The Lost Weekend Pt. II

If you’ve read this blog post then you know Joe Rogan was crazy enough to give me a spot at The Moore when he rolled into town with Greg Fitzsimmons a few months ago.

I’d like to say I earned it, but the truth is -I once saved Rogan’s life in a freak whaling accident and he has been working off a life debt to me ever since that fateful day.

This is why he put me up again at The Parlor when he came back with Sam Tripoli a month later. Of course, I didn’t know he was going to do this and neither did The Parlor. I found out about an hour before the show when Joe texted me asking if I wanted 10 minutes. I think The Parlor found out about five minutes before the show.

That’s because we’re all living in Joe Rogan’s world, people. Joe Rogan is the type of guy who wakes up in the morning and thinks to himself, “I think I’ll buy a life sized replica of a freakin’ werewolf today” before texting some dude named, “Voodoo Chicken” and asking him if he wants to crash a sold out comedy gig.

When I arrived at Rogan’s hotel room, he was beaming with joy while looking at pictures of his latest purchase -a life sized replica of the werewolf from “An American Werewolf in London”. That’s right, Casa de Rogan now has one of these bad boys roaming around somewhere. I’m guessing in the kids room.

While we were admiring the online photographs and discussing the many obvious benefits and advantages to having a life sized replica of a werewolf in your house, Sam Tripoli came through the door and told Joe the club wanted to know what song they should use for his “walk-out” music.

Of course, I instantly suggested the great Madonna classic “Papa Don’t Preach” and I was dead serious about this. In fact, not only was I serious about this… and I swear I am not making this up -Rogan, Tripoli and myself all spontaneously launched into what can only be described as a very masculine and totally not gay rendition of the song… and we knew every word. All three of us.

I am not ashamed.

We headed over to Bellevue where our driver dumped us like a sack of unwanted kittens behind a dumpster in the Washington Square Mall parking lot. Apparently, there was supposed to be some sort of special VIP entrance back there, but when it appeared our driver might have to actually exit the vehicle to find it -he simply said, “Here we are!” and then waited in awkward silence until the rest of decided to crawl out of the vehicle and fend for ourselves.

Normally, this should not have been a problem because I have been to The Parlor many times. However, unbeknownst to me and without my approval -some maniac or rogue organization has decided that the month of December would be an excellent time to fill the streets, sidewalks and generally all available spaces with drummers, jugglers, ten foot tall walking nutcrackers, elves, fake snow and just about everything obnoxious that has anything at all to do with Christmas.

Words cannot describe the madness… as we rounded the corner I began having vivid LSD flashbacks while Rogan managed to stammer, “Uh… is it always like this…?”

The funny thing is, I have wandered the streets with Rogan on a few different occasions and typically you can’t go further than ten feet before some drug crazed lunatic comes charging out of the shadows screaming, “UFC!!!!!” or “DMT!!!!” or some other three letter acronym. But this was probably the only place on earth where Joe Rogan could walk the streets completely unnoticed amidst the swirling candy cane chaos that came crashing down all around us. I honestly thought I would turn around at some point only to see that Joe and Sam had been completely engulfed by this madness, only to be found days later living off the remants of discarded holiday fruit baskets that now littered the streets.

Once we finally found our way inside and back to the green room, the manager wasted no time in making introductions.

Joe politely shook his hand and then said, “First thing -where can we smoke some weed?”

You know, I’ve been to a lot of comedy clubs and I’ve hung out with a lot of comics. It’s pretty much just assumed that smoking pot is one of those things that’s going to happen sooner or later if you exercise poor enough judgement to actually invite a comic into your home or place of business -but I’ve worked with the manager of this club before and I always got the impression that he ran a “clean” club -so this might explain why he suddenly had a look on his face like Joe had just asked for naked pictures of his mom.

The manager politely deferred to Big Irish Jay who happened to be standing by and is the house comic/MC. Jay led us outside to the balcony while the manager shrugged and said, “Oh well… I guess at least it’s legal now, right?” while we puffed away above the holiday madness spilling out into the streets below.

In fact, on that very day recreational marijuana had become legal in Washington state and we wasted no time in testing the boundaries of this wonderful new legislation with a joint so potent -I suddenly understood what all those ABC after school specials were actually about and what a terrible person I am.

Once we had confirmed that you can smoke weed in public in the city of Seattle, Sam and Rogan returned to the green room for deep pre-show meditations while I wandered the halls desperately trying to think of something funny to say… preferrably something ten minutes long.

Apparently while I was wandering the building in a fugue state, Sam was asking Big Jay if he thought Bellevue was the type of crowd that might freak out of he got a little edgy with material about race.

Jay told him he should be fine as long as he didn’t say the dreaded, “N” word and this was actually pretty good advice… advice that I clearly did not hear because 30 minutes later I was on stage doing a bit where I say, “drug crazed nigger faggots” at least three times in under two minutes.

My buddy Jonny managed to get footage of this little faux paus on his cell phone.

Fortunately, I managed to actually get a laugh out of this nonsense and when I returned to the green room -Sam was completely freaking out.

“They told me to stay away from that stuff, man! I have a bit that would have killed!”

For a second, I think he even suspected we intentionally punked him -but honestly, maybe I’m banned from The Parlor by now, so who really got punked here?

Of course after my set, Rogan strolled on out there and completely destroyed the place for well over an hour without even breaking a sweat.

I hate him… stupid Rogan and his stupid life sized American Werewolf in London replica…

As usual, Rogan hung around and shook hands with every single random nutjob who wandered in off of the streets that night before retiring to the adjacent pool hall.

You may not know this about Rogan, but he is some kind of amateur pool shark. Apparently, he spent a lot of time in shady pool halls out in Boston when he was still an amateur comic and he’s even one of those creepy pool guys who has his own collapsable cue that he carries around in a special little case and stuff… his cue probably even has a name… a girl’s name… anyway, you may have not known that about Rogan -but I suspect The Parlor did because surprise, surprise, who should happen to be hanging out in the VIP pool lounge that night but some semi-pro female pool shark.

She even had… and I swear I am not making this up -a giant bag of deer meat for Rogan.

Let me tell you something, you give Rogan a giant bag of meat, rack ‘em up and then say “break” and it is on.

Even though I strongly advised him against accepting a giant bag of meat from a total stranger that maniac was in heaven and there was nothing we could do. From that moment forward, Sam, myself and my buddy Jonny were slaves to that woman’s cue and the spell it held over Rogan. I’m not really complaining though because the pints of Guinness were free and I’m pretty sure I drank at least 46 of them that night in between Sam, Jonny and myself ducking outside to make sure the marijuana legalization laws were still in effect.

Eventually, I think it was discovered that I had drank roughly $3,000.00 worth of Guinness though because I suddenly found myself being whisked away to downtown Seattle whereupon Joe stuffed a fistful of UFC tickets into my pocket and then made his way to his hotel room presumably to feast on raw deer meat while staring at pictures of his newly acquired life sized replica of a werewolf.

I ended up sleeping in Jonny’s basement that night with a giant dog named, “Outlaw”… good times.


The Lost Weekend

Rogan and redban dropped by The Warehouse of Dreams this weekend (11/03/12) to throw down a little pod before heading out to The Moore theater for a standup comedy extravaganza with myself and the very funny Greg Fitzsimmons.

Here is the official Rogan Board thread where it all went down in real time:


First off, I want to say that I may have been a little out of line when I threatened to put Rogan in a “real naked choke” once it appeared that he would be a couple hours late… and despite my initial suspicions that Rogan may be “in the bubble” due to his wealth, fame and inability to keep track of time -I can now say unequivocally that Rogan is probably the most grounded dude I’ve ever met. For example, he showed up driving a rental SUV and parallel parked that thing like a boss right outside our studio. I know that may not sound like a big deal to most, but many celebrities don’t even know how to toast a piece of bread and if I had RoganBucks, my primary mode of transportation would be a bed of bald eagle feathers, stitched together with golden thread and carried on the backs of my harem of strippers -so kudos to Rogan for keeping it real.

Along with Rogan and redban, Angry Amadeus sat in on this Modcast and even though it was no JRE, I feel it was some solid pod. Judge for yourself, by watching the video below… we usually fire up the streams and test the gear before we actually start, so you may want to fast forward a bit… also, once we realized Rogan was going to be late we decided to start podding without him -so you may want to skip to about an hour in or so if you are more paggot than maggot.



One interesting aspect to this Modcast was redban streaming it live from his iPad mini. This gave him the freedom to wander around the studio and get up close and personal with the robots while we podded. The quality is surprisingly good and apparently you can stream video with that thing from just about anywhere… in fact, we found out Rogan was running late when someone told us they were watching him eat lunch live.

That’s right, redban streamed their lunch from his mini and Rogan told me later that about 700 people watched.

You people should be ashamed of yourselves. Seriously. That’s just creepy.

You can see redban’s Modcast stream here:


After The Modcast, I hopped in Rogan’s Escalade with redban and we headed to the hotel to pick up Greg Fitzsimmons before heading to The Moore. For what it’s worth, Fitzsimmons was also with some cute reporter from NPR who was doing a piece on him so keep your eyes open for that. He wasn’t sure what the name of the show is or when it’s coming out, but I’m sure you can find it if you’re looking once it’s released. Also, go see this man’s comedy and buy his albums because he is seriously one of the best out there.

I have to admit, even though I have done this once before, I still peed a little when I peeked out from behind the curtains and saw that mic stand facing a sea of paggots, stoners, UFC freaks and schizophrenics.


redban went up first and he dominated… seriously. I have not seen his standup before and even though I was mostly pacing behind the curtain preparing myself for my set, I could still hear a good solid rhythm of continual laughter throughout. I was really impressed and anyone who says redban is just getting a lucky break because of his association with Rogan has either never stepped out on that stage before or is just a jealous bitch because nobody can save you once you are out there all alone and he nailed it.

After redban put in a solid ten, I went up for ten minutes or so as well. It feels like it went pretty well, but honestly I was so wrapped up in my material and trying to get everything just right, that the whole set just kind of flew by. Unfortunately, the mouth breathing, slope headed, drooling mongoloids I left in charge of my camera were completely baffled by the ON/OFF switch on the camera microphone, so they were able to capture my moment of glory on video -but no audio.


I would have been happy with no video and only audio, but no… this is what I get for associating with a bunch of drug addicts and alcoholics. Anyway, I think jonny may have gotten most of my set on his cell phone, so if he is still alive and not in jail I still might be able to share my ten minutes of glory with you guys. At the end of my set I even “negged, stretched and reported” everyone.

The Fitzdog went up after me and I have to say, not only is this guy a beast on stage, he is one of the nicest guys I have ever met. We talked for awhile backstage and I was really impressed with how personable and open he was. Most comics are really depressing, bitter and angry people, but The Fitzdog opened up and really made me feel like an equal even though I basically had no business being there.

Greg Fitzsimmons

In case you are wondering -here is a glimpse of the celebrity treatment you are provided with at The Moore once you have reached the level of A-List talent.

This is the bathroom… I really had to take a shit, but refrained from doing so in fear of completely ruining the Green Room not only for the evening, but for future generations to come. There’s barely enough room in there to turn around and shut the door.


This is the snack table, which was basically just two bottles of cheap wine (which jonny and I promptly drank) and a cheese plate. Once again proving that Rogan is a down to earth dude, because if I were selling out The Moore, I would insist on nothing less than $60,000 worth of drugs, booze and whores in the Green Room… not $17 worth of snacks from Safeway.


This is a random sink in the corner of the Green Room because there is not enough space to put one in the bathroom. That’s right, you can’t even wash your hands after taking a shit in this place… classy.


Which reminds me… when we pulled up at The Moore, the guy working the door seemed to be completely unprepared for our arrival. The lot was full and when we asked him where we could park, he said he would see if there was room in the parking garage around the corner… so he leaves us there, just idling in the alley while a crowd of gawkers slowly surrounded the SUV in a scene straight out of “Night of The Living Dead”. Right when I thought I might have to leap from the vehicle and protect Rogan from this swarm of pasty skinned, sun deprived, vitamin deficient vegan Seattle-lites the doorman returned and pointed to a truck parked in a prime spot right next to the door.

“That’s my truck.” he said.

“I guess I can move that and let you park there.”

Gee, you think so? You think maybe you can move your truck and generously allow the headliner a parking space by the door? Good to know this was option number two though… hey, let me see if I can find a place for you down the street before handing over my totally bitchin’ parking space. After all, he probably had to make Employee of The Month in order to get that space.

Anyway, Rogan went up for about an hour and a half and of course, he completely destroyed the place. I would say that I have not heard at least 80% of the material he went up with and it was all high level, killer stuff. I have no idea how he finds the time to write all this material.

Here are a couple of pics I snapped from backstage.



