Spanish Johnny

R.I.P. Spanish Johnny (1971-2010)

2010-09-01T18:47:00.000-07:00

Fuck off, Johnnyheads.

I'm done.

'
'

And You Thought You Got Lots Of Pussy...

2010-08-31T13:13:00.000-07:00

Hysterical!

2010-08-13T13:31:00.000-07:00

Just what television needs: another comedy about cancer...

Fuck Yeah, She Does

2010-08-02T07:35:00.001-07:00

It's about goddamn time...

2010-07-15T19:57:00.000-07:00

Good Fucking Riddance

2010-07-13T20:47:00.000-07:00

R.I.P., you prick.

Chilax...

2010-07-12T20:01:00.000-07:00

Hate to break it to you, but you're an asshole if you've ever used that term before.

Yawn, Part Deux...

2010-06-22T12:52:00.000-07:00

Yawn...

2010-06-11T13:17:00.000-07:00

Two Cunts Up!

2010-05-27T19:20:00.000-07:00

SPOILER ALERT: Chuck Bass Shot On Gossip Girl Season Finale!

2010-05-26T07:56:00.000-07:00

Who shot C.B.?

We are all pussies compared to this man.

We Are All Pussies Compared To This Man

2010-05-24T07:49:00.000-07:00

Pardon Me Coworker, But If You Lick Your Finger Once More While Handing Out Those Sheets Of Paper, I Will Jump Across The Table And Rip Your Heart Out

2010-05-20T07:08:00.000-07:00

How difficult is it to separate and distribute sheets of paper? Unless you have hooks for hands, it's a pretty simple process, no? So why do some people feel the need to put a finger in their mouth, lick it, then grab a piece of paper with said finger and hand it over? What are you, two? How disgusting is that? Why would I or anyone want a piece of paper with your AIDS-infected saliva all over it?

Grow the fuck up and learn how to separate paper in a more proper and sanitary manner before handing it out, dickheads.

Subway Stories 13: Luis Jimenez Knows How To Attract A Sophisticated Audience

2010-05-18T07:22:00.000-07:00

What Johnny's Currently Reading

2010-05-05T06:59:00.000-07:00

Boy, was I mistaken about what this book was about...

Johnny's Famous...

2010-04-30T07:04:00.000-07:00

Is Johnny opening a chain of Tex-Mex restaurants? I fucking wish. As do you, Johnnyheads. Trust me, my Mexiloaf would blow your fucking minds, then blow out your tight little assholes, you tight little assholes.

These shots were actually taken from a recent episode of Lost—which oddly enough I wrote about shortly before this episode aired. It's a remarkable coincidence, one which feels somehow appropriate due to the mystical nature of the show. Some might call it serendipity. But not me because that word reminds me of that gay movie with John Cusack. You know the one—Must Love Dogs. Johnny prefers the word kismet. Much, much less gay.

Subway Stories 12: Like You've Never Thrown Away A Perfectly Good Walker In The Bowels Of The New York City Subway System

2010-04-27T07:03:00.000-07:00

Seriously, what the fuck?

Who throws away a walker at the Times Square subway station?
Crack babies, used condoms, even Walker, Texas Ranger figurines I get.

But a walker?

There can only be one rational explanation: An ambulatory-challenged person, or "cripple," as they like to be called, was waiting for the 1 train when he or she was approached and then miraculously healed by the magic, open-sored hands of a crazy lunatic homeless man spouting Philippians 4:13 ("He who smelt it, dealt it.").

If you can think of a better explanation, Johnny would like to hear it.

No, This Makes Sense...

2010-04-23T15:04:00.000-07:00

Johnny beats off.
A lot.

This isn't a confession or a dirty secret. It's reality. It's what guys do—pretty much whenever they have a free moment. Jon Stewart said it best during an old stand-up performance: "You're lucky I'm here."

Of course, for most guys it takes more than a free moment—it takes the Internet. Long gone are the days when pure imagination or the Macy's Sunday circular would suffice.

Which brings me to yesterday evening. To warm up for the main event—recently unearthed toilet cam footage from the set of The Golden Girls—Johnny was trolling the web for photos of super-hot Mad Men star Christina Hendricks—recently named Esquire's sexiest woman alive.

In the midst of all this beauty, Johnny made a ghastly discovery.

Not only is Christina married, but she's married to this fucking ghoul:

Are you fucking kidding me?

In a world of what the fucks...what the fuck!?!

Needless to say, my evening session was canceled, much to my dick's disappointment. No video of Rue McClanahan or Estelle Getty—no matter how wonderfully sordid—could get me past this.

Thanks, God.

Iranian Cleric: "Skanky Women Cause Earthquakes"

2010-04-21T17:54:00.000-07:00

First of all, duh. Secondly, this is in direct contrast to Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad's past statements claiming that the Jews were responsible for earthquakes—as well as floods, volcanic eruptions and Mandy Patinkin.

(Editor's Note: At press time, only Mandy Patinkin could be confirmed as being the fault of the Jews.)

Goldman Sachs: Has There Ever Been A Bigger Collection Of Douchebags?

2010-04-19T19:03:00.000-07:00

All that money, but still bald. Suck it, nerds!

Editorial Cartoonists: As Original As An Episode Of Two And A Half Men

2010-04-13T14:21:00.001-07:00

Holy Fucking Shit

2010-04-12T14:59:00.000-07:00

“Um, I Believe That’s Fungal...”

2010-04-07T14:10:00.000-07:00

Five words you definitely don’t want to hear from anyone, let alone your physician. But that’s indeed what Johnny heard earlier today from Dr. Feelgood. Was he pointing to my balls? No. At least not at that moment. He was pointing to a group of small red welts nestled in the ample thatch that constitutes my chest bush.

Charming.

Let’s go over what you’ve learned about Johnny today:
(1) Johnny doesn’t wax or shave his chest like most pussy guys.
Sawyer’s chest on Lost is smoother than a newborn’s—and most Greek women’s. Fucking ridiculous, if you ask me.

With all the shit he has to worry about on that island—foraging for food, making sure that fat fuck Hurley doesn’t eat it all (Why is he still so fat? He lives on a desert island, for fuck’s sake), trying to bang Kate, trying to not get killed by that smoke monster, trying to bang Kate, traveling through time, and so on and so forth—he’s still vain enough to make sure his chest is bare? Are you kidding me? Can you imagine what his balls look like? His beautiful, smooth as freshly-picked Macouns, balls. Where was I? Oh, right. Sawyer’s magnificent balls. Smooth as a pair of neo-Nazi’s heads. Anyway, back to his bare chest. Where exactly is he getting all these razors? And don’t you dare say, “The DHARMA Initiative”! Goddamn, this devolved into a nerdy discussion.

