Encounters with worthless people: The WeeMan Story.

Take a couple seconds and try to think of the most worthless person on television.

Odds are you landed on this guy.

WeeMan. The comedic midget relief in mtv’s really stupid show, Jackass. He himself is not funny. He’s never had any funny lines. All he ever says is, “ohhhhh duudddee.” He just does things that are funny because they’re being done by a really small and funny looking human. Isn’t that the definition of a midget? A really small and funny looking human. The fact we all have to force down is that WeeMan is famous and we’re not. Which sucks.

But at the core, he’s still just a really small and funny looking human.

So one night I had an encounter with little WeeMan. It didn’t go very well. That could be because when called upon, WeeMan couldn’t convince me that he’s the ‘crazy motherfucker’ that we all think he is. It could also be because this encounter went down on the night of my 21st birthday.

So my friends and I are having a nice dinner to celebrate my 21st birthday. It’s early, but it’s my 21st. At a certain point, we all hear some chatter and see some heads turn toward a table near the back of the patio. It’s little WeeMan and his conglomerate. And by conglomerate I mean four huge tattoo covered idiots wearing sunglasses. If we wanna talk hierarchy of losers, those guys are fucked. WeeMan’s conglomerate. I wonder if he gets drunk and bosses them around. Tells them to do weird shit.

I approach the table. It’s my 21st birthday.

In my hands I have two shots. One for me-the birthday boy, and the other for WeeMan-the ‘crazy mother fucker’ who drinks horse skeet on mTV for a living.

“Hey WeeMan, hows it goin. It’s my 21st birthday today, and I was wondering if you’d take a shot with me.”

Perfectly reasonable proposal if you ask me. I thought he’d jump on it, maybe turn it into some crazy game where the loser gets tazed or some shit. I was drunk enough to be with that. I was excited. I extend my arm. The shot inches from his face.

Then he hits me with this.

WeeMan: “Ohhhhhh duuude. OHHHHH DUUUUUUUDE. What is it dude?” He’s got his fist all in his mouth and shit. Lookin at the shot, then to his bros, then back to the shot. Like I just dropped a briefcase full of money on the table.

me: “It’s well vodka.”

WeeMan sucks his teeth. I’m baffled. I can’t believe this. I just drunkenly asked a member of the Jackass crew if he’d take a shot with me, and his response was..what is it dude? I was crushed.

WeeMan: “Ahh man, I don’t think so dude.”

Long story short, WeeMan agrees to cheers me, gives me a ‘happy bday’, and tosses the shot in his buddy’s screwdriver. What a fucking waste. I should have just said okay, and taken both of them. That would have been boss. It would have been even more boss if i took both shots, pulled out a bic while I held the booze in my mouth and straight torched the little fucker. But I didn’t do that. I took my shot and returned to my table of friends, who were just as embarrassed as I was.

nah dude. I'm chill.

Was that question out of line? Should I not have done that? I thought he’d just be like ‘fuck yeah man happy bday next round’s on me’. I mean, the guy is in Jackass. Asking a member of that crew to take a shot with you is like asking the pope to pray with you. Like asking Martha Stuart It’s what they do. Or at least I thought.

But I didn’t let it ruin my night. Ohhh no I did not. I went on to have a fabulous night. Yes, I got unacceptably drunk and yes I vomited all over the place. And yes, I ran into WeeMan again. He’s on stage at some shit-stain bar dancing with some hooker-looking girls and I’m in the back of the room sucking an AMF to the ice, calling him names. Little WeeMan up there dancing. Like seriously dancing. It was great.

I don’t have a problem with midgets. or dwarves. or little people. Whatever they’re called. I won’t tell you they aren’t weird and a little bit uncomfortable..because they are both of those things. But I don’t have a problem with them. I have a problem with WeeMan, the image he reps so hard, and the fact that he wouldn’t take one shot with a jubilant/drunk kid on his 21st birthday.

People don’t forget

 

Hey Travis Rice: Get the f*#% out!

tell me how my d*%$ taste!

Yeah I said it. Travis Rice. The mad scientist/Red Bull poster-boy behind smash hit snowboarding films, That’s it That’s All and The Art of Flight. He is absolutely killing it. In both senses of the word actually. But I’m talking about the ‘fucking it all up’ sense of the word. As in….get ready…snowboarding would be better off without his influence. Yes I know. It’s an extremely intense thing to say, seeing as Rice has all but named the sport after himself. I’ll give the guy his props. Check him out real quick.