As usual, Rogan took all of us out to dinner after the show. Despite the fact that we were viciously attacked by a rat the size of a pony last time we ate at this place, Rogan wanted to give them a second chance. After all, it’s basically right across the street from The Moore and they offered us a free slice of cheesecake once they discovered that my girlfriend had been infected with rabies after the rat incident.

This is Richard, muwt, redban, Fitzsimmons and Rogan at the dinner table.


After dinner, Rogan and Fitzsimmons wisely headed back to the hotel while redban, Richard, jonny and myself headed out to the bars. Ever since the day jonny almost died after I took him to this funky little absinthe bar near the market, he attempts to relive that glorious evening every chance he gets. redban had never had a glass of absinthe and of course, Richard “Heartland of America” Sugarbush had practically never even heard of the stuff -so away we went.

As soon as we entered the bar, Richard noticed they did not stock Miller Lite and he instantly launched into an angry tirade about this fact. He was standing on his bar stool shaking his fists in the air and questioning the credibility of any establishment that did not carry such a fine beverage.

This is when I knew the evening would most likely not end well. Somehow, I managed to calm Richard while ordering a round of absinthe for us all (which redban rather graciously paid for), but the bartender was already pissed. She was mean mugging Richard and asked him if she should even bother serving him.

Once we settled into our drinks, redban fell in love with the cute emo/goth bartender and started to flirt a little. This chick was not having it though. This is how I remember a portion of the conversation between them.

redban: You have a great smile. You’re really cute when you smile. You should smile more.

emo/goth bartender: I fucking hate it when people tell me to smile. It’s my biggest pet peeve… really pisses me off.

At that point, I seriously expected one of us to get punched in the face by a girl.

Somehow, miraculously -I managed to get the bartender chick laughing and smiling a bit and just when I thought all was well with the world, I hear a loud crash and the sound of broken glass… it was like one of those moments in the movies when the needle grinds across the record and everything goes quiet while all eyes turn to stare… at Richard… standing in the hallway near the bathroom with a broken bottle of Bud Lite between his feet.

This was not good considering he had already been warned before he even started drinking and as the bouncers approached, he started complaining loudly about the “dangerously uneven floors” and how he would “have the city come in here and shut this whole den of snakes run by gypsies and thieves down.”

A single glass of absinthe costs $14, so naturally we just politely sipped our drinks and began damage control while watching our buddy Richard get drug from the building. After all, Richard is a big boy with a cell phone and an ATM card and when you party with savages you have to be prepared to fend for yourself or get left behind.

“I swear I just met that guy tonight,” I said.

“We bumped into him outside and he just started following us around,” jonny chimed in.

Once again, I went to work bringing the bartender back around to our side so we could continue drinking and just when I thought I had her figured out -redban said something about her “butthole”.

I don’t really remember exactly what it was and I’m sure it was meant to be a compliment, but she didn’t seem to think so. Fortunately, before she could punch us in the face Richard came barreling back in through the front door yelling something about how he had to take a piss. Strangely, they let him back in and escorted him to the bathroom. Afterward, he tried to saddle back up to the bar, but they were not having it and once again, we watched while these guys drug him out of there while he was screaming about “dirty gypsy thieves” and snakes and what not.

That’s when the bartender picked up the phone and called the cops while jonny stepped outside to mediate this madness. I knew if I stepped outside, I would probably end up in jail too -so I just stayed put and jonny literally saved young Richard’s life by calling him a cab just seconds before the cops arrived.

That’s right, Richard now owes a life debt to jonny and is his man-slave.

On our way back to the hotel we met a couple of frumpy lesbian chicks who recognized redban and I from the show. They made it pretty clear that they were willing to degrade themselves for a couple of A-list celebrities such as ourselves, but ultimately I realized I did not want to see redban naked -so I bailed… I vaguely recall heading back to jonny’s neck of the woods and stumbling through the streets attempting to locate more booze in vain.

I think this might be when I attempted to call Richard… at first to see if he was alright and make sure he did not wind up in jail, but at the last second something came over me and… well… this is the voice message I apparently left… I say “apparently”, because I don’t quite recall actually making this phone call… sounds like me though.


All told, it was an epic journey once again and Rogan is truly an amazing guy and great friend to come out and pod with us and to put a no name like me up in front of a sold out show at The Moore not once, but twice. redban is a hilarious guy and I think the people who hate on him just haven’t spent any time with the guy. Have a few drinks with the guy and you will see he’s just a unique dude… no need to hate. Fitzsimmons is an animal and if you don’t seek out his comedy right now, you are completely missing out on some of the best standup out there.

I guess the only thing left to say is, powerful Joe Rogan.


Chris Thrash: American Visionary

A lot of people have asked me about my obsession with Billy Bob Brockali and just what would drive a man to do something like this:

… or even this:

Well… when I was just eight years old my life was forever changed by a television commercial. Of course, this wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. In fact, my life was irrevocably altered at least a dozen times an hour every day as I took comfort in my good friend the television set… the television set informed me of all the miraculous inventions and activities that were out there waiting for me in the real world -that is, if I could ever manage to pry myself away from the television set long enough to experience them. It told me about things like the amazing plastic hoop that you could put around your waist and then gyrate spasmodically like an epileptic at a light show… and then there was also the coiled piece of metal that you could set at the top of your stairs, give it a little push and then watch it slowly flop down two steps before veering horrifically off course and twisting itself into such a tangled mass you would have to completely destroy it to ever pry it apart again… good times… good times…

But one fateful day, I saw something truly incredible… more incredible than the plastic hoop and mangled metal coil… it was a place… but not just any place. It was a place that had video games and ball tents and people wearing top hats that sang and danced while they stuffed your face with giant pizzas and… get this… giant animatronic monkeys playing Beatles’ songs! Not just monkeys, but a mouse dressed like a cheerleader and a wolf who did a ventriloquist act and a hillbilly bear that played bass guitar and… well, what the fuck else could an eight year old possibly need?

I knew I had to find a way to this magical place… somehow… some way…

I can’t really remember how I first found myself inside a Showbiz Pizza… I think it was somebody’s birthday party or something… and to be honest, a giant fucking bear, lurching dangerously close to your table while shouting “Love, love me do” as it’s cold unblinking eyes frantically click and pop and roll back in it’s head almost in time to the music is not as cool as it looks on TV. In fact, for an impressionable eight year old such as myself -it was kind of terrifying.

For the next ten years, kids all across the nation were subjected to this bizarre ritual of American gluttony and totally kick ass animatronics… and then the dream was over… just like that. I always imagined Mitzi Mozzarella got strung out on coke and started sucking dick for rocks, while Rolfe DeWolfe was serving 10-15 for aggravated assault and Fatz Geronimo slipped into a diabetic coma and the band was no more.

But fortunately for us -one man… one genius of a man, had a dream. His dream was to get the band back together again… one last time to relive the glory that is The Rock-afire Explosion!

That American Hero’s name is Chris Thrash.

“It just blows you away… you’re looking and you’re like this is really happening… it’s not just some dream that maybe one day… it’s like this is real… I actually just kept pushing and kept pushing… I would not let my dream go… I would not let it go…” -Chris Thrash

Apparently, this guy saved up enough money selling used cars to buy his very own Rock-afire Explosion. Don’t be jealous. Owning The Rock-afire Explosion can be more complicated than you think. For example, where do you put something like that? What good is it if you can’t make ‘em sing oldies at your whim? How are you ever going to get laid with a hobby like that? Well, simple matters such as these could not stop Chris Thrash from realizing his dream. He faithfully restored these animatronic rock ‘n roll has-beens in his shed and then set them up from memory on three separate stages -complete with light show and spotlights, just like it was in that glorious wonderland known simply as, Showbiz Pizza Place.

But it doesn’t stop there… like I said -Chris Thrash is a true genius visionary and American Hero! Men like that don’t stop until their dream is fully realized! He spent the next few months teaching himself animatronics and the necessary programming to breathe that magic spark of life back into his childhood fantasies and reform The Rock-afire Explosion for the first time ever to play…. you guessed it:

“Love In This Club” by Usher.

Chris Thrash, may god bless you in all your endeavors sir. It truly is the lord’s work you are doing. I once thought art and American culture were dead, but I was wrong.

If you want to see more totally badass jams by the reformed Rock-afire Explosion and delve deep into the enigma that is the genius of Chris Thrash -go here:


The Night I Almost Molested My Handicapped Neighbor…

The guy who lives in the apartment next to me was in a motorcycle accident a few years ago and it’s left him confined to a wheelchair. He can move his arms, but he’s lost that GI Joe kung-fu grip -so he’s basically a paraplegic (his wheelchair is electric and has one of those joystick thingies). I guess he’s been in some sort of “assisted living” type situation until recently and this is his first time “out on his own” since the accident.

I pretty much keep to myself around here, so that’s basically all I knew about the guy until a couple of nights ago when I ran into him in the elevator. I could tell right away he was wasted… I mean shit faced… let me put it this way, a wheelchair can be the ultimate alcoholic enabler. For example, if you’re in a wheelchair it doesn’t matter if you are too trashed to even stand up straight -because you don’t have to!

… not to mention… and I hadn’t considered this before, but it’s entirely likely that he has some sort of catheter situation hooked up so he doesn’t have to struggle with getting in and out of his chair every time he has to take a piss. I don’t even want to know what’s in all those bags and gizmos hanging from his chair, but if it wasn’t for that whole “can’t feel a thing below my waste” bit -it’s actually starting to sound like a pretty good deal.

Anyway, he kept looking up at me out of the corner of his eye and whispering something even though we were the only two people in the elevator.

Finally I heard him whisper, “Hey man, do you self medicate?”

What the hell? Who says shit like that?

“I smoke weed, if that’s what you mean.”

This was a mistake. I should have kept my mouth shut like I always do in the elevator. Just because I have to stand next to you for thirty seconds does not make me your friend. If you think it’s awkward standing next to someone in silence for thirty seconds -then guess what? You talk way too much and you need to shut it.

The next thing I know, this guy is INSISTING that I step into his apartment to check out his awesome collection of medicinal cannabis. Apparently, this guy has quite a bit of time on his hands because he’s one of those “weed scholar” types… he began rattling off strains and THC percentages and the perfect temperature at which to smoke weed out of his vaporizer, etc, etc. all the while, still whispering to me like we’re fifteen years old sparking up a doobie in the backyard tool shed.

The guy had all the tools -the special container for the weed, the grinder, a little Dixie cup to transfer the ground up weed over to the vaporizer… Of course, given his inebriated state and limited ability to use his hands he had me do all the dirty work. I even started to wonder if maybe he was just using me to pack his vape for him… anyway, we toked up a bit and I could tell that shit was really starting to kick in his buzz… he was rolling and squirming and thrashing around in his chair so much that the jacket he was wearing was slowly coming unzipped -revealing his pasty white chest underneath. I guess when it’s a real pain in the ass to dress yourself -you skip the shirt if you’re wearing a jacket. I started to wonder where this was going… surely this dude was seconds away from passing out. What was I getting myself into? Was this dude just going to pass out right there in his chair? Should I do something? How does this guy even get into bed anyway?

… and that’s when it happened… he looked up at me with this helpless look on his face and said, “I need some help with my jacket.”

“Here it comes,” I thought… now that we’ve toked out, it’s late and he’s wasted -I am his official nurse for the evening. I wondered how far I would have to go… am I going to have to take off his shoes and lift him into bed too? What about his pants? There is no fucking way I’m taking off another dude’s pants… but I’m a trooper and I can look past all this macho bullshit to help a brother out in need. So I take a deep breath and say, “Sure man, I can help you out…” as I reach over and slowly unzip his jacket.

“Dude! I meant UP! I need help zipping my jacket UP, man! What the fuck!

The only thing more awkward than partially undressing my handicapped neighbor was the indignity of having to reach back over and zip him back up.

I then quickly and politely made my exit.

I haven’t seen him since that night… maybe he’s avoiding me, but I’m gonna go ahead and pretend he was black out drunk and doesn’t remember a thing… in fact, I’m gonna go ahead and pretend I was black out drunk too… forget I said anything.

I need another shower.


Somehow I end up doing ten minutes at The Moore

Joe Rogan is a pretty capable guy and one thing I’ve learned about self actualized individuals is that they are usually overly optimistic about the rest of us. For example, Rogan is the kind of guy that would say something like, “Oh yeah! I absolutely think you can remove your own appendix.” Not necessarily because he wants to see you get hurt, but because that’s how optimistic he is… that’s how much faith he has in you… who knows? It just might work!

So a few years ago, when I told him I had just started doing stand up -he decided to put me on stage in front of nearly two thousand people.

Damn you, Rogan! Always upping the bar…

Rogan was busy masturbating in the shower when I arrived at his hotel, so The Voodoo Posse politely waited in the lobby until he was finished. We had just sat down and made ourselves comfortable when none other than Dana White (the UFC was also in town) came walking around the corner and comped some kid free UFC tickets. But before we could even say, “Can I borrow twenty-thousand bucks?” he was gone. He looked like a nice enough guy though, so I’m gonna go ahead and tell people I met him and he was pretty cool and even offered to take me out on the town, but I was busy.