(2) Johnny watches Lost.
But mainly to see if they'll ever show Kate in her panties again. Or Sawyer's balls.

(3) Johnny is obsessed with Sawyer’s balls.
His breathtaking, smooth as an infant's head emerging from the vagina of a Macoun-eating neo-Nazi, balls.

(4) Johnny’s chest bush is repulsive.
Even without the red welts, it wasn’t exactly a pretty picture, looking like something out of a Burt Reynolds film. One can only imagine it now.

(5) Johnny’s Dr. Feelgood reference means he either loves Mötley Crüe or heroin.
Though, according to the reputable Urbandictionary.com, Dr. Feelgood also refers to the following: “When a guy puts his penis in his girlfriend’s ass and uses the friction from moving in and out to loosen her up when she is feeling constipated, e.g., My girlfriend was feeling stuffed up so I gave her a Dr. Feelgood."

Hot stuff. No doubt women across America are requesting just such a thing right now. I’d love to oblige them, but I’m off to the pharmacy to get some anti-fungal cream.

Anyone who wishes to watch me rub it into my chest bush—I’m looking at you, MSG—please check back to this site tonight at 8pm EST. I’ll be doing a live webcast. Followed by a Dr. Feelgood—tune in to see whether that means it'll be me doing heroin, listening to Mötley Crüe, or banging some broad in the can. Or, if the stars align, a combination of all three.

Diarrhea Of The Mother

2010-03-24T07:03:00.000-07:00

This post is dedicated to Mega Superior Gold, whose own matriarchal tales are an inspiration—and warning—to us all.

Thanks to my mother’s unholy and uncontrollable bowels, I was nearly reported missing to the Boston Police Department.

The year was 1984 and John Waite’s “Missing You” ruled the airwaves. (Born In The U.S.A., the new album by young upstart Bruce Springsteen was newly released and had yet to explode—unlike my mother’s bowels, which we’ll get to soon enough. Patience, my young Padawans!) It was early summer and I was visiting Boston with my mother and brother. Spanish Mommy was taking Johnny’s hermano to check out New England colleges we all knew he would never get into. We were staying at the Marriott in Copley Square, a hotel I was very familiar with and thrilled to return to. (We had stayed there a few years earlier during a similar excursion, on which my sister checked out New England colleges we all knew she’d never get into.) To a middle-class family like mine, the Marriott was like the Ritz or the Four Seasons, especially the Copley Square one. It was brand spanking new, built atop a luxury mall.

Back then, parents were self-centered, disinterested and downright dangerous when it came to rearing their offspring, not thinking twice about letting them roam hotel grounds unsupervised. The way I saw it, as a spry ten-year old during our first visit, the mall was part of the hotel grounds, right? And the reason I loved this hotel so much was due to a simple storefront within the mall: an international newsstand shop populated with nudie magazines the likes of which I’d never seen. In addition to the usual suspects (Playboy, Penthouse, Hustler), which was more than enough for my fifth-grade self, the higher shelves featured weird stuff like Over Forty, Under 80, and Black Tail (not to be confused with Howard University’s acclaimed literary journal, Black Tales). But, that was nothing compared to the deviant shit found on the shelf above. Sick stuff with titles like Tiger Beat, Model Railroad Hobbyist, and Us Weekly. Gives me the heebie-jeebies just thinking about. And by heebie-jeebies, I, of course, mean a woodie.

I was more than content with Playboy and the occasional foray into Cat Fancy. I spent every free moment in the back of that shop, hiding my little erection, thrilled at my daring while terrified my parents would discover me. I must’ve told them I was going to the pool or arcade a hundred times. Idiots.

Fast-forward to June ’84. The three of us had just returned to the hotel after dinner at Legal Seafood. Spanish Mommy was complaining about her stomach during the entire walk back to the hotel. Even pausing occasionally to hunch over and clutch it. My brother and I were total dicks, not caring in the least, completely ignoring her. That became impossible after we got back to our little hotel room and my mother proceeded to destroy the bathroom far worse than any reputable trucker could ever aspire to.

I’d still be able to hear the sounds of her anal emissions, had they not rendered me deaf at the time. Ungodly stuff—like a drowning, keening cat trying to claw his way out of a gunnysack in the eye of a tornado. Followed by the unsettling sound of the toilet paper roll slowly uncoiling, along with my composure. Still, the sounds were nothing compared to the smell that wafted out from under the door. You need to understand something: all that freedom I spoke of earlier was revoked after dark. My brother and I were confined to that room. 13x25. 325 square feet. Two beds—one of which, as if the situation weren’t awkward enough, my brother and I were sharing. Did I mention he was a compulsive farter? So I was trapped between my shitting mother (who, in her defense, sounded like she might've died in there—not that I was brave enough to knock on the door to find out) and my farting brother. Pinballed back and forth between the two stenches. Truth be told, my brother’s farts were no match for the smell that came out of the bathroom after my mother opened the door. The reek would’ve killed and wilted anything in its wake—a head of lettuce, baby chicks, a fresh green lawn. My mother emerged in her pink nightgown looking like Death itself. Yet instead of offering sympathy, I could only look away in disgust. Mom was no doubt embarrassed, but being an insensitive twelve-year old I could only think of myself—and my escape. Knowing we were trapped in that room (with windows that couldn’t open) for another 12–15 hours, I snapped. I jumped up out of bed and ran for the door. “Where are you going?” my mother barely got out. “I have to get out of here,” I said, rather theatrically, rushing out of the room in my Jets pajamas, sans shoes.

I ran to the elevator and hit the up button, expecting my mom or farting brother to come rushing after me any second. Ding. No mom, as the doors opened. I hopped on and hit the button for the top floor. Thankfully, no one else got on. Can't imagine what they'd make of me, in my NFL-themed jammies, shaken to my core, questioning everything I thought I believed in. Once at the top, I got off and didn’t know what to do. So I went to the ice machine and began playing with it, spilling ice all over the floor because I had no bucket. With no shoes, no discernible plan and a full bladder, I realized my escape had severe limitations, so I headed back to the room.

Knock-knock. (I'd left my key in the room.) My mother opened the door and the odor almost knocked me over. She started yelling and then crying and I felt about two inches tall. Kids can be such assholes.

“I’m sorry, mom. I’m sorry.”

“I called the front desk. They were going to call the police.”

“Blah blah blah blah blah.”

“Blah blah blah blah blah.”

“Blah blah blah blah blah.”

I’m not trying to belittle her. As bad as I felt, that’s all I heard at that point due to the smell. On top of that, I had to pee so badly I stopped hearing her. I apologized again and said I had to go to the bathroom.

Yes, that bathroom.