Don’t get me wrong, the dude can shred. He’s an unbelievably talented snowboarder. Some would say the best. I wouldn’t argue. They’re probably right. But that point doesn’t have a place in this conversation, so lets just fucking forget about how awesome he is for a second.

The main point of this rant involves snowboarding films/his enormous involvement in them. Because like other sports of this nature, they’re a huge fucking deal. They control so much. They control how most people view snowboarding. They show us what ‘progressive’ is. They show us what ‘cool’ is. They show us what ‘crazy fucking stylie’ is. I put all of those idiotic terms in quotes because it’s really up to the films to decide what they mean. Totally subjective. If as a kid, I would have watched my favorite snowboarders taking park laps in scottish kelts, the local store would have had them on racks, and I would have fucking bought one. Probably for wayyyy too much money. Why? Because I wanted to go out and do that shit. I wanted to be that cool. I wanted to be like those guys, hang out with those guys, party with those guys.

And it was great. Me and my shithead friends like,

“I’d hit that.”

“I could prolly do that.”

“I’d go off that, but no way would I try anything.”

“Dude, honestly, I bet I could do that.”

“Fuck that man, I’d die.”

It was great because it was all loosely based in reality. I remember when there was a fleet of filmmakers that competed every year for the best movie, best soundtrack, best individual part, etc, etc. And each company took a different route/image on their way to what they believed was the perfect snowboarding movie. You had the heavy metal vids, the hip-hop vids, and the classic rock vids. Robot Food used to be the SHIT man. Their movies were WHITE HEAT. If you didn’t like Robot Food movies, then you didn’t know your shit.

You should see where this is going. It’s all completely changed. It’s all completely out of reach now. Travis Rice and his fleet of helicopters have blown everyone else out of the water. I hate to say it, because I hate people who bitch about it, but it all boils down to one thing. money. cheddar. chips. clams. dead fucking prezdants.

Travis Rice: “Hello Mr. Person-with-tons-of-money-that-might-listen-to-me-even-though-I’m-a-pissbrain-snowboarder. I have an idea.”

Mr. Person: “Are you stoned again.”

TR: “No. But I have an idea. Give me 8 billion dollars and I’ll make the most visually stunning snowboarding film that anyone has ever seen. We’ll do the whole thing in HD. It will be a huge success. We’ll get Red Bull, Burton, and all those big dicks on-board. We will monopolize the snowboarding film industry. I will be the new face of this revolution. They will embrace me as their leader and as their god.”

Mr. Person: “Hmmmm. Interesting proposal. Why don’t you come over here and massage my taint while I think about it.”

TR: “Goddamnit.”

So Rice gets his funding, and Red Bull deals out like 15 dope-ass choppers equipped with everything you can fucking imagine, which helps.  And it all works, just like he said it would. Everyone thinks it’s cool, so everyone buys the movie. Everyone goes bonkers for this shit. Everyone gets baked off their asses like, “woahhhhhhhhhhhh”. It’s all in flawless HD and dubbed with the most current electro bangers. And of course it features the best riders, rocking the freshest shit, killing the best lines. The best everything. Because who wouldn’t want to be a part of this revolution?

And too fucking bad for the old companies with their regular vans and regular cameras- they get drown out by the newschool dipshits who love super-slow motion and Deadmau5.

Soon enough, no one even cares about anything but next years’ “Travis Rice Movie”. It’s all completely out of reach. There’s no more anticipation. We know what’s coming every year. It’s gonna be a newer and better version of what already is. No more creativity in this industry. Just T Rice and his Ed Hardy-rocking homies lapping MONSTER kickers, doing doubles and triples, while we all get stoned and listen to Nero. It’s like watching Planet Earth or some shit. No more, “I could prolly do that”. Of course you couldn’t do that. That’s a switch back 12 in the middle of Chile. No human being has ever been there before.

You’re never going to be able to go there and do that.

And that, my friends, sucks a big one. Because who would you rather hang out with.

this guy, whose name I assume is Johnny McDoucherson.

or these fuckers

Funniest thing ever: little wayne trying to skate

So we’ve all witnessed the epic deterioration of Lil Wayne’s career/image/abilities/everything over the past year or so.

what in the hell happened

Every since he got out of prison, the guy’s been an enormous vagina. Makes me think he was everyone’s favorite vagina in prison. He had to be. He’s all little and shit.

What the fuck happened in there Wayne? How did we go from this

to this

I think that the old Wayne would kill the current Wayne. Something changed. But that’s honestly okay with me, because everything he does now is just really really funny.