Rogan finally busted a nut, came down to the lobby and immediately began begging to get a photo with me. He had to wait a few minutes while my fans and a couple of crackheads also had their pictures taken with me, but I promised to send Joe an autographed copy so he would feel special.

Look at him… he looks so happy hanging out with his idol. I think he knew that a mere “Cat in The Hat” t-shirt could not trump my “Meatloaf”… but a korean Cat in The Hat t-shirt… well played, Rogan… well played. Also, that wallet chain has a little alien head on it (like the logo on his site) and I wanted to steal it… not the wallet, just the wallet chain.

We went straight from the hotel to The Moore…

Joe told me Ari would do about twenty minutes, I would do about ten, Ari would come back out for another twenty and then he would finish the show… so basically, I was sandwiched between Ari and Rogan -which of course, was the best possible way to handle the situation, but at the same time… fuck! Going up as, “The Voodoo Chicken” to a packed house in between two seasoned pros is either ballsy, suicidal or just plain stupid… I still haven’t figured out which.

“You can’t fail!” Rogan said.

I almost bet him a dollar that I could.

I hadn’t even finished setting up my video camera by the sound booth before Ari was already on stage and just destroying the place… I ran back down the hall towards the back stage door knowing that I only had a few minutes before I had to go up.

Two security guards starting yelling and waving their arms. “You can’t go back there!” they shouted.

I had to think fast… I had to say something so conniving, so convoluted that it absolutely must be true… maybe I should tell them I’m Ari’s life partner and he’ll have a seizure if I don’t deliver his anal suppository on time… but instead I managed to blurt out, “I’m with Joe Rogan!” … because I’m clever and think fast on my feet. Ironically though, this seemed to stun these two hired monkeys. They looked at each other as if to say, “No one could be stupid enough to think that line would work! … so it must be true!” Either way, I didn’t stick around to hear the verdict. I just yanked open the door and walked right in while Dumb and Dumber attempted to decipher my wizard speak.

Note to stalkers: Just say you’re with Joe Rogan and keep on walking. You might have to go up and do a “tight ten”, but it’s a small price to pay for sharing a glass of wine with Joe Rogan in the romantic dim lighting of a backstage area.

I spent the next ten minutes or so pacing behind the curtain attempting to not notice that Ari was absolutely killing and of course, The Voodoo Chicken was supposed to somehow follow that.

Ari working his magic.

I rushed my first bit and completely forgot to do a callback that I had planned, but other than that I don’t think I really could have asked for a better set. At one point, I actually got a “Boo!” when I suggested I may be a Girl Scout killer. It’s one of those jokes where half the audience laughs and the other half looks at who is laughing with a look of disgust and condemnation on their faces. I find this amusing. That joke is for me -not you.

In a lot of ways Rogan was right. You can’t go wrong in front of a Rogan crowd. They all have a sense of humor, are ready to laugh and are probably high as fuck so… Of course, later Rogan and Ari were singing a different tune… “Oh you absolutely can do wrong… you can simply not be funny.” I’m glad they saved that little pep talk for after the show.

Yours truly suggesting Buddha had a brain tumor at The Moore.

Ari went back up for another twenty or so after I left the stage while Rogan and I had a glass of wine. That dude is all class and had nothing but kind words to say the whole time. Of course, this is just another Friday for these two, but I felt like the little sick kid who pukes up a lung and then gets the VIP treatment from the Make a Wish Foundation for a day or two right before dying a slow and agonizing death.

I don’t know what to say about Joe’s stand up that hasn’t already been said. The guy destroyed it non-stop from start to finish. If you ever have the opportunity to see Rogan live -consider it mandatory. The comedy is fresh, original and unlike most stand-up, it is thought provoking well beyond the gimmicky bits that a lot of comics resort to.

Joe Rogan making heads explode with the power of his mind.

One thing that sucks about downtown Seattle is that most restaurants close around 11:00PM. So basically, when you want a late dinner -you just look for the nearest OPEN sign and walk in. That’s how you decide where you are eating and that’s how Joe, Ari, Misses Voodoo Chicken and myself all ended up at some “Argentinian Steak House” across the street from The Moore.

Rogan and Ari ordered some obscene pile of meat that they brought out over burning coals with wooden plates and sticks for forks while the rest of us ate like civilized human beings with pinkies extended and napkins tucked firmly in place… and then… shortly after our meal… Misses Voodoo Chicken spotted it… a mouse… a vicious, savage beast with blood red eyes and fangs like a tiger scurrying across the headboard of our booth. A giant of his kind -perhaps the size of a large domestic house cat, which let out a mighty roar as it leaped from the booth ledge and sailed through the air towards the jugular vein of Misses Voodoo Chicken. Joe shot to his feet with the reflexes of a frightened gazelle while Misses Voodoo let out a blood curdling scream and clung to Rogan’s thigh like a wounded panda cub clinging for dear life to the trunk of a mighty oak.

I’m pretty sure she touched his wang.

Normally, I must fight men for honor when their wang comes into contact with Misses Voodoo Chicken, but Rogan was dropping favors like Fitty drops Benjamins at the club, so I guess he is allowed to touch the Misses with his penis this one time… one time. But next time -there will be consequences, Mr. Rogan. There will be consequences.

Our waiter offered us a bottle of wine for the trouble of being infected with rabies and body lice after dining at their fine establishment, but it was late and we were all ready to go home… and shower… thoroughly. That’s when Rogan paid it forward… rather than insisting we be comped -he comped them! “You wanna see a UFC fight?” he asked our waiter who had spent the entire evening attempting to refrain from kissing Joe Rogan… and that’s how I wound up sitting next to an Argentinian mob boss who had some shady connections in the restaurant business at UFC Fight Night.

Once again, Rogan gave us third row seats on the floor… I’m starting to think maybe Rogan is a little miserly with these tickets because I couldn’t help but notice that Bruce Buffer was a full twenty feet closer to the octagon than I was… what the fuck, Rogan?

Ari was already there when we arrived and I gotta tell ya, that’s one lanky jew who just does not look like he belongs in a sea of roided out douchebags in muscle shirts… I guess it wasn’t helping that he had on a bright red “Garfield” t-shirt… seriously… I am not making that up. The dude wears a Garfield t-shirt to a UFC fight. I’m surprised he didn’t get his ass kicked just out of principle.

I sit down next to Ari and he says, “Do you wanna breath strip?”

“What the fuck? Why is Ari offering me a breath strip? Does my breath stink that bad?” I had to admit, it was a distinct possibility… “Sure.”

He hands me one -which to my surprise, tasted like wet dog with a hint of cinnamon.

“There is no way this is helping,” I thought.

In fact, the breath strip had the curious effect of pretty much instantly giving me the wickedest dry mouth I have ever had in my life and making my breath smell like wet dog with a hint of cinnamon. I noticed he gave one to someone else too. For some reason, Ari is really concerned with the state of everyone’s breath.

Ari after realizing he was stuck sitting next to the Argentinian Mafia lookin’ dude from the restaurant.

Dan Hardy making eyes at my woman right before getting his ass beat like the no ground game having bitch that he is.

Ironically, one of the best moments of UFC FIght Night for me had nothing to do with the fights… instead it was when Ari’s breath strip finally crossed the blood-brain barrier and I finally understood why Ari’s breath always smells like wet dog with a hint of cinnamon… it was during an intermission and there was some… ambient noise emanating from the PA system… I could swear it was Bruce Lee saying something about “emptying your mind” and “being like water” … over and over again… like some sort of shamanic command from high above echoing and reverberating throughout the building up and down, blasting through the multi-million dollar sound system at Key Arena and pounding through the very core of my being… “be-like-water-be-like-water-be-like-water” and then… silence.

For a split second I thought I had imagined the whole thing… I realized for the last few minutes I had no idea where I was or what was going on around me as I emptied my mind and was like water with Bruce Lee behind a funky techno dance beat… “Fuck, I wonder if Ari is as high as I am?” I thought.

It was at that exact moment that I heard him suddenly shout, “YES!” as the shaman song ended.

I don’t know… I could be wrong. Someone may have asked him if he liked pussy and beer right before that song ended and I simply didn’t hear that part of the conversation, but I like to think Ari’s wet dog breath strips resulted in some sort of bizarre Bruce Lee vulcan mind meld if only for a moment when we were both able to empty our minds… like water… formless… crashing and flowing…

After the fights Rogan called me and said, “Let’s go get a bite to eat.”

“Where?” I asked.

“That same place we ate at last night.”

“You mean the place with the mouse…?”


Rogan sure loves his piles of sizzling meat, so Misses Voodoo Chicken and I met up with Rogan, Ari, Denny, muwt and muwt jr back at the rat house. At the end of our meal we were given a dessert plate on the house for the previous evening’s episode, but I still felt like it was too little too late. So if you’re ever at the Argentinian steak house across the street from The Moore, just tell them you saw a mouse and they will totally believe it and maybe even give you a piece of cake. I will not rest until there is free cake for all of Seattle.

Joe Rogan thank you, for giving me one incredible weekend that I will never forget… and Ari you are a comedy master/pimp. Even if your breath smells like wet dog with a hint of cinnamon.


The Day I Accidentally Entered a Comedy Competition

I don’t have a Facebook account and I’m not a very social person, so I’m usually the last guy to find out about anything going on locally… like say, a comedy competition. So imagine my surprise when I strolled on in to one of my favorite open mics one night only to be told that I would have to sign a waiver and consent to being filmed if I wanted any stage time. Furthermore, it was explained -signing this waiver would constitute my entry into a comedy competition and my set would be judged by a group of people seated at the rear of the club.

Naturally, my first instinct was to run screaming. There is a special level of hell reserved specifically for comedy competitions and the only good that ever comes from them is when the comics are finally cast aside after having had all the life force completely sucked out of them until the only thing that remains is a bitter, shallow husk of the human being they used to be… then and only then are they prepared for the world of stand up comedy.

But I had just driven twenty minutes to get to this thing and I desperately needed some stage time.

“What’s the worst that could happen?” I thought. “They will tape my five minutes of shame, cringe at how awful it is and then we can all move on with our lives.”

So I signed the waiver.

Unfortunately for me, all of the other local comics actually DO have a Facebook account, are well informed and were scrambling to get their shot at comedy competition glory that night. By the time the dust had cleared, I was slotted to be number 23 on the list.

I’m not even kidding when I say the judges had already left the building by the time I went up. I know this because there were roughly 12 people in the room at that point and the only reason those people were still there is because they had all come with the comic who went up before me. Now they were desperately flagging down a waitress so they could pay their bill and leave while I was telling dick jokes.

This is a picture of me staring at them condescendingly while they make their escape.


Naturally, I cried in the shower that night after falling to my knees in the rain, thrusting my fists into the air and cursing god for this life as a shitty amateur comic. So imagine my surprise, when all the local comics began slapping me on the back and congratulating me at the next open mic I attended.

Apparently, I had somehow been accepted as a semi-finalist in this comedy competition. I don’t know if the judges actually watched my video later or if my name was simply thrown into a hat. Again, not having a Facebook account somehow resulted in me being the last to know.

“Well… what’s the worst that could happen?” I thought.

That’s when I learned the video of my shame was proudly displayed on the website of the radio station sponsoring this competition along with the other semi-finalists. Now everyone could bask in the glory that is me telling dick jokes to twelve disinterested people who are in the back of the room and on their way out the door. Not only that, the general public was now invited to vote on each semi-finalist’s video… not just “thumbs up”, but also “thumbs down”. After all, we don’t want to know just how well liked you are -we also want to see just how despised you are. It’s more fun that way. Perhaps not surprisingly, each comic had at least as many “thumbs down” votes as there were comics in the competition.

I guess the competition organizers thought opening the vote up to “the general public” might even out the odds somehow. Of course, what they didn’t count on is just how much comics are social media whores. Within seconds, some semi-finalists had thousands of votes, while guys like me -with no Facebook account, languished in the double digits.

“Finally, this madness will be over.” I thought. “There is no way I can compete with these Facebook whores and my five minutes of shame will quickly fade into obscurity.”

So imagine my surprise when at the end of the month -after receiving maybe 60 votes compared to everyone elses thousands, I received an email informing me that I was now a finalist in this competition! Equally surprising was the admonishment in this email to “work clean” during the finalist round when it was basically a dick joke that got me there to begin with.

More bad news came when I read that I was expected to be at Snoqualmie Casino no later than 11am the day of the competition even though it didn’t start until 8pm.

“What the hell am I going to do for 9 hours?”

This question was answered in the form of an itineray constructed by the radio station that thoroughly documented every second of every minute of that long 9 hour stretch to show time.

Oh joy.