I approached the door and tentatively pushed it open. The smell felt like a punch in the jaw. I gagged, suppressing the vomit, and somehow waded in. I opened up the lid to the toilet—terrified to see what was inside, expecting a feces-covered Gorgon or Orc to jump out. Fortunately, it was empty. I suppressed another gag, not as well, as some got up into my throat, then hurriedly whipped out my little dick and began pissing all over the toilet, getting a fair share on the off-white tiled floor. I didn’t give a fuck. I had to get out of there. I flushed, ran out of the bathroom, past my mother’s bed and jumped into my bed—which you’ll recall, was also populated by my brother. I quickly dipped under the covers for protection, only to be immediately and unintentionally dutch-ovened by his ever-present flatulence.

And that's why it was the best weekend ever.

The Boston Marriott Copley Place hotel is centrally located in the historic Back Bay district of Boston, MA. Minutes away from historic Trinity Church and Boston Common, this downtown Boston hotel is perfect for business, weekend, and leisure travel.

Johnny's Back, Motherfuckers

2010-03-22T19:51:00.001-07:00

Fuck yeah. Johnny's back in the mother fucking hou--what's that? You didn't even notice I was gone? Are you shitting me?

I pause Road House moments before Dalton is about to make love to Elizabeth "Doc" Clay—portrayed pitch-perfectly by Kelly Lynch—to check in with you assholes and you weren't even I aware I'd been away? Johnnyheads, how could you be so insensitive?

You know what? Fuck you guys. I don't need this shit. I do this as a public fucking service. (God, wouldn't it be awesome if there actually was an entity known as the Public Fucking Service? A pro-bono organization that arranged and coordinated public acts of fornication, solely for our amusement and/or participation? "Putting It Inside, Outside. Since 1948." Now back to my tirade.)

Suck it, Johnnyheads. Go read Perez Hilton or even worse, Mega Superior Gold. (Please. We all know they're the same person.)

Subway Stories 11: Recession? What Recession?

2010-03-07T19:53:00.000-08:00

No, your life's going well if you respond to this ad.

Canada: The Epitome Of Culture And Sophistication

2010-03-01T09:34:00.001-08:00

Nice beaver, Canada.

Ditto.

If I had a nickel for every time I've seen William Shatner emerge from the ice...

"Ow! My Freakin Ears!" Part Deux

2010-02-15T00:10:00.000-08:00

As if the people of Haiti haven't suffered enough...

Yawn, Part Deux

2010-02-12T19:14:00.001-08:00

How do you say, "Who cares?" in Canadian?

Summer of 69 Medalist Bryan Adams, who still has acne of Olympian proportions.
Beijing should've been so lucky...

Who Are The Kardashians And Why Would I Want To Keep Up With Them?

2010-02-10T09:01:00.000-08:00

And what the fuck does Bruce Jenner have to do with anything?

Hee Hee

2010-02-08T07:08:00.000-08:00

Sergio!

2010-02-01T19:41:00.001-08:00

"A Rosie O'Donnell Celebration": Four Words That Send Me Running From My TV

2010-01-30T10:22:00.001-08:00

Premieres this Sunday at 7pm on HBO.
Come up from that muff for an hour and watch it!

Subway Stories 10: Funny Mustaches On People's Faces = Comedy Gold

2010-01-26T07:14:00.000-08:00

96th Street and Central Park West

This will always be funny.

This, too. Especially in conjunction with a funny mustache.

TIVO ALERT: Don't Miss Tonight's "Hope For Those Who Had To Listen To Coldplay During Last Night's 'Hope For Haiti Now Telethon' Telethon"

2010-01-23T10:59:00.000-08:00

It's time to stop looking the other way. These innocent victims need your help.
Please donate today.

Happy Martin Luther King Jr. Day?

2010-01-18T10:25:00.000-08:00

This morning, like every Monday morning, I placed $75 in an envelope for my dogwalker, Ruby. Ruby's been taking Spanish Doggy on his midday walk every weekday for the past five years or so. I'd be lying if I said Ruby didn't look like the star of the recent film, Precious: Based On The Novel Push By Sapphire.

Which, honestly, makes no sense to me: After all, she spends her days walking dogs. Isn't she getting the same amount of exercise they are? So why is Spanish Doggy running a lean 80 lbs., while Ruby's weighing in at close to 300?

Anyway, after writing her name on the envelope, I momentarily considered writing the following alongside it: "Happy Martin Luther King Jr. Day!"

Of course, I did no such thing. Johnny may be an insensitive prick, but he's not a racist insensitive prick. After all, Spanish Doggy is a very, very rich, chocolatey brown.

It merely crossed my mind how funny and wildly offensive it would be to write something like that. I felt like Larry David, but with a hint of restraint.

Speaking of Jews, remember that restraint I spoke of in the prior sentence? Well, it was nowhere to be found a couple years back when I—no kidding—wished my elderly Jewish neighbors a "Happy Yom Kippur!" In other words (for my Gentile readers), "Happy Day Of Atonement, Fasting And Repentance To Reconcile Yourselves With The Creator For The Mistakes You Have Made In The Last Year!"

Allow Johnny to explain: I knew one of the upcoming Jewish holidays was a festive occasion. I just didn't know which one. Rosh Hashanah? Purim? St. Patrick's Day? Johnny's heart was in the right place, if his brain wasn't.

Not sure what my excuse is this time. I believe I've offended just about everyone out there: Ruby, Precious, Mo'Nique, African-Americans, MLK, Bono, Coretta Scott King, Sandra Bullock, President Obama, Spanish Doggy, Larry David, Jewish-Americans, Kartch, Gentiles, my aforementioned Jewish neighbors Ari and Rachel, and the father from Good Times.

My sincere apologies to all. Hope you're still able to have a very Happy Martin Luther King Jr. Day!

(Shit. I did it again, didn't I?)

The New York Sophisticates And Elitists Have Spoken, Part Deux

2010-01-11T06:53:00.000-08:00

M5 Bus, NYC, 9:23am

Crudely drawn cocks. As Superbad taught us, they are always, always funny. No matter where you spot one. I saw this lovely rendering on the bus this morning. And yes, I got a few stares when I took a picture of it. Please. Like you've never stood up on a crowded, moving bus, forced your way between two commuters and taken a photo of a handdrawn cock next to a woman's mouth? This particular depiction was eerily similar to a snow depiction (that's right, a snow depiction—you can see it here if you don't believe me) I happened upon a year ago this week. Of course, aren't all handdrawn cocks eerily, beautifully similar? After all, there are only so many ways to draw one. Though, I'm partial to a little more squiggly bush, along with something I like to call a "cartoon cum caption." Something like this:

Conclusion: If you're lucky enough to see a similar cock rendering defacing something in your neighborhood, odds are, Johnny was there.

