Thursday, December 31, 2009

Suck It, 2009

You made 2008, heretofore the dickiest year on record, look like a walk in the fucking park. Don't let the door fuck you in the ass on your way out, asshole year.

Tuesday, December 29, 2009

Johnny's Top 50 Porn Titles Of 2009

Note From The Editor, i.e., Johnny: These are actual titles of actual videos. I swear to God, i.e., Johnny, they have not been altered in any way whatsoever. Doing so would not only be insensitive to the filmmakers; it would also impinge upon the integrity of this list. One additional note: The honorees were chosen for their titles, not their content—lest you think Johnny gets off watching middle-aged housewives get fucked by black men and filmed by white husbands. (Which he does.)

So, without further adieu, I give you, in no particular order, the Top 50 Porn Titles of the year. Let the beating off begin...

* * *

Japanese Massage Fuck 6
Carlo Slim Presents Jack Napier's Housewives Gone Black
European Couple Leave Wedding To Fuck
Silver Balls
Another Noisy Wife Gets Fucked and Creampied by a Couple of Black Guys
Throat-Fucked Veronica Lynn Gets A Jizz Face
Carlo Slim Presents Booty Talk 23
Mexican Shower
Please Master, Can I Suck Your Cock?
Hairy Amateur Wife Pumping Her Bush, Part 2: "The Back Door"
My Chinese Friend Is Sucking Her Husband
Those Are Huge Fucking Jugs
A Cornucopia Of Cumshots
Two Irish Girls From Dublin Get Fucked
German Orgy 3
Wife Sucking A Co-Worker
Great MILF Smoking Cigarette BJ
Fucked On A Billiard Table
Prostitute Irina Kurochkina Masturbates Her Shaved Pierced Cunt
Kenzi Marie Tells You How To Jerk Off
Pantyhose Secretary
Melissa Gets Brutalized In A Double Penetrating Threesome
Fatty Mature Mom With A Big Ass Seducing A Stranger
Old German Women Hotel
Amateur Granny With Tranny
Let Me Check Your Wound
Hairy Armpits Woman: MARION BUSH
A La Prison De Femmes
Stunning Arab Girl Fucks A Dildo, Pt. 2
Hairy Mature Strips With Superb Commentary
Girls Try Each Other Because Their Boyfriends Have Small Dicks!!!
Sucking Then Fucking Myself
Cytheria: Pussy Fountain
Germany Panty Handjob Pleasure
Deep Hot Chocolate Shemale Ass
Mrs. B Dildo Hard & Creampie
Mature Office Lady Gets Laid
Beauty Hairy Asian Tiny Tit Japanese Babe Creampie Banged
Shove It In Bing's Tight Ass
Two Chicks Fisting Each Other And Fucked Anal With A Guy
A Foot Of Black Cock...70
Grandma In The Nursing Home
Filming His Swinger Wife With A Black Man
Sex Safari 3
Vanessa Del Rio As Vampire Woman
Furry Hole Just Won't Close
Amber Rayne Psycho Handjob
Indiana Bell: Super MILF
German Pussies Need Tender Lovin' Care...
Tiny Tits Tanner Rides Her Stepdad's Hard Cock And Facial
Granny Valentine

Friday, December 11, 2009

Johnny Breaks His Silence: "Tiger's Cock Tasted Like A Reese's Stick"

Well, as you've no doubt heard by now, Johnny's also been having a torrid affair with Tiger Woods. What started in 2007 as a fling after he saw me dancing in Vegas quickly evolved into a two-year cross-country fuckfest.

But, before you condemn me, before you label me "homewrecker" and judge me from your mighty perch, know this: You haven't had cock until you've had a one-quarter Chinese, one-quarter Thai, one-quarter African American, one-eighth Native American, and one-eighth Dutch cock like Tiger's. And, no, having a fivesome with a Chinese dude, a Thai dude, a Black dude, an American Indian dude and a Dutch dude does not count. Trust me, I won't make that mistake again.

Wednesday, December 9, 2009

Breaking News: Johnny Also Fucked Tiger Woods

I have let my family down and I regret those transgressions with all of my heart. I have not been true to my values and the behavior my family deserves. I am not without faults and I am far short of perfect. I am dealing with my behavior and personal failings behind closed doors with my family. Those feelings should be shared by us alone.

Although I am a well-known person, I have been dismayed to realize the full extent of what tabloid scrutiny really means. For the last week, my family and I have been hounded to expose intimate details of our personal lives.

But no matter how intense curiosity about public figures can be, there is an important and deep principle at stake which is the right to some simple, human measure of privacy. I realize there are some who don't share my view on that. But for me, the virtue of privacy is one that must be protected in matters that are intimate and within one's own family. Personal sins should not require press releases and problems within a family shouldn't have to mean public confessions.

Whatever regrets I have about letting my family down have been shared with and felt by us alone. I have given this a lot of reflection and thought and I believe that there is a point at which I must stick to that principle even though it's difficult.

I will strive to be a better person. For all of those who have supported me over the years, I offer my profound apology.


Friday, December 4, 2009

Bah Fucking Humbug

Well, it's started.