The good news was, Rich Vos would be there. The bad news was, we were expected to actually take part in something described as a “one-on-one workshop where you will perform your material for Rich Vos and he will provide constructive feedback”. Not surprisingly, no one was looking forward to being locked in a room alone with Rich Vos and performing stand up for him while he scrutinized you from a dark corner… what the fuck is that all about?


Fortunately, Rich turned out to be a very nice guy and he knew as well as the rest of us that this workshop idea was creepy as fuck -so we all just hung out in the green room for a couple of hours and talked shop. This was definitely the best part about this whole experience. Rich told us a story about how the first time he was in “Last Comic Standing”, he was obsessed with winning so much that it really adversely affected his performance and he did not win that season. But when he came back for a second time, he was over it and honestly thought he had no hope of winning -so he just tried to relax and enjoy the ride instead… and he won.

This was one of those moments of supreme irony in life, only I did not realize it at the time.

At this point, I noticed the comic who had gone up before me on that fateful audition night (and had also made it to the finalist round) was pretty much in full on panic mode. He was pacing back and forth in a corner and staring at a slip of paper with a handful of jokes scrawled on it. Apparently, he did not have the required five minutes worth of material committed to memory. In fact, he seemed a little surprised that none of the other comics appeared to have any notes at all.

“I probably shouldn’t go up there with a bunch of notes…” he wondered aloud.

“Relax man, just go out there with your favorite bit. It’s only five minutes.”

This is when the single funniest moment from this entire comedy competition occurred. This guy admitted to me that he had never done stand up comedy before that open mic audition that landed him in the finals. He was writing a paper on standup comedy for some sort of liberal arts class and as part of his final thesis, he decided to go to an open mic and actually tell a few jokes… and… well… here we were. He told me he was pretty sure he didn’t even have five minutes worth of material.

I swear I am not making this up.

After Rich left the green room and show time approached, the conversation quickly turned towards the prize. Believe it or not, after all this time -no one had actually thought to ask what the prize for winning this thing was. Some quick iPhone Googling revealed that last year’s winner actually won some cash, but details seemed vague about this year’s competition. When the lady coordinating the event made an appearance in the green room just before show time and was asked about this, she delivered a rather lengthy rambling speech about, “… being on the radio and maybe some other stuff, but we are still hammering out the details…”

This was not a good sign.

In fact, this is roughly the point in time where it occurred to me that we were basically the radio station’s painted whores for the evening. Somewhere months ago, a group of marketing guys got together in a boardroom to brainstorm cheap ways to drum up a little publicity for the radio station.

“I know, let’s have a fundraiser for the homeless!” one said.

“No… we might actually have to give homeless people money. Let’s just tell a bunch of amateur comics they are in some sort of competition instead… won’t cost us a dime!”

Flash forward six months later and I’m standing back stage at Snoqualmie Casino telling myself this slow motion trainwreck is finally coming to a close. Nothing else could possibly go wrong. All I have to do now is go out there and suffer for five more minutes and then it will all be over.

“What’s the worst thing that could happen, right?” Of course, by now I should have known better.

I’m not sure what kind of drugs the host was on, but I am very much interested in experimenting with some -as long as I can do so in a safe and private environment. Hosting a comedy competition is probably not the best time to experiment with powerful, mind bending chemicals though as was proven by the bizarre, rambling non-sensical intro the host spit out before someone pushed me onto the stage in the hopes that it would finally shut her up.

Since we had been told to “work clean” and stay away from “blue material” and dick jokes, I instead insinuated that I was a Girl Scout murderer and then made fun of Jesus for awhile. I was exhausted and ready to go home… there was still much crying in the shower to be done that evening and I had a good one hour drive ahead of me.

This is a picture of some random moron ruining a perfectly good radio station ad.


After all the votes had been tallied, they called us back on to the stage for one last public shaming… and believe me, I was just as surprised as everyone else when it was announced that I was somehow the “winner” of this madness. But sure enough, I was handed a small wooden plaque that said, “WINNER” on it as the other comics gathered around to congratulate me.

When we were all leaving that evening, Rich bumped into us in the hall and asked who had won.

“I did.” I said, as I proudly held up the miniature wooden plaque with the word, “WINNER” inscribed across the front.

That’s when he gave me a look that said, “I thought you were the janitor…” as he turned to exit the building.

I have to admit, winning a prestigious comedy competition like that really changed me. I did in fact, “win the opportunity to maybe work with Rich Vos in the future”… just as the host had promised. I also won the opportunity to maybe impregnate Britney Spears with a three headed love child in the future, but so far -no word on either of these things actually happening. I also won a jar of candy which had at least six Jolly Ranchers in it. Sadly some of them were apple, but that just made me savor the watermelon ones even more… although, I have to admit it did sting a bit when I learned ALL of the finalists had received a jar of candy.

This is a picture of me questioning reality.

Winner Announcement at Make Jack Laugh

They did make good on their promise of me “being on the radio” though. Apparently at some moment in time, they played that awful clip from the auditions of me telling a dick joke to an empty room on the radio. So thank god for that, because that is EXACTLY how I want to be represented.

Anyways, that’s the story of how I accidentally won a comedy competition one day.

I realize this blog entry may sound really douchey but that’s not what I’m trying to do here. I’m sure everyone involved had the best intentions at heart and hanging out with Vos for an afternoon made it all worthwhile. I guess my point (if I have one) is that comedy competitions in general are a terrible idea and anybody in that group could have won that thing. We could have held that competition ten days in a row and I’m sure a different comic would have won it every time.

Don’t believe me?

Then enjoy my shame and witness for yourself indisputable video evidence that comedy competitions are bullshit.

Crazy Rock & Roll Chicks Are Hot!

Janis Joplin

Janis Joplin was the original crazy rock and roll chick… not much to look at… in fact, she was downright homely -but something about those raspy Jack Daniels and Pall Mall abused pipes that knock you back three feet along with the knowledge that she could blow you, drink you under the table and then cheat on you with the same chick you cheated on her with just an hour earlier somehow makes her hot. This is a woman to procreate with. She’s a mover and a shaker. She gets things done… except for that time she shot up a bunch of smack and then fell over dead. That wasn’t too impressive… but hey -shit happens, right?

Tina Turner

Admit it. You like Tina Turner… at first you were all like, “whatever” -but then that Thunder Dome movie came out and you couldn’t get that song out of your head and you were like, what is the deal with that crazy hair? … nice ass though… and then you found out she was 412 years old and you were all like, gross! But then you watched some of her videos from 1812 or whenever it was when she was smokin’ hot and you got a chub and well… let’s admit it -even though she’s roughly 600 years old now, you’d still hit it. Right? I mean she gets her blood changed out with that of a fresh young virgin white girl once a year and everything, so she’s still got it. It’s magic… what the fuck was Ike thinking…? I mean, this chick is hot and she was thin and she was making the fat bucks and he just kept beating her up? … wtf? Am I missing something here, Ike or are you just retarded?
Correction… retarded and BROKE, sucka… and let’s not forget dead. I guess old Ike couldn’t afford those black magic blood transfusions… wait?
What was I talking about?
Oh yeah. I’d hit it.

Wendy O. Williams

Wendy O. was the ultimate motherfucking crazy rock and roll chick! Fucking half naked chick in leather with a bright pink mohawk screamin’ and yellin’ and fucking destroying a car on stage with sledge hammers and a chainsaw and setting shit on fire and… I just came. This chick had that rare gift of scaring you and giving you a boner all at the same time… and that’s special. We need to honor that. Not to mention there is video out there somewhere of Wendy launching ping pong balls in all directions without the use of her hands or ping pong paddles… I’ll let your imagination fill in the blanks before you begin Googling like a madman.

Sinead O’Connor

I remember so many years ago when I was a young, oily and hormonal pubescent boy… constantly popping awkward boners in front of the television set when Sinead O’Connor suddenly appeared forcing all young males everywhere to ask themselves one very important question for the first time in their lives: “Would I fuck a bald chick?” I mean, after all -she’s got a cute face and everything… but really? … bald? But then, fifteen minutes later this train of thought was interrupted when her career abruptly came screeching to a halt after tearing up a picture of the Pope on live television… I’m all for bashing on the Pope but… yeah… probably not the best career move for a bald Irish chick.

Sadly, the last I’ve heard of Sinead is that she became a frumpy, crazy cat lady begging for someone… anyone to marry her.


Annie Lennox

I think every red blooded American male my age remembers exactly where he was the day Annie Lennox appeared on television and made us all question everything we knew about femininity in the form of this crazy neon red haired manly chick in a business suit singing about sleeping or something… wtf? So I guess it’s pretty ironic she resurfaced a couple of years later parodying cheap, slutty rock chicks and forced us all to realize something very important… namely, that Annie Lennox is actually pretty hot in this video… how in the fuck did that happen? I mean, I only mention it because she was so crazy ugly in that other video… what the hell is going on here? My penis demands answers.

Kim and Kelley Deal (The Breeders)

Again, kinda homely -but who can resist twin alcoholic, junky sisters singing songs that start out: “I got an empty case of Whip-Its”? Let’s face it, if you are ever approached by alcoholic, junky twin sisters and they inform you that they have an empty case of Whip-Its, I think you and I both know that you will take that ride every time no matter how homely they look. Don’t lie.

Of course, if only one junky approaches you with that line -feel free to set them on fire. The “double your pleasure” factor is sort of what sells it when you look this rough.

Courtney Love

I hate Courtney Love… it’s not like I’ve met her or anything, but she seems like kind of a… what’s the word? …used up piece of trash junky whorebag. But I gotta admit, she somehow managed to look kind of hot every once in awhile when the lighting was just right and the heroin addiction was at a low point and the ravages of time had not yet set in… I mean -honestly, what man can resist watching a young Courtney Love rocking out and singing and doing what we wish all female performers everywhere would do… namely -whip out their tits in the middle of the song. Well played, Courtney Love… well played… but it’s still not like I would want her to touch me or anything though… or even sit on my couch, unless I could put some plastic down first or something.

Also, she killed Kurt Cobain… there… I said it.

Nina Gordon and Louise Post (Veruca Salt)

Now this is what I’m talking about! Hot chicks in bras singing and playing guitar and flailing around and stuff in these giant conical tube thingies… well, I guess I could deal with a little less of the giant conical tube thingies, but whatever -you get the point.
Also, it just occurred to me that a lot of these chicks seem angry at men… I wonder if it would make them even angrier to know that just turns guys on even more?

Shirley Manson (Garbage)

I guess a lotta these crazy rock chicks are probably damaged goods… that’s sorta what makes ‘em hot… until you start to actually hear about the abuse and the pain and the blah-bity-blah-blah… I guess there’s something hot about damaged chicks, but only if they keep their mouth shut about it so we can still pretend that everything is all rainbows and unicorns and it just so happens that some chicks like to drink and fuck and do drugs and rock out and are insanely hot and crazy all at the same time for no particular reason at all. Like this chick… she looks good… but the creepy pedo factor in this song called, “Thirteen” is WAAAY high and it brings the reality of damaged chicks far too close to the surface -not to mention, she appears to be constipated and on the toilet throughout most of this video and it’s totally destroying my chub. So stop it.

Babes in Toyland

These chicks are hot in a way that makes them seem like they might hunt down your ex-girlfriend, strangle her cat with their bare hands and then nail it to her garage door while she was away and that’s the sort of refreshing love and devotion we all look for in a relationship… but they cultivate this look they call, “Kinderwhore” -which aside from making their mom’s proud, really gets me back to what I was saying earlier about damaged goods and just not wanting to even go there and… well… I just grossed myself out again. These rock and roll chicks are a real roller coaster.

Lacey Mosley (Flyleaf)

This chick is tiny… seriously, she’s like two and a half feet tall. She’s so tiny they have to put her on her own separate stage on top of the first stage. But I’m pretty sure she swallowed a viking because when she fucking wails -grown men crap their pants. I think that’s hot. I don’t know why. Maybe a tiny chick like her who can wail like that has other miraculous super powers we can only speculate about.

UFC 102: My First UFC


“The dog has to take a shit.”

“Never! There is no stoppping! We will eat him for sustenance if we have to! This is life and fucking death, man!”

The Better Half sulked in her seat while the dog whimpered and began a long silent stream of death farts.

It was 5pm when we hit Aberdeen. I did the math and realized that would put us at our hotel in Portland right around 7pm… right when the show was supposed to start.


I stepped on the gas and reached for my Blackberry.

“Traffic is a fucking disaster. All is lost! This is now a suicide mission,” I typed.

“I’ll leave two tickets at the door,” came the reply.

Pickles and cheese rolled down the front of my shirt, leaving a sickly yellow trail of mustard as I crammed the remains of my lunch into my face, swerving in and out of traffic at 100mph and throwing all caution to the wind. A ninety year old grandmother with her family in the backseat nearly had a stroke as I bore down on her, honking and screaming and waving my hands.

“Get out of my fucking way, you whore! There are innocent lives at stake here, god damnit!”