Zach Galifianakis = Genius

2010-01-05T08:46:00.000-08:00

Johnny had a chance to watch The Hangover again over the holidays. Goddammit, that is a mind-blowingly funny film. Brilliant, hysterical stuff. And while the entire cast is outstanding, it is Zach Galifianakis's performance that will stick with you. He's as original as they come—as evidenced by his perfectly-titled online talk show:

Don't believe me? Check it out for yourself:

"That's the sound of a cricket riding a tumbleweed."

"You shaved your head for V for Vendetta. Did you also shave your V for vagina?"

"I understand you won a Golden Globe. Mark that under who gives a shit."

Suck It, 2009

2009-12-31T07:04:00.000-08:00

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.

Johnny's Top 50 Porn Titles Of 2009

2009-12-29T10:07:00.000-08:00

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

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

2009-12-11T08:58:00.000-08:00

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.

Breaking News: Johnny Also Fucked Tiger Woods

2009-12-09T21:15:00.000-08:00

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.

--Johnny

Bah Fucking Humbug

2009-12-04T11:25:00.000-08:00

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.

Incident On 33rd Street

2009-11-23T21:35:00.000-08:00

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.

Voila!

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.

Beeeeep.

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

Success.

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):

Because America's Been Clamoring For Some Black-On-Bullock Action…

2009-11-20T14:02:00.000-08:00

What A Fucking Little Liar

2009-11-19T06:45:00.000-08:00

If I Was Tasked With Creating The World’s Dumbest Movie, Its Poster Would Like Something Like This

2009-11-13T10:52:00.000-08:00

The Seven Cats Of Hell

2009-10-29T22:35:00.000-07:00

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?”

Nothing.

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

Bingo.

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.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

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.

The Fourth Most Clever Cello Case Sticker I've Ever Seen

2009-10-27T06:53:00.000-07:00

How To Never Get Pussy Again, Part Two

2009-10-23T18:04:00.001-07:00

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

Like You’ve Never Launched An Experimental Mushroom-Shaped Balloon Craft And Hid Your Son Falcon In An Attic As Part Of An Elaborate Hoax To Get On TV

2009-10-19T11:06:00.000-07:00

Father of the year, Richard ("Dick") Heene, with Falcon ("Falcon")

How To Never Get Pussy Again

2009-10-09T08:18:00.000-07:00

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

What Johnny's Currently Reading

2009-10-08T07:07:00.000-07:00

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

The Terrorists Have Officially Won, Part Three

2009-10-06T07:30:00.000-07:00

Like You've Never Hosted A Late Night Talk Show, Repeatedly Banged Female Staffers And Been The Victim Of An Extortion Attempt By A Sleazy TV Producer

2009-10-02T12:00:00.000-07:00

The Creepiest Thing Johnny's Ever Seen...

2009-09-25T13:26:00.000-07:00

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

Swayze: Pussy Or Badass?

2009-09-17T06:33:00.000-07:00

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.

vs.

vs.

vs.

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

vs.

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.

Johnny's Back

2009-09-15T18:50:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-15T06:40:00.000-07:00

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...

Like You've Never Painstakingly And Lovingly Crafted A Pastel Rendering Of A Young Michael Jackson On A Broadway Sidewalk Between 92nd And 93rd Street

2009-09-12T00:47:00.000-07:00

"Fire! Fire!"

2009-09-10T20:40:00.000-07:00

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

Prepare To Throw Up

2009-09-05T18:14:00.000-07:00

The Duggars, stars of TLC's 18 Kids And Counting, announced some wonderful news on the Today show last week. After all, who wouldn't want use America's most popular morning show to tell the nation they're expecting their 19th child?

Visit msnbc.com for Breaking News, World News, and News about the Economy

For fuck's sake, Jim Bob, can't you keep your dick out of your poor wife's vagina for two goddamn seconds? (I wish I had a nickel for every time I've had to utter that sentence.) I mean, enough already. We get it: You're capable of impregnating a female member of the opposite sex. Good for you. Now give it a fucking rest. (And yes, Jim Bob is his real name. Welcome to Arkansas!) Wife Michelle has a womb that puts the Octomom's to shame. "Eight babies? Pussy. Speaking of which, call me after you've had 11 more crawl out of yours..."

Now this ain't the first time Johnny's posted about this beloved God-loving family. (As in, "God, please get my husband off of me.") See It's Called Birth Control, You Fucking Animal, from last fall. And I suspect it won't be the last, at the rate this guy impales his wife. Let's just hope his evangelical dick doesn't hit the new baby's head on its way out.

Speaking of evangelical dicks, please take a moment to check out www.duggarfamily.com, the family's official web site. Holy fucking shit. That place is a goddamn goldmine! Below, you'll find a little taste. I swear to you—Johnny has not altered a single word.

Note: I think a fun way to read the following list is to do something similar to that old Chinese fortune cookie game—you know, where you had to add something like, "...in bed" to the end of the fortune (though, we used to say, "...in Johnny's pants"). In this case, I suggest you add, "...unless Jim Bob wants to fuck you." Enjoy!

* * *

DUGGAR HOUSE GUIDELINES

1. Always use soft words, even when you don’t feel well. Unless Jim Bob wants to fuck you.

2. Always display kind actions and joyful attitudes, even if you have been mistreated. Have the right response by quickly forgiving others in your heart even before they ask. Unless Jim Bob wants to fuck you.

3. Always be enthusiastic and look for opportunities to praise others' character. Unless Jim Bob wants to fuck you.

4. Always deflect praise and be grateful to God and others for the ways they have benefited your life. Unless Jim Bob wants to fuck you.

5. Always use manners and be respectful of others and their belongings. Unless Jim Bob wants to fuck you.

6. Always do what is right, even when others may not, or when no one is looking. Unless Jim Bob wants to fuck you. From behind.

7. Thank God for how He made you, for what He has given you and everything He allows you to go through. (Romans 8:28) Unless Jim Bob wants to fuck you.

8. Don’t mock or put others down. Develop compassion and pray for others. Unless Jim Bob wants to fuck you.

9. Never argue, complain, or blame. Quickly admit when you have done wrong and ask for forgiveness (even if you were only 10% at fault). Don't wait till you’re caught. Be sure your sins will find you out. He who covers his sin will not prosper, but he that confesses and forsakes it shall find mercy. Unless Jim Bob wants to fuck you.

10. Have a tough accountability/prayer partner to daily share your heart with and to keep you in line (your parents, spouse). The power of sin is in secrecy. Unless Jim Bob wants to fuck you. And your hot sister.

