?" Chandler's head jerked up, his eyes glazed. "Heyyyyyy Ross," he said, his voice mellow and throaty. "Heyyy man I was thinking of the funniest thing mannnn." Ross flipped back the hood of his Tommy Hillfinger sweatshirt, adjusted his platinum necklace, and eased into his favorite bean-bag chair. "Out wit it, G-money," he said.
Chandler leaned forward. It took him a minute to regain his composure and adjust to the sudden movement. "OK, listen to this," he began. "OK how about this… this is some funny shit man. Like how if like you changed your name to like Ross Sarah Michelle Geller? You know, like that hot vampire chick? And I changed my name to like this Chandler Bing Bing! You know, like Chandler Bling Bling? You know what I'm saying?" He paused and stared at Ross, who was shining the faceplate of his gold-plated pager. "That's some funny shit, man," said Chandler, leaning back onto the couch. Ross looked up. "Yo, you be trippin' dawg," he said. "You gots the reefer fever all up in this piece foo!"
Monica Geller, Ross's wife, slid silently into the room. She had apparently come in through the back entrance. "Darkest designs upon thee," she said, bowing and clutching her ankh. "Haha, talk about hot vampire chicks… she's like… not, dude!" Chandler said, laughing hysterically. "Fuck y'allz," Ross said, rising to his feet. "Damn bitch! Where you been at! I tried to page yo crazy azz but you be givin' me the hand girl!" Monica fiddled with her studded dog collar nervously. "You see," she said. "My boss is coming over to feast tonight, when the moon rises high, calling werewolf spirits to frolic upon the deepest shade of black…"
"HOLD THE FUCK UP!," Ross interrupted. "Yo boss be chillin' in our crib? Yo work for Satan, you wack goth ho!" Chandler perked up. "Dude!" he said. "Satan is coming like over for munchies? Far out!" Monica frowned, cracking her heavy white makeup with black lipstick. "Yes," she replied. "Satan is coming over, and it's not just for dinner." She paused and turned away from Ross. "Sinner," she mumbled under her breath. "What you say girl?" Ross said, spinning Monica around. "Fuck THIS shit, yo. I ain't be illin' wit no dark lord and shit, I can't roll wit dis wack bizbomb. I just don't jive that workin for Satan shit, if J.C. wanted Satan he'd have created him himself!" Ross grooved towards the door. "I am fucking over and out outtie, LATEZ, peeps." He left.
The bathroom door swung open in a flash, and Rachel stumbled out, burping loudly. "Motherfucker!" she exclaimed. "I've knocked cock with Elvis impersonators with bigger balls than what just happened in there, I mean, Jesus fucking Christ!" "Shhh!" Monica shushed. "Don't mention the false God! My boss is coming over!" Monica toed a pentagram on the floor and chanted a brief incantation. "What the fuck?" Rachel said. "Oh yeah, Satan. Well, don't expect me to change these panties because it's my last pair and they'll have to rot off my crotch before I go out and waste any more money on this frilly-ass shit."
Monica lurked about the pantry. "Wait a minute," she said. "Where in hell's kitchen is my eye of toad? My dead goat's head? My spellbook! They're all missing!" "Oh yeah, that shit," Rachel said, rubbing herself against the fireplace. "It stunk so I threw it all out." Just then Joey Tribbiani entered the room. "Well, your smell is quite malodorous," he said. "But there is nary a whisper of eradicating your character from this fine shared dwelling of ours!" "Fuck off tinselfag," replied Rachel, pointing between her legs. "Suck me dry." "I respectfully decline your invitation!" replied Joey. "Now I must regretfully take my leave of you, my dear Friends. Ta!"
Monica sprung from the kitchen to block the door. "In the name of the dark lord himself," she cried, "I compel you to stay! The darkest corner of your dreary soul implores you to help me prepare a feast worthy of our demon dinner guest!" "Well," Joey said, stroking his beard, "I presume I could be of some assistance in this endeavor, just allow me to retrieve my safety goggles." Rachel attempted to say something, but she slumped to the floor with a crash and passed out. "Death be praised," said Monica.
Two hours later the door bell said, "Ding dong!" and Monica led a thin, pasty, dirty, long-haired man into the room. "Mortals!" she announced. "I present our Dark Master, the mighty and all-powerful Beezelbub!" "Hey!" Satan said. Joey pulled Monica off to the side. "Pardon my intrusion," he whispered, "but this individual appears to be nothing more than a gaunt teenager with a sorry case of rickets!" "Sush!" said Monica. "I know, but I want to keep my job at the Wicca bookstore, so just play along or I'll curse you to an eternity in the flaming pits of the seventh level! Now go smear some more of that fake goat blood you synthesized on the table." Joey nodded.
Monica or Rachel or Petunia or whoever the hell, somebody.
Dinner was going remarkable well and "Satan" was telling an amusing tale involving the time he left his trench coat at Denny's during a 4am "bleakfast" when Phoebe Buffay burst in the front door. "Hey hey hey!" she screamed. "Fat bitch wanna eat! Yeah, baby, yeah!" She patted her stomach in a circular motion and winked. "Curses!" Monica spat. "It's Phoebe, the mindless sheep of Christian desolation. Excuse me!" But she was too late. "Where's the beef?" Phoebe said, spying Monica's boss. "Certainly not on this guy! Can I get a what-what? Raise the roof for me, party people!"
"Hahaha, that's some funny shit!" said Rachel, waking from her slumber. She looked at Monica's boss. "Hey, a guy I haven't fucked yet," she said. "Don't see that every day! Hey Phoebe, wanna tag-team this skinny dickstick on Joey's futon?" "Dear me!" cried Joey. "How scandalous!" Monica's boss was not amused. "Excuse me, servants," he sputtered meekly, as he ran into the bathroom. "You'll all burn for this!" fumed Monica. "Now I'm going to lose my job and have to go back to the alternative body piercing and bondage shop!" "Wow," said Phobe. "Kiss the cook!" Suddenly there was a piercing scream, coming from the bathroom.
"Oh yeah," said Rachel. "I forgot to mention that I backed up the shitter earlier." Monica rushed off to the bathroom. "One moment," said Joey. "Where did Chandler scurry off to?"
Suddenly Ross drove through the window in a big, custom GMC Van. "I pity the foo who don't get in mah fly hoopey, suckah!" he said, motioning for Joey to sit in the passenger's seat. "Chandler's been abducted by evil alien landowners chillin' in Nebraska and we'll have to save his sorry azz."
"When did this absurd event take place?" asked Joey. "Huh?" replied Ross. "This shit went down while youse waz macking on mah crazy bitch! Also I scared o' flyin' so we drivin, crackah!"
"Cunt up the pisshole motherbitch," said Rachel, ripping off her disguise as Ross and Joey drove off, revealing herself to be the true killer. "That was a close one!"
"Dyno-mite!" said Phoebe.
Wow, that was great! And to think I'm wasting my talents on a web site instead of penning multiple award-winning novels like Tom Clancy. I'm a scribe of great skill!
Angry and hopeless Trump voters take heart: there is a man who is out for justice for America.
People can't stop talking about this Donald Trump character. He's said a lot of crude and hateful things over the years, and demonstrated a tremendous lack of judgment, discipline and decency. If you ask me, he's not fit to be our president. In fact, he's not even fit to be mayor of Buffoontown.
Nightmares Fear Factory is BACK, baby!
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