I reached behind me and began strangling the dog.

“We must kill him now before he suffocates us all with his poisonous canine gases!” I explained to The Better Half as she wrestled the dog and steering wheel out of my hands.

By some miracle, we hit the hotel just before 7 and made it to The Alladin at around 7:30.

There was a line around the block of people waiting to get in when we arrived.

… wtf?

I made a quick phone call to Angry Amadeus using the top secret toll free Mod Line.

“What the fuck, man?”

“The show doesn’t start until 9.”

“Oh… cool… let’s get a drink.”

True to his word, Rogan left two tickets for “The Voodoo Chicken -All Knowing, All Powerful and Grand Poobah of The Universe” at the door. They asked to see my Gigantic Glistening Wang to prove it really was The Great and Mighty Voodoo in The Flesh gracing their presence and then I found my way to one of the ultra-modern, ultra-comfortable seats in The Alladin Theater…. and by “ultra-modern and ultra-comfortable” I mean, “I’m pretty sure my ass is permanently disfigured”.

The Alladin had a full bar in the back and for just $80.00 you could enjoy a nice flat beer from Seattle -the town I had just driven 160 miles to get away from, while Ari Shaffir and Joe Rogan worked their special blend of perverted entertainment. After all, you’re gonna need a beer or two if you expect to sit in those midevil torture devices for more than fifteen minutes.

The Better Half and I took a seat next to Angry Amadeus and his buddy -whose name I now forget, so we will call him “Sleepy” -for reasons that may or may not become evident later on in this story.

Ari really does get better every time I see him… and he didn’t exactly suck the first time I saw him, so believe me when I say he brought the house down. I saw him not too long ago in Seattle, so about 50% of his act was not new to me, but even the bits I have heard before have been expanded on and fleshed out. Plus, he introduced knee fucking to the crowd and at one point even got down on his knees while giving a rather vivid re-enactment of every blast to the face from every porno you have ever seen. In fact, Ari’s set was so intense he even permanently fucked up the mic stand when it got in the way of his fearsome comedy… all that from a Jew in a cardigan.

Who knew?

If this dude comes to your town and you do not go see him -you are a douchebag. I’m sorry, but you just are. There’s no excuses and nobody likes a douchebag.

If Ari brought the house down -then Rogan built it back up just to tear the fucker down again and scatter the pieces across the four corners of the earth -never to be found for they could not possibly live up to the glory of that moment in time when Joe Rogan issued his mighty guffaw under their rafters.

I’d say about 3/4ths of Rogan’s set was new to me. Which is saying a lot considering that motherfucker uploads his shit to YouTube every five minutes. The new move to Colorado is a big topic and I think the dude just started winging it… just hanging out with a packed house of his closest friends… eventually, he was telling us a story about how he found himself in some backwoods strip joint with some giant roided out gorilla friend of his and a radio DJ about 10 or 15 years ago and suddenly stopped at the word, “space-animal”.

“… space animal? What the fuck does that mean… man, I’m high. Anybody got any questions?”

That’s what I love about Rogan’s act. It’s like some sort of stand-up/speaking tour combo. Every single time I have seen Rogan, he’s always been a class act -taking the time to answer any question from anybody and then hanging out afterward so all you creepy motherfuckers can touch him and get your picture taken… and the Q/A sessions are often just as entertaining as the comedy.

For example, imagine my surprise when I heard someone shout out, “Where’s The Voodoo Chicken?”

That’s right… not “Will you get high with me?” …or “Can Brock kick Fedor’s ass?” The most pressing question of the evening was -where the fuck is The Voodoo Chicken. Of course, Joe had no problem finding me in the crowd as he proudly exclaimed, “That’s Voodoo! He’s my friend!”

This moment had interesting ramifications when I wandered outside after the show. It turns out, the doors were locked from the inside and the door Nazis were not letting anyone back in. As I considered hailing a cab and calling it a night, I got a text message from Joe.

“Where are you? People are asking about you.”

Apparently, a rather large group of my fans had all patiently waited for everyone to exit the building and then approached Joe in the hopes that he might somehow know how to locate me. I banged on the door and showed the door Nazi my phone.

“Look dude, Rogan’s looking for me, right now.” He glanced at my phone and opened his mouth to say something, but before he could -some giant eight foot tall used car salesman looking motherfucker busted through the door and grabbed me by the hand.

“Are you Voodoo?” he asked. I never really know how to answer that question, but he must have caught a glimpse of my Gigantic Glistening Wang because the next thing I know he’s quickly ushering me back into the theater.

“I’m BadElvis,” he explained… also known to me as “Vigo Granitelli” -one of the bestest and baddest motherfuckers to ever grace this here corner of the Internets and I gotta admit it was a pleasure finally meeting him… even though I forget his real name now… and didn’t really have a chance to say more than maybe 10 words to him… but what we have is special and we will cherish this weekend’s fleeting moment forever.

Someone shouted, “There he is!” as I was pushed back into the theater and mobbed by my adoring fans. sbgarner seemed particularly excited to meet me and after Joe and I exchanged some totally not gay high fiving some dude whipped out his camera to take a picture of himself with Joe.

“I want you in here too!” random guy said to me, while motioning in my direction.

“Who the fuck are you?” I asked.

“I’m just a fan.”

… so right now, as I type this there is some dude out there showing off his pictures of Joe Rogan and “that Voodoo guy.”

“Who the fuck is that?” his friends will say.

“I don’t know, but he’s really fucking famous.”

I finally found a moment to pull away from my fans and walked outside with Joe and the entourage. Some nutjob attacked us almost immediately and began leaping up and down in the air frantically insisting that he take us to each and every totally fucking awesome hotspot in all of Portland… in fact, this dude was desperately insistingcreepily insisting… Like he had bigger, nefarious plans and we might all wake up the next morning missing a kidney.

This madman was thus forth christened, “Roofie Boy”.

“Dude, seriously -you’re freaking me out. This isn’t some sort of gay thing -is it?” Rogan asked.

“I can assure you I am not gay!” Roofie Boy said most emphatically.

In an act of self-defense, Joe whipped out his iPhone and began video taping Roofie Boy. Probably so the police would have something to work with once they found our cold, dead pants-less bodies the next morning. Roofie Boy broke out in a cold sweat as Joe slowly began to beat him down verbally. Suddenly, out of nowhere -some giant flaming homo leapt out from the shadows and rushed to Roofie Boy’s aid.

This was a mistake. This merely provided Rogan with a new subject for his impromptu film and a new target for his verbal assault.

“I have two Masters degrees and make $80,000 a year,” Roofie Boy’s totally not gay friend suddenly shouted out for no apparent reason.

Rogan turned to me and asked, “What do you think?”

“He’s definitely not helping the gay argument,” I replied.

Eventually, we escaped Roofie Boy’s clutches and made it around the corner to someplace called, “The Original Hotcakes and Steakhouse”. That’s right -this wasn’t some knock-off all night greasy pancake joint like all the others. This was the motherfucking original!

There was no place for all of us to sit, so we had Matt Lindland tell two pencil necked geeks to beat it and we pushed the table they used to be sitting at up against ours to make more room. By the time I made it back to our table, I was seated across from someone I had never met before… in fact… believe it or not -this guy had never even heard of The Rogan Board! This dude was Matt Lindland’s autobiographer… and a screenplay writer… and a film producer… and an Iraq war veteran with -as he put it, “severe brain trauma”… which perhaps kind of explains all those other jobs he may or may not have. I’m pretty sure the Iraq shit was the real deal though, because I wasn’t the only one glancing toward the door and plotting the fastest escape route as he told us tales of rape, death, blood and severe brain trauma over our pancakes.

That’s when Roofie Boy walked in. He’d followed us to the restaraunt and was now casually sauntering in with his totally not gay friend and ordering pancakes as if this had been a part of their plan all evening and… “Oh… hey, look! That’s Joe Rogan over there! I wonder what his kidneys taste like?”

They calmly ordered their pancakes and sat at the table across from us… staring without blinking while their pancakes grew cold.

Roofie Boy, if you are reading this -you are one creepy motherfucker and I commend you. That’s some Mark David Chapman type stuff. Good job.

Also, watching Ari eat bacon is funny… I don’t know why. It just is.

Afterward, we all stepped outside and some greasy fat chick from the kitchen dropped everything and ran outside to hug on Joe. He stood there and took it like a man as she slowly hugged and squeezed and basically lubed him up with her grease covered body while the dishwasher took pictures. Somewhere out there a fat chick is masturbating to pictures of Joe with a look on his face not unlike that of a dog being simultaneously surprised and scolded for pooping on the carpet.

I think Roofie Boy must have slipped me something, because the next thing I knew -myself and The Better Half were standing on the street corner alone, with no idea how to get back to the hotel and not a cab in sight… and now that The Goon Squad had disappeared it suddenly occurred to me just how shady this side of town is… especially at 3am.

Just then there was a noise behind me. I heard footsteps and the heavy breathing of my attacker. My instincts kicked in and I pulled a Buffer 180 -landing perfectly mid-stride with my hands in full kung-fu position shouting, “BRRRRRROCK LESNAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!”

“Uhm… is Joe gone?”

It was greasy fat chick from inside the restaraunt.

“Yeah, he left already.”

“Can you give him this?” she asked and handed me a black T-shirt.

It says, “The Original Hotcakes and Steakhouse” across the front.



“You look like you smoke pot!”

Eddie Bravo had known me for all of two seconds and already he was shaking me down for weed.

“Hi Eddie!” I said… mostly because I believe decent human beings should greet each other and maybe even shake hands when first meeting.

“A LOT of pot!” he replied.

Rogan, Angry Amadeus, The Better Half and I had been sitting in Joe’s presidential suite over looking the Willamette River while discussing America’s need for a eugenics program backed by a strong dictator when the demi-god of Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu suddenly burst through the front door and demanded that I get him high.

I have to admit, I was tempted to teach Eddie some manners by putting him in a headlock and giving him a taste of the old Voodoo Noogie, but I didn’t want to embarrass him in front of Joe. So instead, I whipped out the stash and we proceeded to stink up the place… except for Rogan that is. He was busy preparing for the fight -which involves NO marijuana believe it or not and copious amounts of prayer to Quetzalcoatl, the Feathered-Serpent deity of ancient Mesoamerica. I think it’s some sort of Scientology thing. That Rogan’s a weird dude.

Eddie relaxed after a few one hits and eventually asked me my name.

“No… your name on the message board,” he corrected me -after I made the ridiculous mistake of telling him my actual name.

“The Voodoo Chicken.”

“Holy shit! You’re The Voodoo Chicken?”

Eddie Bravo -Grand Poobah of all things BJJ was giddy like a schoolgirl at a pajama party once he discovered he was in the presence of The One and Only Voodoo Chicken. He jumped to his feet and shook my hand even harder than he did when he found out I had weed on me. I actually even felt kind of bad when I told him I didn’t have time to autograph a post of mine that he printed out and keeps in his wallet. He and I have had a few interactions on the board and I’m pretty sure he’s jealous of my sweet “Monkey Steals The Peach” move, but The Better Half remained unimpressed.

“Why does everybody from the board think you’re some kind of god?” she asked.

“I don’t know… you have to admit, I AM pretty awesome.”

“No… you’re not… you’re an asshole.”

She’s allowed to say stuff like that because she’s hot and she puts my penis in her mouth.

I glanced down at our seats as Rogan handed me our UFC tickets.

Section A – Row 3 – South Floor

What the fuck, Rogan? I do believe the numbers one and two come before three -you cheap fuck. I was tempted to rip up the tickets and spit in his face for having insulted me so deeply, but I decided to take the high road even though Rogan was low balling me like that. So instead of having a pristine, unhindered view of the cage like I SPECIFICALLY requested -I had to contend with that hippy, Urijah Faber and his fancy locks waving in my face all night.

When did they start letting hippies fight anyway?

We exited the room in a cloud of pot smoke and headed for the elevators. Rogan’s suite was on the 16th floor and he and Eddie excitedly talked about the horrific oversized snot monsters that have been erupting from Joe’s nose the whole way down. A couple of guys got on the elevator before we hit the lobby and they recognized Joe and Eddie right away, but let’s face it -do you really want to shake hands with a guy that’s talking about pulling quarter sized chunks of flesh out of his nose on a regular basis? Instead, our elevator buddies just politely nodded while slowly succumbing to a contact high.

I won’t really go into the details of the fight, because I’m sure all you dorks have already rubbed yourselves raw over the thirty other UFC 102 threads that have been started over the past week. But I will tell you this:

All UFC fans are gigantic douchebags who should be sterilized and forced to learn how to read before enrolling in estrogen therapy.

That’s right. I said it. That makes you angry doesn’t it…? Really, really angry… I rest my case.


When Gabriel Gonzaga popped Chris Tuchscherer’s grapes with a devastating accidental kick to the baby maker -the UFC dorks booed as he lay screaming and convulsing in pain.