11. Be attentive and look for ways to serve others with sincere motives and no thought of self-gain. Unless Jim Bob wants to fuck you.

12. Think pure thoughts (Philippians 4:8, Romans 13:14). Right. Because that's how 19 babies got made.

13. Always give a good report of others. Don't gossip! Never tale-bear unless physical harm will come to someone. (Use Matthew 18.) Unless Jim Bob wants to fuck you.

14. Never raise a hand to hit. Unless Jim Bob wants to fuck you. With his fist.

15. Never raise a foot to kick. Unless Jim Bob wants to fuck you. With his foot.

16. Never raise an object to throw. Unless Jim Bob wants to fuck you.

17. Never raise a voice to yell. Unless Jim Bob wants to fuck you.

18. Never raise an eye to scowl. Unless Jim Bob wants to fuck you.

19. Use one toy/activity at a time. Share! Unless Jim Bob wants to fuck you. With a double-ended dildo.

20. Do your best to keep your surroundings neat, clean and organized. Unless Jim Bob wants to fuck you. Without making the bed afterward.

21. Never let the sun go down on your wrath. (Don’t go to bed angry or guilty) Unless Jim Bob wants to fuck you.

And finally...

22. Amendment J.O.Y. — Put Jesus first, Others second, Yourself last.

Seriously? That's the last one? Are you kidding me?

More like C.O.Y. — Put Cock first, Others second, Yourself (aside from your cock) last.

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

2009-09-01T09:36:00.000-07:00

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!

(Not So) Funny People

2009-08-24T12:30:00.001-07:00

'
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 clichéd “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.

Usually.

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.

Shit.

Apatow, 1. Johnny, 0.

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

2009-08-17T06:19:00.000-07:00

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 www.spanishjohnny.com/apparel, 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?

Cool.

Way fucking cool.

T-shirt, 1. Johnny, 0.

Turns Out, Mrs. Wilson Is A Total Cunt

2009-08-13T07:06:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-04T18:57:00.000-07:00

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.

BREAKING NEWS: Michael Jackson Has Died

2009-07-31T18:02:00.000-07:00

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.

No Fucking Shit, Brainiac

2009-07-29T06:57:00.000-07:00

Where The Fuck Have You Been, Johnny?

2009-07-27T18:59:00.000-07:00

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...

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

2009-07-16T06:54:00.000-07:00

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.

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

2009-07-13T09:11:00.000-07:00

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.

Gunt

2009-07-10T07:33:00.000-07:00

Just because.

Like You’ve Never Starred In “The Goonies,” Abused Drugs, Grown Up, And Then Attended Michael Jackson’s Memorial Service Dressed As Michael Jackson

2009-07-07T11:32:00.001-07:00

Actor Corey Feldman arriving at the King of Pop's memorial service

My Apologies, But I Believe You've Been Busted

2009-07-01T06:19:00.000-07:00

Like You've Never Lazed In A Meadow And Gazed Adoringly At The World's Smallest Horse...

2009-06-25T06:23:00.000-07:00

J-T-E-S! Jtes! Jtes! Jtes!

2009-06-24T06:35:00.000-07:00

Another Note From Johnny's Cleaning Lady

2009-06-22T20:53:00.000-07:00

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

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

2009-06-18T18:44:00.000-07:00

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!

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

2009-06-16T19:59:00.001-07:00

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.

Hysterical!

2009-06-11T19:58:00.001-07:00

Not Too Fucking Stunning

2009-06-02T07:18:00.000-07:00

Like You’ve Never Wiped Your Bulldog’s Ass With Toilet Paper...

2009-05-28T08:27:00.000-07:00

Johnny’s made no secret of his love of dogs. No matter how bad a day you’ve had—Hit by a car? Taken hostage? Raped? All three?—there’s nothing better than coming home to a tail-wagging, face-licking ecstatically goofy dog. Unless it’s small, yappy dog. Fuck those little rats. They’ve got no place in the dog community—or my heart, for that matter.

But, all other dogs, forget about it. (Johnny refuses to use the widely-accepted fahgeddaboutit—as his father says, “It makes us sound like a bunch of gavoons.”) Dog owners will do anything for their dog—there’s a reason they’re called man’s best friend. Once, Spanish Doggy (who eats anything and everything in his path—his shenanigans make Marley look like a fucking pussy) was finishing up his business in Riverside Park. Okay, he took a shit. There, I said it. An enormous fucking pile of chocolatey Labrador shit. You happy now? As he got up from his squat, we both cocked our heads askew as we noticed a six-inch piece of straw sticking straight out from his ass. Spanish Doggy seemingly did a double-take before going into all-out panic mode. He desperately turned his head around like that scene in The Exorcist and tried to extract it with his mouth. (You know that scene, right? Where Max von Sydow tries to remove a Satanic piece of straw from Linda Blair's ass?) No luck. He then began spinning around and around, like he was chasing his tail. Still no luck. Like any good dog owner, I had to step in. Or rather, reach in. But, this was no ordinary task: Trying to grab a skinny piece of straw out of the ass of a canine spinning around like the Tasmanian Devil was about as easy as trying to get a plush toy with a crane in one of those rigged boardwalk games. (Goddamn you, Carnies!)

Whoosh! Lunge and miss!
Whoosh! Lunge and miss!
Whoosh! Lunge and...Got It!

I grabbed ahold of the straw and pulled. And pulled. Holy shit, the straw had no end in sight. I kept pulling, hand over hand, like pulling on a rope, until—finally—pop! In my hand—not for the first time—I held an 18-inch piece of anally-extracted straw. And yes, it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. (I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t carry it around folded up in my wallet to this day, next to a photo of my grandmother.) Spanish Doggy could not have been more grateful. He was thrilled to once again be able to lick his asshole unimpeded. Who wouldn’t be?

Spanish Doggy, seconds before licking his own asshole

Yes, we go to extremes for our dogs. (Not cats. Fuck those assholes. Little dogs, too—oh, how I loathe them.) After all, we are their caretakers. We chose them; they did not choose us. It’s our responsibility to take care of them.

That being said, wiping your dog’s ass is going too far. Way, way too far. As I pointed out earlier in the week, canines have evolved to such a point that they don’t need to wipe their asses. It’s really quite remarkable when you think about it. Still, that didn’t stop some freak from pulling out a roll of Cottonelle from his bag and wiping his bulldog’s ass after the dog finished doing his business, i.e., shitting, this morning in the park. This is not a one-time thing, by the way. I see him every morning, along with some bearded lunatic who walks his eerily similar-looking cat on a leash, and an old Hal Holbrook-looking man in a green track suit who once asked me if I wanted to wrestle in the grass.

Fuck yeah, I do, old man.