Johnny gets home yesterday after a long day teaching inner-city schoolchildren, and what does he find in his mailbox? In addition to the latest issue of Chocolate Pussies, Johnny found a goddamn Christmas card. I'm still crapping out last week's turkey, for crissake.

The nerve of some people, trying to spread goodwill and cheer! The card's only redeeming quality was the fact it didn't contain one of those photocopied form letters along with it, updating you on the fabulous events of the past year. You know the ones I’m talking about. And if you don't, allow me to enlighten you with an excerpt from Johnny's previously posted non-erotic fiction opus, Tongue & Tail. Enjoy!

* * *

Greetings! Well, this past year has been quite a whirlwind for us. John was recently promoted to Vice President of Midwest Regional Sales—he’s busy but he loves it. I’ve got my hands full with the kids, but I’ve still got time for my projects (Did someone say embroidery!?!). John Jr. scored his first basket last week (like father, like son!) and Lori is excelling in ballet (she looks like a little princess in her outfit!). Somehow, we fit in a trip for the whole family to Florida (Mickey & Minnie for the kids and some much needed R&R for mom and dad!). Life couldn’t be better for us! Merry Christmas!

Just once, I wish someone had the balls to send out a letter detailing how the year really went.

Well, John got fatter. What’d you expect from someone who sits on the couch every night and drinks a sixer of Bud? And, let’s face it, I’m no prom queen either. I spend most of my days ironing and watching Oprah (I couldn’t believe it when she gave every audience member a brand-new Pontiac!). No wonder we haven’t had sex in nearly two years. Not that John can get it up anymore, anyway. (Thanks, Rogaine!) As for the kids, well, to be honest, they’re a real pain-in-the-you-know-what. John Jr.’s one of the slower (“special”) kids in his class and is, hands down, the least popular. He’s always picked last for sports, though he is excelling in ballet. He’s—how shall we say it?—a bit soft. Okay, he’s gay. We all know it. It’s just a matter of time. John Sr. barely says two words to him. As for Lori, well, she’s, hands down, the most popular—with the boys. Okay, she’s a slut. All mid-riff, thong and ass-crack. We’d send her off to private school if John’s drinking habit hadn’t prevented him from getting that promotion. Still, we feel blessed! Merry Christmas!

'Tis the fucking season indeed.

Monday, November 23, 2009

Incident On 33rd Street


Who the fuck is Spanish Johnny?

A question for the ages. Difficult to answer, if not impossible. Though, I gave it a shot last August. I explained the name was based on the lead character in Bruce Springsteen's "Incident On 57th Street," perhaps my favorite song of all time. I also went on to confess that I've spent the past quarter century chasing Bruce all over the goddamn world in a vain attempt to see it performed live. I had accepted the fact that it was not meant to be, that the window to see "Incident" was closed.

Johnny was wrong.

Two weeks ago, at New York's Madison Square Garden, I not only saw Bruce play "Incident On 57th Street," I saw him blow the fucking doors off the building—and blow out that closed window, too.

In your face, God!

And by God, I don't mean Bruce—though he is and always will be my one and only God.

(Note to my three loyal readers: I know you come to Johnny expecting—nay, demanding—filth and fury. Please indulge me this one time. And guess what? Odds are, this post will still end up with its share of offensive and disgusting prose. It's all Johnny knows.)

Since my post last August, I'd seen Bruce live three more times and had given up on seeing "Incident." (This included a show this past May where Bruce was given a handwritten sign from an audience member reading, "INCIDENT," only to decide not to play it, after all. Devastating. It was like having Megan Fox coyly lift up her skirt, spread her long legs wide open, and seeing a miniature Bruce Springsteen inside her beautiful vagina, holding a tiny handwritten sign reading, "INCIDENT," but deciding to play "My Hometown" instead.) Then, this summer, Bruce announced that he'd playing specific albums in their entirety during the remainder of his 2009 Working On A Dream Tour. Unsurprisingly, the albums he'd chosen were Born To Run, Darkness On The Edge Of Town and Born In The U.S.A. Not "Incident's" album, 1973's The Wild, The Innocent & The E Street Shuffle.

No way would he ever play that.

Johnny was wrong. Again.

(Though, chronologically speaking, this 'wrong' took place months before the earlier-mentioned 'wrong,' so the 'again' should really be retroactively applied to that one, right? Fuck, I'm confused. If only Megan Fox's beautiful vagina was here to clear up this mess.)

On November 3, Bruce announced he'd be playing The Wild, The Innocent & The E Street Shuffle in its entirety on Saturday, November 7 at Madison Square Garden.

Holy fucking shit.

That gave me four days to get tickets. To a sold-out show. One that was easily the toughest Springsteen ticket of the past decade.

Holy fucking shit.

Johnny was getting into that show. How Johnny was getting into that show was another story. A minor detail. "Incident," for the first time ever, was guaranteed to be played on November 7 and Johnny would absolutely be there, even if Al Qaeda released a tape to Al Jazeera promising to detonate the Garden smack in the middle of Bruce's guitar solo.

If only Megan Fox's beautiful vagina was here to help me procure tickets.