… wtf?

Every last one of you drunken UFC fanboys needs to get the fuck in line for a nice swift mind blowing kick to the nads from all 6 foot 1, 259 pounds of Gabriel Gonzaga… even if you didn’t boo while Tuchscherer watched his future family bleed out onto the mat, I’m sure you’ve done something else to deserve it -so get in line fucker. Look at it this way -that poor bastard only got paid $10,000 to stand up and take a swift kick in the nuts from Gabriel Gonzaga for your amusement… that’s barely enough coin to stitch his fucking balls back together. You couldn’t pay me enough to take that kind of abuse -especially, after having seen it in person. I’ve been rocked in the nuts before, but this dude looked like he saw fucking god… and the crowd was booing.

In fact, the only people in the building who seemed to have any shred of decency were the actual fighters themselves. Someone needs to start making Affliction T-shirts that say “IRONY” in big crazy letters with dragons and skulls and flames and totally not gay sparkly glitter.

Also, yelling things out like, “Submit him!” and “Kick him!” really helps fighters out when they are at a loss for what to do next. Nate Marquardt later admitted he had no idea what to do in his match against Demian Maia until a drunken douchebag in the fourth row suggested he “knock him the fuck out”.

Good call, random UFC dork… although I must admit, I am willing to excuse the guy who shouted out “Punch him in the heart!” for reasons of creativity and originality.

Other highlights include the moment I attempted to order a coffee from the beer stand during an intermission and the beer guy looked at me like I’d just asked him if he’d ever fellated a horse… then Brock Lesnar walked by and The Better Half had to change her underwear immediately… this is very unsettling to me, as now I must fight Brock for honor.

Do you hear that, Brock? The Voodoo Chicken is gunning you for you, motherfucker! You can run, but you can’t hide!

Once the fights were over we made our way out to the open area where the gorillas were aimlessly wandering about… clearly intoxicated by the potent funk of testosterone, steroids and cheap beer swimming in their fat empty heads… I braced myself for Act II of the evening’s entertainment… some gorillas began humping each other in the confusion while most of the UFC chicks just lay spread eagle on the ground… waiting for any passing stranger to deposit their bent chromosome riddled seed… giant, roided out gorillas were ripping their pants off and shitting right where they stood… then hunching forward up against the brick walls of The Rose Garden and releasing a potent blast of musk with a mighty grunt from some mystery gland apparently located somewhere near the taint. I made the horrible mistake of making eye contact with one of the alpha males for more than three seconds and the resultant rush of pure testosterone straight to his brain forced him into an uncontrollable rage. His eyes widened while the hairs on his back stood up and he let loose with a mighty roar at no one and nothing in particular… just anything to release the pent up anxiety and aggression brought about through a steady stream of steroid and stepfather abuse over the years.

The Better Half insisted on a pregnancy test as soon as we made it back to the hotel… not that she had actually been touched, but you just can’t take your fucking chances with a crowd like that. My eyebrows had somehow fused together and I’m pretty sure I grew a third testicle by the time we had fought our way out of the pack and found ourselves sitting on a bus.

Also -let me just say this: The girlfriends UFC dorks have are all really classy. Sarcasm? You decide.

Somehow Angry Amadeus, Sleepy, The Better Half and myself all made it back to my hotel without any anal penetration or shit throwing when Rogan sends us a text message saying he was at the big UFC after party they were promoting at the fight. But by then we were enjoying some fine sushi and porter over conversation like civilized individuals. Jumping right back into the fray of the gorilla pack seemed like an absurd thing to do at that point… Sleepy had an Appletini and fell asleep at our table while Angry Amadeus did the best damn Patrick Bateman impersonation I have ever seen… I fell asleep that night muttering, “I have to return some videotapes!”

Thanks for a great weekend Joe and to all my fans who missed me, I will be selling locks of my hair next time around… so there’s something to look forward to. Feel free to print this post out and keep it with you in case you actually do see me and get a chance to hear me tell you I’m too busy to sign it.

All Art is A Lie.

Stand-up comedy is an art form. In fact, it is perhaps the most misunderstood art form known to humankind.

For example, in virtually all other “stage performances” there is something known as the “fourth wall”. The fourth wall is that imaginary, invisible wall that exists between you, the stage and the performers. Otherwise, the audience may begin to wonder why four hundred people happen to be sitting in the tomb of Capulet and yet Romeo and Juliet are oblivious to their existence.

But in the world of stand-up comedy, the fourth wall both exists and does not exist… for example, when you see a comic -you need to shut your whore mouth and keep it shut, respecting that fourth wall. But things can get kind of weird if a comic doesn’t at least occasionally tear down that wall and acknowledge that you are real human beings and that he/she can see you… especially, if you aren’t so good at the whole shutting your whore mouth thing.

But the point I really want to make is -for the most part, comics are faking it. I think a lot of people actually believe that stand-up comics are just “winging it” and everything that comes out of their mouths just happens to be hilarious. Of course, in some very rare cases this is true. But generally speaking, every joke and every bit that comes out of a comic’s mouth has been rehearsed and crafted over and over again until every single word is in exactly the right place at exactly the right time… which can actually be really awkward if you’re a comic. Because nothing is more lame than someone pretending they are being spontaneous.

But in some weird way, this is actually one of the things that makes stand-up comedy a form of art. After all, art merely imitates life… but what happens when art imitates art?

Prepare to be mind raped.

In 1945 Elmyr de Hory was a struggling artist, or perhaps he was merely struggling -but then again, even the “masters” died penniless and insane so maybe this whole “art” thing was actually working out pretty well for him. In any case, to bide his time while slowly starving to death, de Hory practiced sketches in the style of his idol -Pablo Picasso… and it turns out, de Hory’s Picasso’s were good. Really good. His friends, who were also painters in their own right -often couldn’t distinguish between an authentic Picasso and a de Hory. So perhaps it’s not too surprising that a collector friend eventually offered to buy one of de Hory’s “authentic” Picasso’s and the poor, starving Hungarian immigrant couldn’t refuse.

The price: $200

Well, one thing led to another and eventually every art dealer and collector on the planet was interested in this random Hungarian fellow who seemed to have access to an unending supply of previously unknown “masterpieces” by not only Picasso, but every major name on the market and perhaps even more importantly, he was willing to part with them for cheap.

Oil magnate, Algur H. Meadows bought 56 of these masterpieces. The Fogg Art Museum at Harvard University snatched up a Matisse at a basement bargain price. Experts from all over the world marveled at the exquisite beauty and detail of these new found paintings by the masters and declared them all to be “100% legitimate”. Everyone, it seems was happy.

To this day, some experts and curators refuse to admit their masterpieces are de Hory’s. It could ruin their credibility and reputation to do so. Later, de Hory would remark, “If it weren’t for experts, there would be no forgeries.”

When the art dealers were asked why their suspicions were never raised about this man who could produce a “lost” masterpiece by almost any artist they wanted, some of them explained quite frankly, “They were so good, I didn’t want to know.”

And why would they want to know? It turns out that while de Hory thought he was scamming the art dealers, it was actually the art dealers who were scamming de Hory. de Hory was selling his masterpieces for four and five hundred dollars a pop. These same masterpieces easily fetched tens of thousands of dollars on the open market.

When de Hory found this out, he denounced all art dealers as “lying criminal scum.”

Elmyr painting another totally worthless masterpiece.

Meanwhile, the day Algur Meadows discovered that his once priceless collection of lost masterpieces was actually the world’s largest collection of worthless forgeries -he wasn’t too happy about it.

I believe his exact words were, “Bitch better have my money.”

But de Hory didn’t have Algur Meadows’ money. Whatever meager sum he had managed to squeeze from these forgeries, he spent fleeing the country and settling down on a small island near Spain called, Ibiza. Fortunately for de Hory, Ibiza’s extradition treaties with the United States were murky at best and he was able to avoid going to prison for being an art forger. Unfortunately for de Hory, Ibiza wasn’t a big fan of homosexuality -so they sent him to prison for being gay instead.

Oh sweet irony, thy name is Elmyr de Hory.

When de Hory got out, he met a man named Clifford Irving who wrote a book about his life, exposing him as the greatest art hoaxer of all time. de Hory became an overnight celeberity… which pissed off the owner’s of de Hory’s masterpieces even more. Spanish officials began asking questions. But de Hory insisted he had never signed a name to any of his paintings and no one could actually prove that he did.

After all, it’s not a crime to paint a Picasso… it only becomes a crime when you sign Picasso’s name to it… and besides, these paintings had been hailed and authenticated by the experts -were they no longer great works of art?

“Am I guilty of committing a masterpiece?” he asked.

Incidentally, around this time Clifford Irving announced he was writing yet another biography. In fact, he was writing no less than the first and only authorized biography of Howard R. Hughes. This was a sensational revelation considering virtually no one had seen or heard from Hughes since he bought the Desert Inn and locked himself in an upstairs suite.

But Irving had documents -boxes full of letters, memos and various correspondence between himself and the elusive Mr. Hughes. These hand written documents were analyzed by the leading experts of the time and were eventually declared “100% legitimate.” Based on this information, McGraw-Hill wrote a check to Mr. Irving for $750,000.00.

Meanwhile, Orson Welles knew a party when he saw one… that’s right… Orson Welles, motherfuckers -so he hopped the first jet outta Dodge and headed straight for Ibiza where Irving and de Hory were partying it up like rock stars. Let’s face it, Orson was no stranger to hoaxes himself. In 1938 he convinced half the country that we were under attack by martians. He even brought a film crew with him to Ibiza so he could make a documentary based on de Hory’s life. There was plenty of booze and merry making… scenes filmed at parties… in the streets of Ibiza… in local eateries where Welles grew fat with seafood and wine while sharing jocular stories and intellectual anecdotes…

But suddenly there was trouble in paradise… rumors began circulating that Irving’s new biography was a hoax… Welles began to wonder if he should continue shooting a film about de Hory’s hoaxes or start shooting a film about Irving’s hoax… or maybe they both were complicit in this new hoax? After all, who could have forged all of those manuscripts so expertly if not de Hory?

A press conference was hastily arranged and Howard R. Hughes himself denounced Clifford Irving and claimed to have never met the man… at least that’s what he said on the phone. After all, Howard Hughes was a recluse and the last anyone had seen of him was when he was wandering down the highway in his underwear near the Desert Inn with a pair of tissue boxes on his feet… in fact, according to Irving’s lawyer -that wasn’t Howard Hughes on the phone at all -but an imposter… a hoaxer denouncing a hoax perpetrated by the biographer of a hoaxer who was now accused of committing a hoax of his own, but really wasn’t.

Inception -eat your heart out.

Meanwhile, the seafood and wine continued to flow, Orson continued to get fatter and the whole film project fell in danger of disappearing behind the fog of an earth shattering belch reeking of wine, lobster and garlic.

Motherfuckin’ Orson “Are You Gonna Eat That” Welles

But the fucker manned up and managed to get it done… kind of. The film itself stops and starts while Orson is sitting in the editing room -seemingly editing the film at the last minute while you are actually watching it… there are long scenes throughout the film that seem completely out of context… conversations are had between multiple individuals at different times and then spliced back together as if these people were all sitting in the same room at the time the recording was made… there are shots of de Hory throwing what appear to be priceless masterpieces into his fireplace saying, “Bye-bye Picasso… bye-bye Modigliani.” … you begin to wonder what the fuck you are watching… is this a movie… and if so, what the fuck is it about… de Hory? … fraud? … Irving? … art? Did Orson Welles just rip me off by pretending to sell me a piece of art about people who ripped other people off by selling them pretend art? Is this movie even finished? Is the movie itself a hoax? How high am I?

… and what the fuck is up with that monkey and the sexy Croatian chick? Seriously, does nobody see that monkey?

Anyway, if you’re still reading this -you are clearly a deranged person who has way too much time on your hands. So click on the picture below and prepare to be simultaneously bored and mind raped by Orson Welles.

“If it is a masterpiece and you put it in a museum and admire it… it becomes real.” -Elmyr de Hory

On a side note, perhaps it’s worth mentioning -now that de Hory is dead, his forgeries are actually highly sought after. In fact, forgeries of de Hory’s forgeries are now being sold on the art market as genuine forgeries… somebody, somewhere is gonna be pissed when they discover that what they thought was an authentic Picasso fake is actually a fake Picasso fake.

Which brings me to my next subject, little Marla Olmstead.

Marla wasn’t an art forger -she was the real thing. In her heyday, Marla was considered to be perhaps the best abstract painter the art world had ever seen. Of course, the fact that she was four years old at the time was a little troubling to some.

Apparently, Marla had been painting since she was three. Eventually, a friend of the family hung her “cute” paintings in his coffee shop and a customer actually bought one for $250.00… the local paper thought this was cute, so they wrote a story about it… a gallery owner read the story and thought it was cute, so he held an exhibit for Marla.