Needless to say, one figure four headlock later, he ain't wrestling no more.

Happy Memorial Day, Johnnyheads

2009-05-25T08:07:00.000-07:00

While you're out there grilling your burgers and kicking your Hacky Sacks, please take a moment to remember our country's brave servicemen and women. Fighting overseas so degenerates like me have the freedom to write filth like this.

And to all our enemies out there, who call our courageous soldiers infidels and dogs, I ask you this: If dogs are so abominable, why do you eat them? And have sex with them? And then put it on the Internet? I hate to break it to you, but dogs are way more evolved than humans. After all, can you defecate without wiping afterward? Lick your own balls? Clean up your own vomit by eating it?

I didn't think so.

So why is calling someone a dog an insult, but calling someone a cat—for the most part—a compliment? i.e., "That dude is one cool cat." That makes no goddamn sense. Cats may be a lot of things, but cool isn't one of them. They're self-serving pricks who shit in boxes and generally suck. In a perfect world, enemies would call our troops "dirty American cats" when they spit on them. But, thanks to Big Feline's Washington lobby machine and the many politicians in its pockets—I'm looking at you, Rep. Barney Frank—that ain't happening any time soon.

Jeez. Talk about a tangent.

Where was I?

Oh, right... And that's why it was the best season of American Idol ever!

Does The Creator Of Heathcliff Take Us For Fools?

2009-05-21T13:24:00.000-07:00

(1) We're to believe Heathcliff did something so outrageous, he's now on trial? For what, scratching up the couch? C'mon.

(2) Last I checked, you couldn't get a tattoo on hair, let alone FUR!

(3) Isn't the tattoo a little overly dramatic—not to mention permanent? Why not use a Sharpie or black paint instead? After all, if Heathcliff is indeed found innocent, he would no longer want to walk around with a large NOT GUILTY on his chest. I mean, that's just reminding the public that, guilty or not, you were at some point arrested for a crime. Why not just scratch a swastika into your forehead?

(4) Still, if Heathcliff really wanted to proclaim his innocence via tattoo, surely he could've come up with a more eye-catching design/message, right? Plus, I'm no attorney, but I'd wager this type of messaging is not allowed in the courtroom. It seems like a complete waste of money. Speaking of which...

(5) Where did Heathcliff get the money for a tattoo? (And perhaps it would've been better spent hiring a competent attorney.)

(6) The tattoo guy had no issues with a cat walking into his shop—on two legs—and asking for a tattoo? Not to mention, one that implied the recipient had done something illegal? Fucking ludicrous.

Suck It, Bike Messengers

2009-05-14T07:02:00.000-07:00

Why do bike messengers think they’re so badass, with all their piercings and tattoos? If I’m not mistaken, aren’t you delivering legal documents, like leases and contracts? Oooooooh, how edgy! Way to stick it to the man by making sure that Limited Partnership Agreement gets delivered in a timely manner!

May I also state the obvious: You’re riding a bicycle. The same mode of transportation Johnny rode around his neighborhood when he was eight-years old—though my Schwinn was infinitely more badass, thanks to the incredibly cool grip-handle that made Vroom! Vroom! sounds when I turned it.

In the world of couriers, the bike messenger falls somewhere between the UPS guy and the kid in grade school delivering messages from the teacher to the principal.

But, at least the UPS guy drives a vehicle that requires a license. Sure, it looks like a giant turd on wheels (“What can brown do for you?”), but it’s still a truck. Not to mention, he gets to deliver some pretty awesome things now and again, like webcams, Real Dolls and giant anacondas—often to the same Upper West Side address.

So, take your fucking tattoos, Quicksilver DVDs and Comprehensive Leases Adaptable For Business Or Residential Purposes and shove them up your collective asses, bike messengers.

And stop your snickering, rickshaw drivers: Johnny’s coming after you next.

Subway Stories 6: "Do I Wanna Rock With You? Fuck Yeah, I Do"

2009-05-11T06:33:00.000-07:00

Please. Like you've never taken the form of a 3-foot Hispanic midget, put on a fedora, sunglasses, white T-shirt and glove and danced to Michael Jackson songs in the bowels of the Times Square subway station?

Oh my God! Is it...? Could it possibly be...?

Yes! It's him! That creepy midget Michael Jackson impersonator I heard about!

Next stop: Awesomeville

I most certainly wanna be startin' something

Yep—that's a midget moonwalking in the subway

The resemblance is uncanny!

Apparently, I was misinformed: Photographing a midget does not steal his soul.

What's that? They prefer to be called "little people"? You're kidding, right? No? How is that less offensive than midget? That's like saying obese people prefer being called fat people. What's that? They do? Really? They're just thrilled they're not being called Fat Fuck or Fatty McFattyFace? Okay, that I understand. I won't honor it, but I understand.

But, these little people? Johnny doesn't get them at all.

Ladies, Enough With The Ass Cleavage Already

2009-05-05T07:08:00.000-07:00

Show some fucking class, will you?

Am I the only man in the world who doesn't want to see the cleave of a woman's ass, sitting atop the waist of her low-rise jeans?

I am, aren't I?

I fucking knew it.

Does that make me gay? I sure hope not. Unless it means moving in with my hot, beautiful gay friend, Tony—he of the magnificent calves and stunningly-appointed downtown apartment. But, seriously, is this not the same as plumber's crack? It's not sexy, it's unseemly—this coming from a man who watched two-and-a-half hours of vintage porn on his laptop last night. (Folks were more dignified back then—yes, they sucked and fucked with abandon, but they wouldn't be caught dead with ass cleavage.)

If it was only confined to the twenty-somethings that proliferate downtown and Brooklyn, perhaps I could accept it. But, my Upper West Side neighborhood is filled with mom after mom after mom bending over their Bugaboos, tending to their infants, revealing their ass-crack to all. It's hard to look them in the eye and listen to them prattle on about Janie or Jack after you've seen everything back there but their puckered asshole. Confesssion: I'd be singing an entirely different tune if they were wearing FBPs (full-back panties). Ain't nothing wrong with showing a hint of that, miladies.

Speaking of full-backs, there's something else we need to discuss. Something that's been bothering Johnny for quite some time.

Now, I've made no secret of my panty fetish (unlike my turtle fetish, which I'll take to my grav--oh no! The secret's out!). Hell, somedays it's the only thing that gets me out of bed. But, there is a new trend in women's unmentionables which needs to be, um, mentioned. An ungodly, disgusting trend.

Women wearing men's underwear.

I'm not talking about women wearing men's boxers. (Women have been doing that forever; thankfully, wearing them over their panties. Their beautiful, full-back panties.) I'm talking about women wearing men's briefs. Tighty Fucking Whities. (Perhaps the gayest term in today's lexicon.) Fortunately, I've never experienced this trend in person. But, you can't open a magazine or watch a movie these days without noticing it.