None of you sons of bitches try to be heroes.

So it looks like the Burmese Python has officially taken over the Florida Everglades.

Those sons of bitches.

The invasive species has spread through the Florida swamps like….like a bunch of snakes.  Let’s play out how that happened.

Weird Mom buys Weird Son a python for his 13th birthday.

Weird Son and snake become best friends. Except Weird Son doesn’t realize that snakes don’t really have happy thoughts, and that his best friend the snake would eat him if given the chance. This is because snakes are demonic creatures. For it is written.

Middle school. Interesting time for our young hero. He makes several trips to the principle’s office for drawing pictures of his snake eating his ‘enemies’. I put enemies in quotes because that’s what he calls them. And by enemies he mean his classmates. These pictures are of a graphic and disturbing nature. The principle tries to explain to Weird Son’s mother that this sort of behavior is not okay. But she’s high all the time and doesn’t really care about anything.

Weird Son takes snake to community college where he scares the shit out of his poor roommate by feeding his snake those little pink baby mice 3-5 times a day. God it would suck to be one of those. Don’t even have your eyes open yet and some weird kid with a lip ring is dangling you in front of his pet snake. Probably drinking a 4loko and blasting System of a Down. Tucking his black hair behind his ears and licking his lips. (shudder) But pythons don’t strike, they constrict. This means the killings are extremely boring, and they don’t get him laid.

Thanks a lot, snake.

Weird son realizes at a certain point, that having a massive snake as a best friend is not only extremely uncool and blocking his balls, it’s a huge inconvenience. Almost as inconvenient as his collection of samurai swords. So the question becomes, what is Weird Son going to do with his full-grown Burmese Python? Kill it? Take it out back and chop its fucking head off? No way. You don’t do that to your best friend. I repeat, you don’t do that to your best friend.

Weird Son has a revelation. He gets on his AlienWare desktop and finds out that the Burmese Python’s native climate is almost identical to the one found in his very own backyard. His parent’s backyard. How terribly convenient.

The Florida Everglades.

He immediately releases his pet. Doesn’t really think about what he’s doing, he just does it. It feels right. Weird mom doesn’t have a say in it. The kid is in his twenties. Makes his own fucking decisions. It’s either kill the damn thing or let it go. It slithers into the marsh and immediately begins eating everything it sees. Including the neighborhood dogs, cats, and small children. Weird Son lives a long and glorious life enjoying things that no one really understands.

Here’s the problem.

There’s ten other kids just like Weird Son in the neighborhood, and they all do the exact same thing. Because lets face it, after a certain age, having a snake is pretty much unacceptable. In most states, Daddy just hacks it in two, tells his kids that it ‘got away’, and a week later has a fancy new steering wheel cover. But not here. Not in Flo’da. Everyone lets them go, thinking that they’ll ‘do just fine out there’.

They do much more than ‘just fine’. They take over. They eat everything. If it’s small and furry, it dies. A recent report said that small mammal populations have been reduced by up to 99%. That is a devastating percentage. That means if you’re a raccoon, and you live in Everglades National Forest, you’re going to die soon. You’re going to be eaten by an enormous snake. Top 10 worst ways to die for sure.

So what does this mean to someone who doesn’t live in or around the everglades? Probably nothing.  But the story got me thinking, what the hell is the real solution? I’m sure there are a bunch of ponytail-rocking fruitcakes who think they know the answer. But they don’t.They don’t know the answer. They don’t know shit.

“Right now, the only hope to halt further python invasion into new areas is swift, decisive, and deliberate human action,” says U.S. Geological Survey Director, Marci McNutt.

Swift, decisive, and deliberate human action.

In case you still don’t understand, the Director means it’s time to start hunting these goddamn things. That’s right. Hunting Burmese Pythons. Sounds like an awesome gig. I’m thinking that after a certain point– when the ponytail-rocking fruit cakes are shrugging their shoulders like, “We just can’t control them. There’s just too many.”–Florida officials will have no choice but to place a bounty on the heads of these goat-swallowing demons. At that point, the mission is funneled toward a new group of people. The conservationists and environmentalists are replaced by Larry the Cable Guy, and underwater dynamite.

And the mullet-men tell the pony-tails to pack their things saying, “And none of you sons of bitches try to be heroes.”

Looks like it’s time I make my move. I’ve always told myself that at one point in my life, I’ll live in the deep south. God is telling me something. We can’t ignore these queues people. Who’s with me?  We shall measure our success by the number of skins we spread across our damp and moldy walls.