Over the course of the next two years, the parents raked in over $300,000.000 in sales. Before long, a “genuine” Marla Olmstead piece could sell for upwards of $20,000.00.

Perhaps not surprisingly, 60 Minutes showed up wanting to do a piece on Marla. They spoke with Marla and the parents and even filmed Marla making a painting from beginning to end. They showed some of Marla’s paintings to a woman who was an expert in child prodigies and artists. She was impressed.

“You could hang these paintings on the walls of any major contemporary art museum and absolutely get away with it,” she said.

Then she was shown the video of Marla painting and her tone soured.

“This isn’t the same person who painted the works you showed me earlier. This is a cute little girl playing in paints. The finished piece is nowhere near as polished as the others. Something is wrong here.”

Marla’s parents were devistated… collectors who had spent tens of thousands of dollars on Marla’s works were devistated… gallery owners who stood to make tens of thousands of dollars more off of her works were devistated…

Now that it was widely believed Marla did not paint these “masterpieces” -they were worthless. Her paintings stopped selling and her parents desperately released a DVD featuring Marla painting another piece from beginning to end. The art world was unimpressed and Marla sank into relative obscurity only to be humored by those that had already spent thousands of dollars on her works. After all, they have a personal interest in making sure their $10,000.00 investment isn’t actually worth no more than the canvas it was painted on.
Meanwhile, Marla didn’t give a shit. She was four.
“I like turtles,” she said.

Marla “I Made Poopies” Olmstead

Don’t believe everything you read on the internet!

Many moons ago, a friend of mine named Joe Rogan hosted a popular television show on NBC called, “Fear Factor”. It mostly involved people eating disgusting things like pig testicles and Joe screaming at them to eat them faster.

Not surprisingly, this was a huge hit.

NBC even launched a website, complete with a message board for all of Joe’s new fans (keep in mind this was well before UFC and The JRE podcast) to gather at and ooh and ahh over this masterpiece in reality television programming along with its sexy host.

So imagine my surprise, when I discovered that Joe Rogan -the man himself, had not even bothered to create an account at NBC’s Fear Factor Message Boards so that his fans may adore him from afar.

That’s when I decided to go ahead and create an account for him and get things started. I am not proud, but I swear everything that follows here is absolutely true -faithfully reproduced in exactly the way it happened. I saved everything so I could share it with Joe later when I handed him the reigns to his new account… but… well… things kind of got a little out of hand and before I knew it, my IP address had been banned from NBC’s website.

But not before I was able to register as “Joe Rogan”, create a thread titled, “Don’t believe everything you read on the Internet!” and reach out to Joe’s adoring fans.

This is the transcript of that thread:


Don’t believe everything you read on the Internet!

Okay, there seems to be some crazy rumors about me on this message board and I just wanted to clear a few things up. Sorry I haven’t posted here before, but NBC set this thing up and I didn’t even know about it until a friend of mine said he read somewhere on the Internet that I’m Chinese… WTF!

First of all, I am NOT Chinese! I can’t believe I even have to mention this! I mean, do I LOOK Chinese? Sure, I like martial arts… and I likes me some “sushi” if you know what I mean… but seriously -it should be clear that I am French and not Chinese.

Secondly, I am NOT gay! I don’t know how this rumor got started… I think this piece of dis-information started floating around the net, right about the same time that pic of me fellating Doug Stanhope surfaced. I think anyone who’s seen that pic though, can tell you that it’s obviously staged. Doug wasn’t even hard and my lips barely even touched his penis. It was a joke. We do that bit all the time. Get over it, people. Unlike some of you -I am confident and secure in my bi-sexuality.

… and lastly, yes -I am a Scientologist. I don’t see why this is such a big deal -or anybody’s business.

Well, I hope this clears a few things up. Remember, don’t believe everything you read on the Internet!

Look for my new DVD coming out this summer and thanks for visiting NBC’s Fear Factor message board!


Joe Rogan


Re: Don’t believe everything you read on the Internet! [Re: JoeRogan]

thank u joe for telling all of us so we now know much better not to believe anything on the internet and from the fear factor haters!!!!


Re: Don’t believe everything you read on the Internet! [Re: cheer4fearfactor]

hello i don’t believe that was Joe is was just some1 saying that but thank you for saying that whoever it was cus i don’t believe he is chinese lol and i don’t think that he is scientoligst cus he set out to be nothing lol.


Re: Don’t believe everything you read on the Internet! [Re: Joe_is_hott]

i know that wasn’t joe rogan. i just on his site the e-mail about him being gay he said he’s not gay and i believe it.


Re: Don’t believe everything you read on the Internet! [Re: Joe_is_hott]

Joe_Is_Hott said: “hello i don’t believe that was Joe is was just some1 saying that but thank you for saying that whoever it was cus i don’t believe he is chinese lol and i don’t think that he is scientoligst cus he set out to be nothing lol.”

Dear Joe_Is_Hott,

First off -I would like to say, you have excellent taste in men! While I am not gay -often times, I have stood and adored my naked body before my gold encrusted full-length mirror that I keep in my living room, bathroom, kitchen and bedroom.

Anyway, I’m not really sure what you want me to do to prove to you that I really am Joe Rogan -but consider this, MY FREAKIN’ USER NAME IS JOE FREAKIN’ ROGAN! How do you think I got this user name? Do you think NBC would let just anybody PRETEND to be me on the Fear Factor message board???

Another thing… why would anybody even WANT to pretend to be me on the Internet? It doesn’t make any sense. But whatever.

As for your comment about me setting out “to be nothing” -I have no idea what you mean, but it sounds like an insult. Since the day I was cleared OTIII I knew I had an extraterrastrial purpose in life and forcing people to eat pig guts on national television would somehow play a crucial role in that purpose. Unfortunately, I can’t really go into detail about it here… but trust me, I know what I’m doing. I’m a professional.

Again -just for the record, I am NOT gay.



Re: Don’t believe everything you read on the Internet! [Re: JoeRogan]

UR RITE JOE!!!!!!!!!!!!!! and i believe anything u say because ur my favorite person because of these reasons
1 u always support the people when they go throgh the challenge(s)
2 u shout really loud to the contestants to make them know that they can do it
and last one (for now im thinking of more) u r an AWESOME host for fear factor and nothing will change that!!!!!!!!!!!
(please reply when u see this thanks joe and i hope u will have a great day)


Re: Don’t believe everything you read on the Internet! [Re: cheer4fearfactor]

thanks joe, you are the best


Re: Don’t believe everything you read on the Internet! [Re: cheer4fearfactor]

Hey Joe. What’s up buddy?)))

You’re definitely the best host for fear factor. Without Joe Rogan I believe there wouldn’t be the fear factor we have today.

I totally agree cheer4fearfactor on your views, the support for contestents and the encouragement that they can accomplish well on fear factor really is something I notice that is very awesome with Joe Rogan))

I hope you have a great one Joe and everyone, It was awesome to see you on the board.)



Re: Don’t believe everything you read on the Internet! [Re: cheer4fearfactor]

cheer4fearfactor said:

“UR RITE JOE!!!!!!!!!!!!!! and i believe anything u say because ur my favorite person because of these reasons
1 u always support the people when they go throgh the challenge(s)
2 u shout really loud to the contestants to make them know that they can do it
and last one (for now im thinking of more) u r an AWESOME host for fear factor and nothing will change that!!!!!!!!!!!
(please reply when u see this thanks joe and i hope u will have a great day)”


Thanks, cheer4fearfactor!

You are also MY favorite person. I mean, if I ever met you I’m sure you would be… okay, maybe not -who knows? There’s really no way I could know something like that ahead of time, right? But I think you know what I’m saying. Also, I like how you TYPE IN ALL CAPS sometimes (like me!). I think it really helps get your point across.

Anyway, it’s fans like you that make it all worthwhile. You know, it isn’t easy being me. Sometimes, when I wake up in a strange man’s bed and my hair is matted in vomit -I have to wonder why I keep punishing myself like this… and then I remember, it’s for the fans.

I feel I should tell you though that sometimes I yell really loud at the contestants because they are either dumb or hard of hearing (sometimes both!). Usually, I’m not concerned if a contestant can complete a stunt or not. NBC only pays me $635.16 per episode, so it’s not like I’m real excited about giving $50,000 away to some total stranger.

I hope you have a great day too and if you don’t maybe you will tomorrow or something. I dunno.



Re: Don’t believe everything you read on the Internet! [Re: FearManJimbo]

FearManJimbo said:

“Hey Joe. What’s up buddy?)))

You’re definitely the best host for fear factor. Without Joe Rogan I believe there wouldn’t be the fear factor we have today.

I totally agree cheer4fearfactor on your views, the support for contestents and the encouragement that they can accomplish well on fear factor really is something I notice that is very awesome with Joe Rogan))

I hope you have a great one Joe and everyone, It was awesome to see you on the board.)



Hey FearManJimbo! Wow! I had no idea I had so many fans! I wish you guys could see me over here… I’m gettin’ emotional and everything!

Anyway, I think you are right about Fear Factor being a completely different show if I weren’t the host. Believe it or not, the final casting was down to me, Christopher Walken and Carrot Top. I was really nervous! Eventually, I got the part because the lady in casting really likes muscle guys and Vodka.

Can you imagine if Carrot Top would have gotten the gig? They would have to call it… well… I dunno -but something really dumb!

I also agree that cheer4fearfactor has pretty much hit the nail on the head. Her posts reflect a deep understanding of Fear Factor and the abundant tangents it can spawn. For example, does a Fear Factor contestant have the Buddha mind? I think cheer4fearfactor knows the answer.

Well, it was awesome seeing you on the board FearManJimbo. In fact, all of this has been really awesome… I’m trying to think of a better word to describe it, but awesome is really all I can come up with.

Thanks for registering at NBC’s Fear Factor Message Board!




To Joe Rogan:

About the season 5 Favorite Winners Episode, who selected all the past champions? Which contestant did you want to win?
Thank you for responding on these boards.


Re: Don’t believe everything you read on the Internet! [Re: fear101]

fear101 said:

“To Joe Rogan:

About the season 5 Favorite Winners Episode, who selected all the past champions? Which contestant did you want to win?

Thank you for responding on these boards.”


Dear fear101,

Is it okay if I call you, “fear”? Or are there 100 other guys named fear98, fear99, fear100, etc. running around here…? If so, I guess that number thing is a pretty good system -otherwise it could get pretty confusing around here!

Anyway -you asked an excellent question fear number 101. Initially, we thought about giving the Fear Factor viewers a chance to vote for their favorites -but you see, I have a monkey. When you have a monkey, it really sorta changes the way you see things. Suddenly, every new challenge in life is simply another opportunity to get your monkey and a roll of duct tape somehow involved.

So I taped the promo pics of a few past winners to my bedroom wall and fed my monkey (his name is Brian) a big bowl of Grape Nuts.

I don’t know if you know this about monkeys or not -but they have a tendency to… well… fling poo. Long story short -it wasn’t long before the Grape Nuts had worked its magic on little Brian and he had “chosen” the “favorite” contestants for us.

I feel this is the most democratic way to make a decision like this -since it wouldn’t be fair of me to play favorites. I made sure the gay guy got in though because I owed him a favor. By the way, I am NOT gay.

Secretly, I wanted Noel to win. I know I cheered a lot for Randy, cuz I liked his boots and he looked good in those jeans, but Noel is awesome!

Anyway, thanks for watching NBC’s Fear Factor and evidently posting on the Internet is not a factor for you! Okay, I don’t really know what that means, but it sounded cool…



Re: Don’t believe everything you read on the Internet! [Re: JoeRogan]

i guess going bald , being short , having a tiny willy , being perceived as gay and selling out as a comedian just to earn a crust really has taken it’s toll on the moral fiber of your being.

i mean , if your life was as kewl as you make out , why would you spend as much time as you do obliterating reality in a smokescreen haze of pot, mushrooms and immersion tanks

thought not


Re: Don’t belive “JoeRogan” [Re: JoeRogan]

Lets get things streight!!! “JoeRogan” registered on 06/29/05 at 03:05 PM. “JoeRogan” said he did’nt know about this board. Don’t you think the real Joe would have come to this website and see at the top it says BOARDS! Plus the real Joe Rogan would have access to the “FearFactor” in GREEN.


Re: Don’t belive “JoeRogan” [Re: g2hollywood]

g2hollywood said:

“Lets get things streight!!! “JoeRogan” registered on 06/29/05 at 03:05 PM. “JoeRogan” said he did’nt know about this board. Don’t you think the real Joe would have come to this website and see at the top it says BOARDS! Plus the real Joe Rogan would have access to the “FearFactor” in GREEN.”


Dear g2hollywood,

Thank you, for registering at NBC’s Fear Factor message boards!