Don't get me wrong. Those are two gorgeous women. (And, yes, Gisele is very, very, very lucky to have Tom Bra--I mean, Tom Brady is very, very, very lucky to have Gisele. Jesus, Tony—where are you? I really need you right now...) Admittedly, they look quite hot. But, once you realize they're wearing men's underwwear—the most repulsive garment in the world—you need to recalibrate your thinking.

This clip from The Simpsons perfectly sums up all you need to know about men's underwear:

Men's underwear is revolting. Even women find it disgusting. Our briefs are the antithesis of your sweet, wonderful, magical panties. They are foul, odious, unholy receptacles of filth—and they contain things you maidenly ladies can't even begin to fathom. Your magnificent va-hinas deserve to be wrapped in woven gold or swaddled in panties made from the Shroud of Turin.

Ah, panties.

Perhaps my favorite word in the entire English language. Yes, I realize some women despise it. Proud women, sitting there in their sexy, little panties. I often wonder, do I like the word for what it represents or for the linguistics of it? (I wonder the same thing about the word puppy. I also often wonder if we, as a people, are spending enough time on the geopolitics of food scarcity.) Furthermore, would I like the word so much if it represented something else, something more mundane? Like, say, turnips. "Honey, can you get me some panties from the garden?"

Fuck, that still sounds kinda hot, doesn't it?

Talk about a magic garden.

I Find This Cartoon Preposterous For A Number Of Reasons

2009-05-02T19:10:00.000-07:00

(1) How would a cat have gotten ahold of a cannon? Especially in 2009. It's not like there are cannon stores on every corner.

(2) Okay, accepting Heathcliff somehow acquired said cannon—how did he pay for it?

(3) Heathcliff's owner yells, "Has anyone seen his pills?" while standing next to the open front door. Clearly, he noticed a cannon sitting on the walkway. Unless a cannon is always there, it should strike him as odd and would most likely be the first place someone would look for missing pills.

(4) We're to believe the neighbor would stand idly by while a cat lights a cannon next to his house? Please.

(5) Isn't procuring a cannon a bit much? I mean, clearly Heathcliff already has the pills he so clearly despises in his possession. Why not just throw them in the trash? Or flush them down the toilet? If he's capable of getting a cannon, surely he's capable of doing those things, too.

(6) No cat can stand up on two legs so confidently.

(7) Likewise, no cat—not even Heathcliff—is capable of not only holding a match in his or her paw, but also somehow lighting that match. Highly implausible.

Dogs Rejected By CBS Before Settling On Lassie

2009-04-29T07:03:00.000-07:00

Humpy
Scabby
Bitey
Three Leg
Paul
Wanky
Sambo The Black Lab
Klanny The White Lab
Contagey
Oozy
Barfy

Mengele
Ball Licker
Gassy
Tinkles
Dander
Drooly
Aggressor
Gloomy
Snobby
Scuzzy
Palsy

Ungrateful Cunt

2009-04-27T19:01:00.000-07:00

If I See Another Fucking Media Story About Twitter, I’m Going To Shoot Up A High School

2009-04-21T19:13:00.000-07:00

I’ve had it. Enough with the fucking Twitter articles already. Nobody, outside of the self-important, self-delusional media, cares. And yes, that includes you, The New York Fucking Times. You should be ashamed of yourself. Every goddamn day, you have a new article on Twi--OH NO! I’m over my 140 character limit! Thanks, Twitter for further dumbing down America by encouraging ppl 2 abbreviate evry wrd. I’ve seen monkeys write more intelligently (www.monkeyquarterlyreview.com).

As for the Times (appearing less and less relevant every day), it’s like some out-of-touch editor heard about Twitter from his teen daughter and threw down the gauntlet to his staff: "We need at least one Twitter story per day, folks! The more, the better!" (Two more articles yesterday, by the way—the same day the esteemed Times was awarded five Pulitzers.) Note: Please know my caustic comments have nothing to do with the Times rejecting a piece I recently submitted to them entitled, "Big Bushes: Friend or Foe?"

Johnny reached his Twitter breaking point over the weekend when the lead story on Yahoo! (reputable news source) was, "Ashton Kutcher wins Twitter battle with CNN."

Where is Al Qaeda when you need them?

Apparently, there was some sort of a competition between the two to see who could first get to one million Twitter subscribers. OMG! How exciting! (Way to up your credibility, CNN.) Let’s ignore for a moment how a person and a network can compete against one another… ("Ashton’s not just a person, Johnny—he’s a celebrity!")

Seriously, though, if you were one of the one million idiots who subscribed to Ashton Kutcher’s "tweets," you’re a bigger asshole than the kid who stole Bunny, my absolute favorite stuffed animal in the whole wide world, out of my preschool desk the day I brought him in for show and tell all those years ago. (Needless to say, Johnny caught the motherfucker. Chased him all the way across the playground and pummeled him. No one steals Bunny.) Why on Earth would you care what this guy had for breakfast or who he thinks is going to win the Super Bowl or how he thinks he can solve the financial crisis? Unless he’s tweeting about putting his cock (granted, his beautiful, beautiful cock) in Demi Moore’s perfectly preserved, St. Elmo’s Fire-era pussy, you should not be so concerned with the goings-on of Mr. Kutcher. Let alone, John Mayer or Mario Lopez or the Geico gecko. Yes, even corporations have gotten in on the act. One of the recent unavoidable Times articles told of Pizza Hut's desire to hire a Twitter intern. (Way to up your credibility, New York Times.) "They'll be our social media journalist, chronicling in 140 characters or less what's going on at Pizza Hut," said VP for Marketing Communications, Bob Kraut. Fascinating. I'll tell you what's going on at Pizza Hut, Mr. Kraut (I swear that's his actual name—hee hee), and I only need 68 characters to do it: yr scumbag white-trash employees R spitting in the alrdy disgusting food. There. How's that? Did I get the job?

I'm sure some of you out there disagree with me. In fact, you and your fellow Twitterati are probably anxious to finish reading this post so you can read the latest tweet from Screech. (What's that? He's dead? Really? Screech? Self-inflicted gunshot wound in 2005? Wow. How did I miss that?) By all means, go. Don't let me stop you. Just promise me afterward you'll walk over to your oven, turn it on and stick your fucking head in it. Or, at the very least, genitally mutilate yourself. You are adding nothing to this planet of ours. You are simply further cluttering it with your inane “welcome 2 twttr oprah!” and your “cngrts ashton!” You are fools and I pray—oh, how I pray—for the day I receive a tweet saying you’re all dead.