Not now, sweetie. I've got more important things to worry about.
Okay, maybe one quick bang. Let me just get my coc--oops.
Jeez. What a mess.
Does that count? That counts, right?

Shit. (Thanks for nothing, Little Spanish Johnny.)

Beautiful as it may be, Megan Fox's vagina was no help in getting tickets. So I turned to the next best thing: My former arch-enemy, Mega Superior Gold, aka MSG (how aptly named), aka the villain longtime readers know as Nobes. Johnny and Nobes searched high and low for seats, wheeling and dealing with a rogue's gallery of vermin, aka the lowliest lifeforms on the planet, aka Springsteen ticket scalpers. Picture the creatures from the cantina in Star Wars (NERRRRRRRRRRD!!!), but driving Camaros and wearing Drakkar. These motherfuckers were trying to gouge us left and right. So we turned to a much more reputable source, Craigslist—a great site to find tickets and/or Boston-area women you may be interested in slaying.

We quickly found a great pair for a fair price. But, there was one catch: They were eTickets.

You know, the kind that allow you to print out 50 copies on your printer and sell to as many wide-eyed dumbasses as you like?

Still, they seemed our best—if not, only—option. I insisted on meeting the seller in person. The fact the seller was a Jewish woman made me feel better. (The name was a dead giveaway.) Does that make me anti-Semitic, sexist or just plain naive?

I was incredibly nervous heading over to meet her. And, yes, I honestly believed the homeless man in front of our meeting spot was going to walk up to me and say she couldn't make it so she sent him instead. Then demand that I give him my hard-earned money. Thank God, I was wrong. Again. (Ahem. Oh, for crissake. Who gives a fuck where the 'wrong' or the 'again' should chronologically be? Enough already! It wasn't funny the first time!) Fortunately, she arrived at the same time and seemed perfectly normal and, more importantly, trustworthy. After consummating the deal—to answer your question, Yes, we fucked—I walked away feeling 99% confident the tickets were legit. But, fuck, I could not shake that last 1% of doubt. For all I knew, she was just the pretty face of some sleazy Israeli or Eastern European crime syndicate taking advantage of desperate Bruce fans up and down the East Coast.

The only way I was going to find out the truth about the tickets was by handing them to the ticket taker on November 7.

How I got through the remainder of the week, I'll never know. Let's just say, no one should ever drink that much Orange Julius. When the night of the show finally arrived, I had butterflies the size of pigeons in my stomach. Nobes and I approached Madison Square Garden, tickets in our hands, hearts in our throats.

Nervous as schoolgirls, we headed for the entrance gate. Were we holding hands? Hard to remember. And impossible to prove. After waiting in an impossibly long line, the moment of truth arrived. I avoided the usher's eyes and handed over my sweat-drenched ticket, which may have looked like a plain 8.5 x 11 sheet of paper, but was the golden ticket to me. Provided it worked. The usher held his scanning gun over the ticket's bar code for what seemed an interminable amount of time.

Fucking Eastern Europeans. They fucked us, I thought.

I will find them and cut out their spleens. No, better yet, I will discover what artist they long to see—Yanni? The Jonas Brothers? The Yanni Brothers?—then create counterfeit tickets to sell to them at a ridiculously high premium. Then I will cut out their spleens.


No red flags, no nothing. Just one short, beautiful beep. I walked through the gate and was inside Madison Square Garden.


I felt as happy as if I'd just double-teamed the Doublemint twins while eating a bowl of chocolate peanut butter Haagen Dazs—not even caring that the Doublemint twins were now 73-years old.

The Garden didn't carry chocolate peanut butter Haagen Dazs, so I settled for a hot dog, pretzel and, oh, about half-a-dozen beers. Before I knew it, the lights went down. "Good evening, New York City!"

Whoever told you Nobes and I were still holding hands was lying.

As Bruce—holding his trusty Fender and looking cool as all fuck—opens with the rarest of rarities, "Thundercrack," I know this will be a night for the ages.

The first hour of the show goes by in a blur. Then I hear the opening piano notes of "Incident," ten songs in, and I feel like my heart is going to burst. Were their tears flowing down my face? Please. I'm not some sort of pussy. Okay, maybe I am, because fuck if I wasn't overcome with emotion. And to those who think that sounds a little ridiculous, I say this: You should be so lucky. Seriously. To have something that meaningful in your life is a blessing. (Granted, for the prior 25 dry years, I felt it was a curse.)

Ten minutes and thirty-one seconds later, culminating in a truly stunning guitar solo, it's over. As the band segues seamlessly into "Rosalita" (just like on the original album), I find myself jumping up and down, screaming—as much to Rosy's opening riff as to the fact that this self-imposed anchor has been lifted off my shoulders. To this day, the moment still feels surreal, like I watched myself watching it. After waiting so long for something you want so badly, odds are, it won't live up to the hype. This did, and then some. Johnny's white whale had been slain on a night that would never be topped.

That is, until the next night.

When I returned to the Garden and saw Bruce perform "The River" in its entirety, blowing the fucking roof sky high and my mind right along with it.

Thank you, God, i.e., Bruce.