I think I made it pretty clear earlier that this whole site is run by NBC. I have nothing to do with it. Besides, I’m a comedian more than I am a game show host. It’s like I said before, NBC only pays me around 600 bucks a pop for these Fear Factor shows and my stand-up career is where the real money is at. So I never even bothered to check out NBC’s site until I started hearing all these terrible rumors about myself.

Like I said, I just saw all the stuff that was being said about me here, so I registered and tried to set the story straight. I sent an e-mail to Matt Kunitz (executive producer of Fear Factor) asking if he can make my name green so there won’t be any confusion, but he said he has to e-mail someone at NBC Technical and they have to check with someone else before that can happen… so whatever.

In the meantime, be sure to check out my friends over at The Church of Scientology!




Re: Don’t believe everything you read on the Internet! [Re: Daredevilgurl05]

hey joe its cheer4fearfactor i have something to ask u when u were on the Chappelle show. what was like doing stunts that CRAZY STUNTS (espicially walking on the HOT COALS) and then looking at THE BIZARRE, GROTESK FEET! Plese reply joe when u have free time. thank u and have a GREAT DAY!


Re: Don’t believe everything you read on the Internet! [Re: JoeRogan]

Thankyou for telling us that cause I knew that and a lot of peeps did not believe me! I’m like HELLO! Does he look chinese? And does he act gay?


Re: Don’t believe everything you read on the Internet! [Re: JoeRogan]

OMG! DONT BELIEVE EVERYTHING YOU READ! for sure. Joe Rogan is not posting here. I mean come on, Do you really think he would post using his real name and do you really think he has time to keep posting back to take up for himself? Wake up people, the real Joe Rogan aint dumb (Just Hot).


Re: Don’t believe everything you read on the Internet! [Re: JoeRogan]

hey joe:
wow i cant believe you actually take time to come here read all our posts! hehe
i love fear factor and your a great host
and you make fearfactor even better worth watching!
i dont know if i’d watch fear factor if you werent the host…lol
im gonna apply to be on fear factor and i hope to see you on the show! hehe oh yeah and your joerogan.net site is really cool .


Re: Don’t believe everything you read on the Internet! [Re: cookies110]

everybody that was joe i CAN JUST TELL because i JUST CAN and if u HAVE ANY PROBLEM WITH THAT then u CAN KISS MY A**!!!!!!!!!!!!


Re: Don’t believe everything you read on the Internet! [Re: Daredevilgurl05]

IF that really is Joe I would say you can’t get through to most diehard fans here unless of course you did or say something we would believe…Don’t ask me what but in my opinion if you did proove it somehow there would still be non-believers, get what I’m saying. So don’t say or do anything stupid. lol IF THIS IS Joe truely I would think he had better things to do than post online with fans…for instance drive that nice 1970 barracuda?


Re: Don’t believe everything you read on the Internet! [Re: Daredevilgurl05]

Daredevilgurl05 said:

“YEAH!, don’t believe everything you read on the Internet…..like right now. Dude, why are you trying to act like joe. Man! you are messed up in the head. seriously.”


Dear Daredevilgurl05,

Thank you.

I think you’ve provided excellent proof that I am in fact, me (Joe Rogan). You’re absolutely right -someone would have to be really messed up in the head to take the time to register at this board and respond to all these posts PRETENDING to be someone else!

That’s just creepy. You’d think someone like that would wanna stalk somebody really famous like, Carlos Mencia or even Albert Pike.

Also -look at the title of this thread! I think that says it all. Who would start a thread full of lies on the Internet called, “Don’t believe everything you read on the Internet?!?!

The mind boggles.

Anyway, thanks for proving that I am who I claim to be. All the paranoid people around here were starting to freak me out. I was starting to wonder if there was something wrong with me since all my fans seemed to be so angry and paranoid. Please explain this to the other four Daredevilgurls.

Thanks for clearing that up and thanks for posting on NBC’s Fear Factor Message Boards!



Re: Don’t believe everything you read on the Internet! [Re: cheer4fearfactor]

cheer4fearfactor said:

“hey joe its cheer4fearfactor i have something to ask u when u were on the Chappelle show. what was like doing stunts that CRAZY STUNTS (espicially walking on the HOT COALS) and then looking at THE BIZARRE, GROTESK FEET! Plese reply joe when u have free time. thank u and have a GREAT DAY!”


Dear cheer4fearfactor,

Thank you. That is an excellent question. I will reply when I have free time.

On a related note, did you know that L. Ron Hubbard was not only a gifted science fiction writer -but a talented musician as well?

It’s true!

Way back in 1986, he got together with my good friends, John Travolta, Leif Garrett, Frank Stallone and others and they recorded an album called, The Road to Freedom!

I can tell from your posts here on NBC’s Fear Factor message boards that you and I have a lot in common and I think you should check it out!

You can listen to samples here:


… and you can even buy the record here:




Re: Don’t believe everything you read on the Internet! [Re: JoeRogan]

So, Joe….. If you are Joe…. I have posted below the third paragraph of your statement and if you’ll pay attention to the last sentence of that paragraph, you’ll see that you anounced your bi-sexuality. ********* Secondly, I am NOT gay! I don’t know how this rumor got started… I think this piece of dis-information started floating around the net, right about the same time that pic of me fellating Doug Stanhope surfaced. I think anyone who’s seen that pic though, can tell you that it’s obviously staged. Doug wasn’t even hard and my lips barely even touched his penis. It was a joke. We do that bit all the time. Get over it, people. Unlike some of you -I am confident and secure in my bi-sexuality.******** I do hope that you were just being funny, as I do plan to marry you one day, and I don’t have any intentions of sharing you with any men.


Re: Don’t believe everything you read on the Internet! [Re: truefffan]

truefffan said:

“OMG! DONT BELIEVE EVERYTHING YOU READ! for sure. Joe Rogan is not posting here. I mean come on, Do you really think he would post using his real name and do you really think he has time to keep posting back to take up for himself? Wake up people, the real Joe Rogan aint dumb (Just Hot).”


I’m sorry trufffan, but you must not be a very truefffan after all. I use my real name at ALL the message boards I post at -and I post at A LOT OF MESSAGE BOARDS! You would know this if you knew anything at all about THE REAL JOE ROGAN! Why would I choose a fake name anyway? What do I have to hide? Maybe you should be asking YOURSELF these questions, trufffan… maybe you should ask YOURSELF what it is that YOU are hiding from? Tell me, truefffan -is fear a factor for you? Huh? Is it?

Also, anybody who knew ANYTHING about THE REAL JOE ROGAN would know that Fear Factor only shoots about 40 episodes per season (they don’t always end up on the air). I work for NBC about 120 days out of the year and then I am free to do whatever I want!

For example, I just finished my new stand-up DVD and it’s in the final stages of editing right now. I would send you a copy, but I guess I can’t do that since I’m not THE REAL Joe Rogan.

You are right about me being hot though… are you a man? I must warn you -I am NOT gay. If you are a man, feel free to send me a pic with your shirt off, like they do at the beginning of Fear Factor and I will send it along to Matt Kunitz (executive producer of Fear Factor).

Who knows? You just might be selected for the next Fear Factor!

Thanks for posting at NBC’s Fear Factor Message Boards!



Re: Don’t believe everything you read on the Internet! [Re: cheer4fearfactor]

cheer4fearfactor said:

“]everybody that was joe i CAN JUST TELL because i JUST CAN and if u HAVE ANY PROBLEM WITH THAT then u CAN KISS MY A**!!!!!!!!!!!!”


When Matt Kunitz (executive producer of Fear Factor) fixes my account, I’m gonna make cheer4fearfactor a Moderator.



Re: Don’t believe everything you read on the Internet! [Re: AeroZepp420]

AeroZepp420 said:

“IF that really is Joe I would say you can’t get through to most diehard fans here unless of course you did or say something we would believe…Don’t ask me what but in my opinion if you did proove it somehow there would still be non-believers, get what I’m saying. So don’t say or do anything stupid. lol IF THIS IS Joe truely I would think he had better things to do than post online with fans…for instance drive that nice 1970 barracuda? “


Dude, you are right. No matter what I do or say -there will always be non-believers around here. So from now on, I will try not to respond to posts from people insisting that I am not me!

If you’ll notice, I’ve kept all of my posts to this thread. All I really wanted to do was clear up a few misconceptions about me here. I didn’t really intend for it to turn into this big fiasco.

I am trying to answer all of your questions. I really appreciate your feedback, but I don’t think I can really go over this whole forum and it’s getting boring just trying to defend my good name all the time.

… and to answer your last question -unfortunately, I don’t get to drive The Sick Fish all that often. Like I said before, NBC only shells out about 600 bucks a pop for this Fear Factor gig, so I had to finance the Cuda through some Italian friends of mine… long story short, the Red Sox won the World Series and I moved in with my mom for awhile. For now, I’ve sorta loaned the Cuda out to my Italian friends and last I heard, they are using it to run medical supplies between LA and Mexico. At least I feel a little better knowing The Sick Fish is being used for humanitarian purposes.



Re: Don’t believe everything you read on the Internet! [Re: JoeRogan]

One more quick question for Joe…. I’m not asking you this because I’m some 13 year old girl who whatches you on every episode and creams in her sleep every night (exuse the crude visual.) I am asking this because I am a 22 year old who does all of the above. (well, not every episode, I have a life.) Are you married? If not, I just need about an hour of your time.


Re: Don’t believe everything you read on the Internet! [Re: mariacola]

mariacola said:

“One more quick question for Joe…. I’m not asking you this because I’m some 13 year old girl who whatches you on every episode and creams in her sleep every night (exuse the crude visual.) I am asking this because I am a 22 year old who does all of the above. (well, not every episode, I have a life.) Are you married? If not, I just need about an hour of your time.”


Dear mariacola,

You had me at 13 year old… then you sorta lost me at “girl” -but things picked up again right around “creams” and then I got distracted by something… but anyway, I’m probably over analyzing this.

To answer your question, NO -I am NOT married (I am also NOT gay). I read the posts from that Sicillian Monocle guy in that other thread and I think maybe he is on drugs or something.

… as for the “hour of my time” thing, you can always forward… uhm… “racy” pics of yourself to Matt Kunitz (executive producer of Fear Factor) at:


He will make sure they get to me.

In the meantime -have you heard of “tantra”? It’s something I learned in the OTO (http://oto-usa.org/), shortly before I became a Scientologist. It’s an ancient practice that allows one to copulate for many hours at a time. More info can be found here:


So you see, one hour might be totally inadequate. Also, if we ever do copulate (it’s possible) -is it okay if I call you Uncle Ted? It’s important.



Re: Don’t believe everything you read on the Internet! [Re: JoeRogan]

hey joe when u said “When Matt Kunitz (executive producer of Fear Factor) fixes my account, I’m gonna make cheer4fearfactor a Moderator.” i feel little nervous asking u this but what do u mean make me a moderator? and let me say this 2 thank u so much for sparing UR OWN FREE TIME being on this messege board and it is a great pleasure having u being ABLE TO TALK TO ALL OF US THANK U AND HAVE A GREAT DAY!!!!


Re:Wanna F**K, Joe?? [Re: JoeRogan]

I have some pictures posted here on the web being that I am an adult entertainer, so I will most definitely send the link to you via your site. And Joe, you can call me anything you wish, but I would prefer you don’t talk at all. If I got my way, both our mouthes would be full anyway. Sweet Dreams


Reon’t believe everything you read on the Internet! [Re: mariacola]

sorry for asking this kind of question joe


Re: Don’t believe everything you read on the Internet! [Re: cheer4fearfactor]

I definitely echo that, it was a great pleasure talking to you Joe)) You rock bro. Definitely best wishes in the future and hope fear factor is back better than ever.)))

Fear Factor totally rocks and I’m glad you’re the host of it, you’re certainly the best. You mentioned earlier how there were two other candidates who could have hosted Fear Factor. Well I’m totally glad you’re hosting bro)))

Rock on Joe!!!!



Re: Don’t believe everything you read on the Internet! [Re: FearManJimbo]

hey jim can i ask u a question?


Re: Don’t believe everything you read on the Internet! [Re: cheer4fearfactor]



Re: Don’t believe everything you read on the Internet! [Re: FearManJimbo]

nmjc here but joe posted “When Matt Kunitz (executive producer of Fear Factor) fixes my account, I’m gonna make cheer4fearfactor a Moderator.” what does he mean he’ll make me a Moderator


Re: Don’t believe everything you read on the Internet! [Re: cheer4fearfactor]

That’s a good question. I don’t know if it’s moderator of this board or some other board. But it sounds like you set the tone straight and I think you make it happen.

Hey cheer4fearfactor, I never asked before but do you want my email address?



… well anyway -there was more… including the part where I finally made cheer4fearfactor a moderator and suggested she post her phone number in case of a Message Board Related Emergency (MBRE) or accidental death, but I came in under a proxy only to discover NBC had banned my IP after deleting the whole thread.


This is the message I received from that point on whenever I tried to visit the site: