Randy Returns

I was hopping up and down to the sounds of 80s pop phenom Human League when there was a pound on the door.

“Open up! It’s LAPD!”

It was Randy. I wasn’t fooled.

“What can I do for you Randy?” I asked.

“Can you believe they let me out on bail?! I mean, seven vehicular manslaughter charges!! That’s crazy!” Randy said.

He was flanked by his two female henchmen, Anthrax and Honda. As Randy hoot and hollered, the ladies just stood there, arms crossed.

“So Jimmy, wanna do some drugs? I gotta speedball here,” he asked.

“Gee, I don’t know Randy. Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Not at all! Everyone’s doing it.”

He didn’t have to tell me twice.

Eventually I found myself in a daze sitting in the backseat of Randy’s Pontiac between Anthrax and Honda. Randy was driving like a maniac down the streets of West Hollywood when he looked to the backseat. “You see! I told you everything will be alright!” he said.

I didn’t think anything was suspicious.

Finally Anthrax and Honda carried me out of the car and into the back of an abandoned warehouse. I recognized the place. I survived a stabbing there a month earlier. They laid me down in a tub of ice and an overweight German doctor wearing a lab coat and nipple piercings tried to load me up with barbiturates.

However the joke was on them. I was always loaded up on barbiturates.

But then it occurred to me.

“Fuck, they’re gonna harvest my organs.” I thought.

Now, like most people, I’ve had to talk my way out of an organ harvesting attempt before. But this one was different.

It was going to take some skill.

“You know, there’s other ways of making a quick buck,” I said to Anthrax. “You can humiliate yourself in front of complete strangers on the internet like I do.”

But she stood there motionless. So I tried a different tactic: the art of seduction.

“It’s a shame I’m about to die. I wish we’ve gotten to know one another more. But, I guess I should count myself lucky. At least the last thing I’ll ever see is your beautiful face,” I said.

Finally Anthrax uncrossed her arms and adjusted her posture. Clearly she was responding to what I was saying.

“I have a confession to make. That time when you and Randy cornered me behind Dick’s Sporting Goods, pulled down my pants and shoved golf balls up my ass, I thought: ‘I could spend the rest of my life with this woman.’ Well it appears I’ll get that chance,” I told her.

Finally she removed her black Gargoyle sunglasses so I could see her eyes.

“I believe it’s customary to grant a dying man his last request,” I said.

“What’s that?” Anthrax replied. “A kiss? How lame.”

“No. I just want to cop a feel.”

She stood there and thought for a second. Finally she moved in closer, removed the handcuffs from my left wrist and placed my hand down her low cut tank. I then grasped as hard as I could on to her tit.

“Ow my titty!” Anthrax screamed.

I then leapt out of the bathtub and kicked Honda in the coot as she moved in closer. I grabbed her nickel plated .45 and pistol whipped Anthrax unconscious. With both henchwomen neutralized, I moved over to the doctor.

“Nein nein nein!” the man screamed. “Ich spreche kein Englisch. Ich weiß nicht wo ich bin!”

“I don’t want to hear that shit!” I yelled while he stared down my .45. “Where’s Randy?!”

I took the doctor by gunpoint into Randy’s lair. There were computer monitors everywhere with live feeds from CCTV cameras all over the world. Mostly in women’s bathrooms.

There were also scientists everywhere and a shit ton of beakers.

“Well well well,” Randy said menacingly. “It appears that you foiled my plan.”

“This ends now, Randy.”

“No, you can’t stop me. The LAPD can’t stop me. INTERPOL can’t stop me. Not even unadulterated black tar heroin can stop me! You will never catch me Jimmy, so help me GOD!”

At that moment, men in black shirts began pouring out of every dark corner, firing their AK-47s indiscriminately at me. I used the doctor as a shield while I fired back.

In the mayhem, Randy disappeared while a timer began a countdown to 0 before 200 tons of dynamite exploded. As the clock ticked down, I jumped through the glass window, falling 14 stories into a dumpster while the warehouse exploded into a magnificent fireball, lighting up the Los Angeles skyline.

When the police and fire department arrived, I chastised the New York police officer with the LAPD for releasing Randy on bail.

“We didn’t let Randy out on bail. Dat man is dangerous! He escaped weeks ago!” the officer said while shoveling a hot dog into his mouth.

Then a junior officer came running out of the wreckage, claiming they didn’t find the bodies of Randy or anyone else.

“Say, are you sure that you were kidnapped and held against your will and did not just blow up 16 square blocks of West Hollywood because you were high on methamphetamine?” the New York officer asked.

I knew it.

Randy escaped.

We faced off once. But I knew that he’d come back for vengeance.

Dale’s gonna be okay

So Dale took me hostage at gunpoint in the breakroom. The boss walked in and saw me in a chokehold with a Smith & Wesson to my head and called the police. The cops subsequently called in a hostage negotiator.

I was in no mood to put up with this shit.

“Just shoot me already, Dale. Let’s get this over with,” I said.

The cops had the building surrounded with their weapons drawn and ready to shoot. The negotiator came out over his loud speaker:

“Dale, my name is Philip, we’re all here to help you. Tell us, what can we do for you?”

“Listen you mother fuckers!,” Dale said. “I just want to talk to my wife and kids again, a little respect, and a plane ticket to Columbia!”

“Okay okay. We can get you the plane ticket, but we need you to drop your weapon,” the negotiator replied.

“No! If I don’t get what I want I will blow this dipshit’s brains out! Tell him, James!” Dale declared.

“He will!” I said. “But don’t worry about it. I’m ready to die.”

Then a sniper round went through Dale’s leg, severing a major artery, and spraying blood everywhere. Dale screamed in agonizing pain, begging for death.

I was okay

But facing my own mortality made me ask some difficult questions: should I pay my mother’s nursing home expenses or should I pay my gambling debts?

I visited Dale in the hospital and he appeared to be in better spirits.

“Great news Jim,” he said. “It appears my violent tendencies lately have been due to a bad interaction with my medications! So now I’m on Xanax!”

“Oh that’s good to hear! What about your wife and kids?” I asked.

“Oh don’t worry about that. I’m sure my wife will lift that restraining order eventually.”

“What about your assault charges?,” I asked.

“Welp, I took a plea deal so now it’s 14,000 hours of community service and I have to register as a sex offender. But no jail time 😎”

So I decided to not press charges against Dale for threatening my life and putting others in danger.

After all, everyone has bad days.

Dennis Hopper: GOAT

Phil Spector, Carrie Fisher, Stevie Nicks, and the greatest of all, Dennis Hopper, are all on the Mount Rushmore of cocaine addicts.

In case you forgot, Mr. Hopper was the star in over 104,000 films

Dennis Hopper brought an intensity to his craft that has yet to be matched. In addition to his acting, his talents also extended behind the camera as director of such unforgettable classics like The Last Movie, Colors, Out of the Blue, and Chasers (starring a peak form Tom Berenger).

The 1969 film, Easy Rider, Hopper’s directorial debut, kickstarted the “auteur” fad in Hollywood that extended throughout the 1970’s (which ended in 1983 when, again, three people were killed. And again, RIP). Sadly, the 70s saw Dennis Hopper’s acting career more or less flatline, which was likely due to his aforementioned cocaine addiction (which is unfortunate. The decline of his acting career that is. Not his crippling cocaine addiction).

However, there was a Dennis Hopper renaissance in the 1980s, with the height of his success coming in 1986 as the sadistic Frank Booth in Blue Velvet and the alcoholic Shooter in Hoosiers.

Hopper rode this newfound fame on into the 90s and 2000s, saying ‘yes’ to any script that was handed to him. Who can forget the time he fought Keanu Reeves on top of a train in Speed? Or taught Kevin Costner how to act in a bad movie for Waterworld? Or gave the greatest racist monologue in the history of film (written by Quentin Tarantino) in True Romance?

Dennis Hopper passed away in 2010.

No matter the script (remember, he was in Super Mario Bros.), no matter the personal dramas in his life, Dennis Hopper always gave it his all.

He was an actor’s actor.

He was the GOAT.

I’m not a perfect person

So I was dropping acid at a Hoobastank concert when I got punched in the face.

“What the hell man!” I yelled.

“Oh, sorry sir, I thought you were my wife.”

Unfortunately it was at that moment when the acid kicked in. By the time band played “Naked Jock Man”, I was on an intergalactic journey with Carl Sagan.

I woke up in the ICU and the lady doctor told me that I had a “concussion and picked up an STD.” After I was discharged, I went up to the doctor and asked:

“Hey, wanna get a drink?”

“I don’t date patients,” she replied.

“Who said that this was a date? It’s just two people getting together over drinks.“

“Sir, you have hepatitis A, B, and C. You’re on the verge of both kidney and liver failure. You obviously have a massive pill addiction. AND you have crippling diabetes. If you don’t change your lifestyle right now, you will be dead in four years,” she told me.

What a fucking bitch.

Could’ve just said “no”.

Dr. Phil McGraw and Judge Judith Sheindlin

I miss the 80s.

There was this time when I got kidnapped by Marxist insurgents while on a drug run in Columbia. I was starved and sleep deprived for 72 hours, then afterwards came the long and torturous process of Soviet brainwashing. Those were the days!

Despite years of physical and mental therapy to overcome this horrific experience, I almost completely forgot about it until I started watching Dr. Phil and Judge Judy! After I finished convulsing, I suddenly remembered what those crazy commies taught me: the ruling class tries to control the proletariat through the means of “mental production”.

So I started thinking, “who the hell watches this shit?”

It turns out the answer is “a lot of fucking people.”

If the world is anything like me, which I presume it is, then we do a lot of self-loathing. We wake up each day, counting down the days to our inevitable deaths, when our bodies will rot and return to the earth, and we will be quickly forgotten…like we never existed at all.

So what do we do with the time in between? We waste it by interacting with meaningless products and services. One of these services is daytime network TV which feature the long running shows of Dr. Phil and Judge Judy.

Are they a real doctor and Judge? I dunno. They might’ve been one at one time, but they failed their way upwards into getting their own show.

It’s a pretty good gig if you can get it.

But because neither of them are current practitioners of medicine or law, their opinions are practically useless. However networks don’t really care if you were ever a “good” “doctor” or “lawyer”, they just want to know if you can mock and laugh at poor people and their problems. And Phil and Judy are pretty good at their jobs.

Occasionally we watch the guests on these shows and think “at least my life is not as bad as theirs.” But it is. It’s worse, actually. And we’re sadomasochists for watching. Not only are we sick for watching these people get embarrassed on national TV, but we’re disgusting because we secretly want to be chastised by two rich people for being stupid and poor.

That’s the entire purpose of these shows: so that the TV execs and the ruling elite can remind you that they are better than you and you should know your place.

THE END 😘