* * *

"Incident On 57th Street," 11/7/09, MSG (partial clip):

"Incident On 57th Street," 11/7/09, MSG (entire song, but lesser quality video):



Thursday, November 19, 2009

Thursday, October 29, 2009

The Seven Cats Of Hell

The following is based on a true story.

Fuck that.

This was a true story. And it will haunt you till the day you die, Johnnyheads—even more so than last year’s yarn.

The tale begins with something that inspires terror in even the toughest of souls: Doggy diarrhea. More specifically, Chocolate Labrador diarrhea.

A brief history of Labradorrhea. Labs—particularly Spanish Doggy—love to eat shit they shouldn’t eat. And I mean that quite literally: Their own shit, other dogs’ shit, deer shit, bird shit. Any and every type of shit out there. Basically, you shit it out, Spanish Doggy will eat it. As if that's not charming enough, he also loves to eat the dead carcasses of the animals that provide said shit. Over the years, he’s eaten everything from dead birds and rotting rabbits to flattened squirrels and—I swear to God—a decomposing manta ray.

Spanish Doggy ain’t the brightest dog on the block.

Needless to say, these things wreak havoc on his digestive system—and consequently, our rugs. (Surprisingly, when canines consume festering flesh and organs, they have trouble controlling their bowels.) Though our apartment consists mostly of hardwood floors, Spanish Doggy—God bless him—will only expel his leavings on the Oriental rug in the living room. Same spot, every goddamn time. Like anyone who’s ever banged an Olsen twin, the rug—no matter how much scrubbing—will never be clean again.

So there’s the back story. Time for the scary story…

A couple weeks ago, I’m sound asleep in my bed, dreaming of flying above the Colorado sky in a shiny homemade helium balloon craft made by my wacky scientist father, when I’m awakened by heavy panting and reeking hot breath on my face. No, my arch nemesis, Nobes, wasn’t lying beside me. Not this night, anyway. It was Spanish Doggy, standing by the side of the bed, tongue out, panting heavily in my face. It was 3:44am. He was clearly trying to tell me something.

“What is it, boy? Is there a fire at the old Miller place?”

No reaction.

“Is someone trapped in a mineshaft, boy?”


“Did you eat something unholy and are on the brink of a diarrhea explosion?”


I jumped out of bed, leashed him up and headed for the elevator.

He tried to squat in the downstairs lobby, but I held him off. We headed outside and ran across the street to Riverside Park, Spanish Doggy sprinting like a greyhound at the dog track.


Spanish Doggy’s relief was splattering all over the sidewalk.

Once fully expunged, I was immediately struck by how quiet it was. Eerily so. I looked around: Not another human being in sight. Sure, it was the middle of the night, but it was still the middle of New York City. It was unsettling to hear no noises whatsoever.

Still, we decided to walk a bit. Air out Spanish Doggy’s ass before heading back inside. And then we saw it. A sight that still gives me chills.

Sitting on the stone fence overlooking the park were seven cats—six black ones and a white one smack in the middle of them.

They were each sitting like hens on an egg, wide awake, staring at us. The site of a 90-pound chocolate lab did nothing to them. They didn’t flinch. Didn’t react one bit. It was as if they were saying, “You pussies don’t frighten us.” Pretty insulting coming from, well, pussies.

Even Spanish Doggy was taken aback by the scenario, initially cocking his head to the side in classic doggy fashion: “WTF?” Followed quickly by forceful pulling in the opposite direction, as if to say, Get Me The Fuck Out Of Here. The cats, unmoved, continued to stare. Were they communicating with Spanish Doggy? Threatening him telepathically? God, cats are such assholes.

Part of the reason we became so unhinged is that while we were well aware of a solitary black cat living in the park, we’d never seen more than one, so we just assumed he or she lived alone. (What does a lonely, single cat in the city live with for companionship? A smaller pet cat? A rat?) Little did I know there were six of them, plus the even more mysterious white one—each probably showing up at a designated time to take over the prior one’s shift. Surreptitiously replacing one another, like the Olsen twins on Full House. (Another Olsen twin reference? Really? After having a total of zero in the previous 161 posts? What’s that all about?)

Anyway, we’ve reached the point in the story where one of the leading characters loses it; in this case, it was Spanish Doggy. If this was a horror film, here’s where he would’ve inexplicably lit himself on fire and leapt out a window. Being a dog, he instead began barking and lunging ferociously, like the three-headed hound from Hades, Cerberus (NERRRRRRRRRD!!!), followed by what could only be described as a dying wolf's howl. Some of spookiest sounds you’ll ever fucking hear. Especially considering this is not a dog who howls.

All the while, the cats—the stupid fucking cats—sat there, frozen, staring at us. Except for the white cat, clearly their leader. She—so obviously a chick—began unassumingly licking her paws. The ultimate fuck you to us.

It was time to go.

Spanish Doggy and I did a quick 180 and headed home, each more grateful than the other. We rushed into our apartment, locking and bolting the door behind us. Did I invite Spanish Doggy into the bed with me because I was a little scared? Maybe. Did I kick him out due to unspeakable doggy gas? Absolutely.

A few days later, the two of us were walking through the park, trying to mind our own business. Sitting atop the fence, by his lonesome, was a single black cat. I stared at him, thinking, “I know your secret, cat.”

He hissed at us.

The nastiest fucking hiss you will ever hear.

“I swear I won’t tell anyone!” I blurted out, once again terrified.

Let’s hope those cats don’t have Internet access.


Tuesday, October 27, 2009

Friday, October 23, 2009

How To Never Get Pussy Again, Part Two

Might as well freeze your own dick in carbonite, as you will never need it again.

Monday, October 19, 2009

Friday, October 9, 2009

How To Never Get Pussy Again

Spotted in the trash on W. 87th Street, 10/9/09

Thursday, October 8, 2009

What Johnny's Currently Reading


Can you think of a better band name than that?
I didn't think so.

Tuesday, October 6, 2009

Friday, September 25, 2009

The Creepiest Thing Johnny's Ever Seen...

Riverside Drive at 87th Street, 9/25/09


Thursday, September 17, 2009

Swayze: Pussy Or Badass?

Let me begin with: R.I.P., Dalton. You were the best bouncer who ever lived and the world is a lesser place without you. You will be missed. Secondly, has there ever been an actor who was a bigger combination of total badass (Road House, Point Break) and total pussy (Dirty Dancing, Ghost) than Patrick Swayze? I don't think so.




Maybe, in a few years, we'll be able to make a point for Hugh Jackman (Wolverine vs. The Boy From Oz).


But, as of now, no one can touch Swayze. He could beat you in a dance-off or a kickboxing competition. He could catch bigger waves while robbing banks than you and create more beautiful pottery than you.

You are nothing compared to Swayze.

Johnny actually encountered Swayze a few years back at the Atlantis in the Bahamas. The year was 2004 and, after much goading, I agreed to go down the resort's vaunted "Leap Of Faith," a waterslide with a 60 ft. vertical drop down a Mayan Temple which propels you at the bottom—via glass tube—through a shark-filled lagoon.

Needless to say, Johnny was terrified. Had I known who was behind me, perhaps I would've felt much better. But, all I saw was a horrifying drop before me and dozens of sharks below me. Still, somehow, I forced myself over the edge. The slide was so steep, for a brief moment, I had air before falling back on the slide. I slid down, exhilarated, past the sharks, emerging into the open (sharkless) pool. Holyfuckingshit! I remember thinking. Another body, obviously traveling much faster than myself, arrived right on my heels, almost crashing into me. I turned around and it was Patrick Swayze. Cool, I thought, noticing how tiny he was. Like a little pygmy, but totally ripped. A pocket Swayze, if you will. Had a shark somehow escaped from its tank and approached us, it would not have surprised me in the least if he turned to me and said, "Excuse me for a moment," and then proceeded to punch the shark repeatedly in the face. Sadly, that didn't happen. But, what did happen might have been even more awesome. We both climbed out of the water and, immediately, he was surrounded by a small entourage. One person wrapped him in a towel and another handed him—I swear to God—a lit cigarette. Meanwhile, his kids ran over and wrapped themselves around his legs.

Cigarette in mouth. Kids around his legs. The ultimate representation of his Badass/Pussy dichotomy.

R.I.P., Patrick Swayze. I'll never go down an impossibly steep waterslide atop a Mayan temple through through shark-infested waters without thinking of you again.

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

Johnny's Back

Sorry about the temporary shutdown/meltdown, Johnnyheads. You know we couldn't stay apart forever, right? Johnny's back and he's more than ready to make it up to you. Brace yourself for an explosion of prose the likes of which you've never seen. My sticky, milky words will soon be dripping down all of your beautiful faces. Unable to resist, you'll put some on your finger and rub it all over your lips. Mmmmmmmm. Tastes good, right?

Fuck yeah, it does.

Johnny's back, motherfuckers.

Fuck Off, Johnnyheads

Who do you people think you are? Johnny repeatedly pours out his heart and soul, berating everyone from the fuck-happy Duggars to shit-happy subway defecators, and—aside from Gleemonex (God bless her heart)—there's nary a comment?

What the fuck?

It's enough to make Johnny—to take a page out of MSG's playbook—consider shutting down the old site.

Have you lost your love for Johnny? Has the magic ended?

Methinks so.

So long, Johnnyheads...

Thursday, September 10, 2009

"Fire! Fire!"


Old friends Beavis and Butt-Head are back to help promote Mike Judge's latest film, "Extract."
Please don't ever leave us again.

Tuesday, September 1, 2009

Like You’ve Never Abducted, Imprisoned And Inseminated An 11-Year Old Girl For 18 Years In A Backyard Compound Made Up Of Sheds And Tents


Philip Garrido, devoted rapist and father of rape-babies, Starlet and Angel.
He’s also been linked to the killings of 10 prostitutes—and I thought I was an overachiever!

Monday, August 24, 2009

(Not So) Funny People

Why is Seth Rogen a star? Or, for that matter, Adam Sandler? Yes, Sandler has history on his side—with ten films crossing the $100 million mark—but for every Happy Gilmore and The Wedding Singer, there’s a Mr. Deeds and a Spanglish. But, I’m not here to slam Adam Sandler. At least, not yet. I’d much rather go after Seth Rogen.

Rogen lacks the looks, charisma and acting chops to warrant his current place in Hollywood. (To put it kindly, he’s no Laurence Olivier. Fuck, he’s not even Martin Lawrence.) His draw is his humor. Ironic, considering he’s just not that funny. Most of his jokes are rooted in a bitter mean-spiritedness, i.e., he's a dick; nothing more than a prick with a big mouth (and a three-picture deal). This was evident from his earliest work, the otherwise flawless Freaks and Geeks to his latest, the very flawed Funny People. Don't get me wrong. I have no problem with meanness provided there's some humor and truth to it (see “Fuck You And Your Faggy Dog” Or How To Insult A Man Walking A Poodle). Mean for the sake of being mean? I can get that outside the theater, for free.

In Funny People, Rogen plays an aspiring stand-up comic, Ira Wright, who begins writing jokes for Sandler’s character, the autobiographical megastar, George Simmons. George is the star of fictitious lowbrow, low-concept films like Merman and Re-Do (which features an adult Sandler’s head on the body of an infant). The fake films are easily films Sandler might have made in a parallel universe. (We can thank God we don’t live in that universe. Little Nicky is more than enough, thank you.) George is in between projects because he's just received some sobering news: He's been diagnosed with a leukemia-like disease.

Do these guys know comedy or what?

American moviegoers have been clamoring for a leukemia comedy (a leu-komedy!) for years. And who better to deliver one than the reigning king of comedy, Judd Apatow? Confession: This isn’t the first time I’ve written about Mr. Apatow. (That was here.) I’m hard on him because I do think, for the most part, he’s brilliant. He just puts his name on way too much crap (Drillbit Taylor?) and is now traversing down the clich├ęd “I’m so much more than a comedy director, I’m a filmmaker” route. Let it go, Judd. No one wants to see you make an adult picture, unless it’s an adult picture starring your incredibly hot wife, Leslie Mann.

Can you say, "Holy fucking shit"?

Stick with comedy. It’s what you’re good at.


For a film about comedians, Funny People is not funny. Now I’m no screenwriter, but if you’re going to write a movie about stand-ups, please, please make their routines funny. Sadly, I’ve seen funnier Jay Leno monologues. The lame jokes coupled with the leukemia storyline makes seeing Funny People about as pleasant an experience as getting an AIDS test.

(Note I did not say, "...about as pleasant an experience as getting AIDS." If you really think about it, the actual acquiring of AIDS is probably pretty fun, i.e., you get it while fucking and sucking or shooting heroin, or fucking and sucking while shooting heroin. How is that not pleasant?)

In the film's defense, Jonah Hill, as always, is hysterical, as is Jason Schwartzman (who gets a lifetime pass from me, thanks to Rushmore). But, their screen time is dwarfed by Rogen and Sandler. One asshole more mean-spirited and less funny than the next. In other words: They’re a match made in heaven.

Sandler's character is so unappealing and unpleasant—as are his character's films—that I initially balked at George's superstardom within the movie. It rang false, I thought. No way can a guy who looks like that and makes movies like that be a star. Then I realized: Duh. That pretty much sums up the real Sandler's career.

Sandler, 1. Johnny, 0.

Considering his past oeuvre (a word that, until this moment, has never been attached to a filmography that includes both Billy Madison and I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry), Funny People can only be considered a step up for Sandler. The same can't be said for Apatow. He's better than this. The writing is self-indulgent and lazy. Way too many dick jokes. As we all know, Johnny loves his dick jokes, but for crissake, make them funny. How hard is that? See, there's one right there. Okay, maybe it's harder than it looks. (There's another one!) The only thing more self indulgent than Apatow's script is the deluded blogger who thinks anyone cares enough to read his review of it.


Apatow, 1. Johnny, 0.

Monday, August 17, 2009

Johnny's Idiotic T-Shirt Of The Day: "The Cool Kids Just Showed Up"

Oh, where to begin?

There are so many things wrong with this T-shirt, which I saw on a twenty-something jagoff (that's right, jagoff) walking down Lexington Avenue on Friday. First of all, as everyone knows, if you're truly cool you don't need a T-shirt to announce it. A tastefully labeled jockstrap will more than suffice. Secondly, let's ignore point # 1 for a brief moment and assume this guy actually was cool. The shirt promises multiple cool kids. Surely, wearer of said shirt will not always be surrounded by other cool kids, right? There will be times when you will arrive alone and, cool or not, your shirt will render you a liar. And if your shirt isn't being truthful about the number of cool kids with you, why would I trust its core message, i.e., your claim to be cool? Thirdly, maybe, just maybe, a fourth-grader could pull this shirt off—provided he was exceptionally, Ricky Schroder Silver Spoons-level cool. But, a twenty-something? Please. The shirt makes you look like an asshole.

A caveat, if you will. Fourth-graders aren't the only demographic who could pull this off, as the below photograph I found on my Internet machine clearly shows. If you have a great set of titties, this tee will look amazing on you—as will just about any other tee, no matter how appalling, from got AIDS? to I Fucked Hitler. (All available at, along with Date Rapist and Cunty: The Eighth Dwarf.) Of course, the photograph begs another question: Was the jerk from yesterday wearing a chick's shirt? Or, was he, in fact, a she? A tranny, if you will. If so, you know what else that would make him/her?


Way fucking cool.

T-shirt, 1. Johnny, 0.


Thursday, August 13, 2009

Tuesday, August 4, 2009

Subway Stories 9: "Thanks, But I'm A Feminist"

I think we all know where this story's going. Johnny's standing on the 1 train, minding his own business, as always. The train stops at 50th Street and a rather mediocre-looking chick in her early twenties hops aboard. Fuck that—mediocre is far too generous. More like homely. Somehow, a nearby dude wearing a yarmulke felt otherwise. (Note how I didn't call it—in the words of Jon Stewart—a "Jew Beanie." *) He jumps out of his seat and insists she take it. What does she do? She responds coolly, "Thanks, but I'm a feminist."

Not quite the word that came to my mind.

Are you fucking kidding me, toots? First of all, you're not a feminist. You're an unattractive chick who "became" a feminist after your sophomore year at Wellesley when you caught your boyfriend from B.U. banging your hot roommate, Rachel. Secondly, if you had a body like Rachel you, too, would be banging guys left and right. Thirdly, you're a total bitch to call out Jew Beani--I mean, Yarmulke Boy like that in front of everyone on the train. A simple "no thanks" would've sufficed. No one was asking for your life story. Fourthly, I'm a bitch for taking the seat that was offered to you.

After all, Johnny ain't no feminist.

* If it sounds like I'm looking for a pat on the back...that's because I am. You might find this hard to believe, but Johnny once got thrown out of a Bar Mitzvah (Ravi Nessman, Temple Beth Tikvah, 4/26/86) for playing yarmulke frisbee—shit, could those things fly!—with a fellow disrespectful Gentile.

Friday, July 31, 2009

BREAKING NEWS: Michael Jackson Has Died

Not sure how I missed this, but apparently Michael Jackson died sometime last month. If anyone has any more information, please let me know ASAP.


Wednesday, July 29, 2009

No Fucking Shit, Brainiac



Monday, July 27, 2009

Where The Fuck Have You Been, Johnny?

Mind your own fucking business, Johnnyheads. Like you've never drank a fifth of Absinthe, flown to Switzerland, checked into the Lucerne Gender Institute, paid them $87,000 to cut off your penis, craft a breathtaking vagina in its place, build you breasts with tissue from your ass, awakened from your propofol-induced stupor, vaguely remembered why you were there, peeked under the covers to check out your brand new vagina, only to be repulsed by it and immediately ask Dr. Durrenberger for your money back?

That's right. Spanish Johnny's now Spanish Jenny.

I don't know what the fuck I was thinking. Surely, I'm not the only dude on the planet who thought it would be super-hot to have his own vag? A vag to call my own. To have and to hold, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness—gross...maybe not sickness—or in health, to love and to cherish 'till death do us part. Is that too much to fucking ask for, God?

Once stateside, I had a very simple plan: I'd spend my days admiring the beauty of my new vag when I wasn't beating off to it. Alas, it wasn't meant to be. The very first time I tried to beat off, I realized (A) I had no cock to beat off with and (B) I was tired and wasn't feeling very sexy. So I gave myself a raincheck and turned on Grey's Anatomy.

Seems having gender reassignment surgery in order to satisfy deviant sexual cravings while redefining social mores and overcoming unspoken childhood trauma was a lot more complicated than it seemed.

Now it's back to Switzerland and Dr. Durrenberger. Let's just hope he hasn't given my cock to someone else. I'm looking at you, Nobes...

Thursday, July 16, 2009

Mama-Se, Mama-Sa, Ma-Ma-Coo-Sahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!

Say what you will about Michael Jackson, but that motherfucker could move. And if you thought he could dance when his hair wasn't on fire, wait until you see his moves when his jheri curls are aflame. Though, "aflame" doesn't do justice to the wildfire you're about to see raging on his head. That's right. This is the actual footage from his infamous 1984 Pepsi commercial shoot. And it is pretty goddamn astonishing. No wonder Jacko became addicted to painkillers and children as a result. Apologies for the lame commercial you have to suffer through before the video. Trust Johnny—it's well worth it.

Monday, July 13, 2009

Subway Stories 8: “I Agree—The Stairs Of The Houston Street Station Seem Like A Reasonable Place To Defecate"

Ah, the New York City subway. Has there ever been a grander, more civilized way to travel? Do you think riders of the Metro in Paris have to worry about human urine dripping down on them as they wait for their train? Probably not—though, I’m sure they have to dodge their share of baguette assaults. Likewise, do riders of the London tube have to carefully sidestep human feces as they exit the station? Doubtful, but there’s a good chance an IRA pipe bomb might blow off their leg.

What’s most troubling is that the above urine and feces incidents have not occurred at random spots throughout the labyrinthine NYC subway. No, they’ve been isolated to one particular station. One disgusting, filth-ridden hellhole of a station: The Houston Station on Varick.

Three times as I’ve exited the station, I’ve had to carefully sidestep a pile of human feces. Just in case you didn’t catch that: HUMAN FUCKING FECES (!). One of those times, there was a shoeprint smudged in it.

Holy fucking Christ.

I shudder to think what would’ve happened had that been my shoe. Stepping in dog shit? Appalling, but dealable. But, stepping in human shit? Honestly, I'd have to throw away the shoe. Immediately. In fact, I'd probably just leave it on the steps. But, I don’t think I'd stop there. If I stepped in the shit of another adult human being, I’m pretty sure I’d have to cut off my foot. Because, clearly, it would never ever be clean again.

After coming across the second pile of shit, I began avoiding the north exit, site of the ungodliness. For the next six months, I dutifully exited the station via the south stairs until one day, the south stairs were blocked off. I approached the north exit with obvious trepidation. Surely, nearly half a year later, there would be no trouble, right? I was halfway up the stairs, where the staircase curls around, when I saw it: the biggest fucking pile of human shit yet. People were crowded around it, staring in a combination of revulsion, astonishment and what oddly look liked admiration to me. Not twenty feet away, at the base of the stairs, stood a homeless man. Though, he wasn’t really homeless—I’d seen him "residing" in the station every day for the past year. The Houston Street Station on Varick was his home. And he was undoubtedly shitting in it. The fact there wasn't a toilet in it made no difference to him. Every time I stepped off the number 1 train, it was his number 2 I was desperately trying to avoid.

I skirted around the crowd and headed up to the surface, pausing on the sidewalk to clear my head—not knowing that two months later, in the very same spot, I would witness something equally as horrifying as what I just saw below.

In an effort to bring some balance and equilibrium to the universe, to add some yin to Houston Street Station’s yang, God saw fit to show me the flip side of the underground abominations. Emerging into the daylight, I saw a heavyset black woman squatting over the subway grate. She proceeded to lift up her skirt, pull her enormous black panties to the side with her hand, and urinate down into the grate—the piss spattering and bouncing off the metal grate onto some poor soul’s nearby Honda. This went on for at least 60 seconds. A heavy, never-ending stream of urine. Like watching a horse piss. One of the most repulsive things I’ve ever seen. (And I’ve seen Ghosts Of Girlfriends Past. Oh, wait—no I haven’t.)

I suppose it wasn’t exactly the flip side of what was happening below ground. If it was, there would’ve been a white woman from a nice home pissing away in broad daylight. Huh. That actually sounds kinda hot. And totally racist. Wow. Johnny did not see that coming.

Friday, July 10, 2009


Just because.

Wednesday, July 1, 2009

Wednesday, June 24, 2009

Monday, June 22, 2009

Another Note From Johnny's Cleaning Lady

"Hello. The dog vomited on the living room rug. I clean up. Please buy Soft Scrub. Thank you."

Thursday, June 18, 2009

Johnny's Summer Reading Series: "Welcome To Dadhattan"

Believe me, I know how hard it is to read things not written by Johnny. But, I ask you—nay, I beg you—to make an exception this one time. Welcome To Dadhattan is a knee-slapping, rib-tickling, ball-tingling feature article written by a dear, dear friend of mine. And odds are, if you like Johnny's writing, you'll like his. Trust me...

It's the cover story in this week's New York Press, but you can read it on your Internet machines here. Enjoy, Johnnyheads!


Tuesday, June 16, 2009

Subway Stories 7: “Your ‘Silent But Deadly’ T-Shirt Makes A Compelling Case For Me To Sit Elsewhere”

Initially, I believed this was just another one of those countless shirts—e.g., I’d Rather Be Playing Halo 3 or got weiner? or Liberty Mutual Summer Outing ’04—that cause me to ask myself, Why would anyone wear that? Then it hit me: Who, in their right mind, wants to sit next to the guy wearing the Silent But Deadly T-shirt? Nobody, that’s who. Unless you’re the weird freak who gets off on smelling other people’s flatulence.

Most fetishes I can, if not understand, at least try not to judge. Enjoy fornicating in a tub of chicken broth? Not my thing, but knock yourself out. Like masturbating with one hand while crushing insects with the other? Weird and disturbing, but if it makes you happy, fine. But, enjoying the smell of other people’s farts? You are a psychopath and need to be locked up.

Speaking of fetishes, a brief aside regarding the recent suspicious death of actor David Carradine—found dead a couple weeks back, hanging naked in the closet of his Bangkok hotel room. The upstanding Thai authorities claim it was suicide. But, the Carradine family, unconvinced, has hired their own private autopsy expert—and gotten the FBI involved—to prove otherwise. They wish to preserve his dignity by proving to the world that he did not kill himself…but died while beating off with a noose around his neck. Thank God, they're close to clearing his good name!

Okay, back to the shirt. Does wearing the Silent But Deadly shirt make the subway guy a genius? I have to say yes. After all, I chose to stand for 20 minutes instead of sitting next to him. (Granted, I was wearing a Sitting Is For Asses T-shirt.) Same with everyone else on the train. As long as he’s wearing that shirt, he’ll be riding in comfort on planes, trains and automobiles, i.e., buses, for the rest of his days. Unless he runs into a fart fetishist. Then he's fucked.

Thursday, June 11, 2009