You can subscribe to Johnny’s tweets @SPJNNY.

UPDATE 4/22/09: Where on Earth did I put my trench coat? And can someone please direct me to the nearest gun shop? Those knuckleheads at The New York Times have done it again. I was half-joking when I wrote of an out-of-touch Times editor mandating as many Twitter articles as possible. Then I read today's paper and see not one, not two, but three goddamn Twitter articles in the print edition (here, here and here), plus three more in their online edition (here, here and here). That's six (!) fucking Twitter articles in one day—six too many. This blood will be on your hands, Maureen Dowd.

Words I Vowed To Use More Often In 2009 But Have Thus Far Lacked The Opportunity To Do So

2009-04-17T06:25:00.000-07:00

areola
Bananarama
bandolier
bukkake
cajole
castrato
chassis
chuff
churlish
churro
cockles
cocksure
codswallop
coquettish
cowpoke
crantastic or crunchtastic
cryptkeeper
decoupage
derriére
doppelganger
doubloon
elfin
flagellate
fluegelhorn
fortnight
gelatinous
gordito
gunt
haberdasher
hirsute
hunchback
intergalactic
jackanapes
Jewess
kismet
ladyboy
merman
mustachioed
muttonhead
oligarchy
ombudsman
ornery
pansexual
pantaloon
pantied
papacy
perineum
phrenologist
plié
plucky
plumage
pubis
pugilist
purloin
rapier
Sasquatchian
scalawag
schadenfreude
scrimshaw
scrod
scrota
scurvy
shantytown
shewolf
skullduggery
soothsayer
sousaphone
Stallonesque
succubus
swashbuckle
taquito
teetotaler
the
titular
unitard
vagician
vampirical
whoremonger

The Terrorists Have Officially Won, Part Deux

2009-04-13T11:54:00.000-07:00

TV, why have you forsaken me? Even in this age of unlimited media options—DVDs, Internet machines, mp3s, those optical illusion posters where if you look at rows and rows of geometric shapes long enough, at just the right angle, the image turns from a young woman into an old hag—I give you more time and attention than ever before. Yet, you take away brilliance like The Wire and The Shield and give me Bromance and a new Bob Saget show. Why not just slip me a roofie and rape me over the side of the couch? It’d be way more respectful and enjoyable.

Instead, you sink to a new low. You rape me—you rape all of us—sans roofie. Have you no decency? Obviously not: After all, you’re now offering us a program so vile, I went blind for nearly 16 hours after seeing an ad for it on the side of a bus.

Of course, I’m talking about The Cougar.

Now, I’ve made no effort to hide my feelings regarding older women and their golden—nay, silver—pussies (see here, here and here), but this has gone too far.

At a time when the country is sinking further and further into the abyss, when morale is at a record low, is this what we really need? (Excuse me, while I climb onto my high horse.) A forty-something woman with fake tits and a recent LVR procedure? (Laser Vaginal Rejuvenation. Duh.)

I’m not saying we need shows like Leave It To Beaver (a much better title for The Cougar), or Touched By An Angel or The Osmonds. Or the low-rated, prematurely canceled, Touched By An Osmond. I’m just saying, we can do better, America.

Who am I kidding?

This country is fucked. Maybe it’s time to move to South America. Sábado Giganto looks like Jane Eyre next to The Cougar.

If, after reading this, you still find yourself watching The Cougar on Wednesday evening, shame on you. If you’re instead watching Bromance, God help you. And if you’re that one lunatic who’s watching both The Cougar and Bromance? Well, then, God help us.

God help us all.

Johnny-ism Of The Day: "Doggy Fish Butt"

2009-04-10T06:41:00.000-07:00

n. Colloquial. A term referring to the reeking stench that emanates from the anus of nine-year old chocolate labradors (including Spanish Doggy) after hours upon hours of intense, unholy rectal licking. While some might view the ability to lick one's anus as a gift from the Gods, said canines apparently feel quite the opposite: They work the anus with the joyless expression and workmanlike vigor of a washed-up porn star. Circling and circling around its swollen red rim, before darting their tongues deep inside, as deep as they will go. Desperately trying to soothe the irritable anus or perhaps extract something out of it. Something no doubt more unspeakable and gruesome than anything you can imagine. At this point, the odor is often revolting enough to be considered debilitating—it's not uncommon to hear reports of people driven to their knees due to a particularly foul strain of canem piscis assus. Unfortunately, such cases only bring those victims' noses that much closer to the canine anus, the canus, if you will. Death has only been reported a handful of times in these instances (6/17/83, Missoula, Montana, courtesy of Cocoa and 2/4/98, Nashua, New Hampsire, courtesy of Max), though victims have claimed the anal-fishlike smell is so foul and pungent at this proximity—one woman swore she saw her dog pull a rotting Atlantic Haddock out of his ass—that they would gladly welcome death, should it come.

Forty Ounces Of Class

2009-04-08T07:38:00.000-07:00

Why serve champagne when you can serve this?

I happened upon this magnificent elixir during a recent trip to a Northern California grocery store. Did I buy a bottle? You bet your ass Johnny did. After all, nothing says dinner party like five bottles of America's Premium Malt Liquor.

Just kidding. Do you really think Johnny attends things like dinner parties, soirées or fetes? Please. If you want to read about shit like that, head on over to here. No, Johnny was going back to Cali, Cali, Cali to party with his usual assortment of gangbangers, Russian mobsters, professional kickboxers and 80s metal groupies. Oh, and I was also out there for my niece's Christening. Nothing says you have been given the gift of the Holy Spirit and the doorway to salvation through the grace of God like four-and-a-half bottles of America's Premium Malt Liquor (I may have drank half a bottle in the church parking lot).

Play Ball!

2009-04-06T07:09:00.000-07:00

Note the restraint shown in the above headline. I could've gone with, "Play (With My Left) Ball!" or "A-Rod Sucks Balls," but I took the classy route. Is Johnny growing up? If by growing up, you mean no longer playing with my childhood Star Wars and G.I. Joe figures when I visit my parent's house in New Jersey, then sadly no. (You try and resist Storm Shadow and his removable swords. Removable swords!)

Well, Opening Day is here. And it couldn't have come soon enough. I, for one, am really looking forward to seeing my Mets collapse on the final day of the season for the third year in a row. In their sparkling new ballpark, CitiField, no less. (Was AIG Field taken?) Can't wait. But, even more so, I'm looking forward to watching and hearing Alex Rodriguez be serenaded with "A-Roid... A-Roid... A-Roid..." chants for the next six months. And if we're lucky, and the Gods are good, we'll also hopefully see plenty of AA batteries rain down upon his oversized, Barry Bonds-esque head.

And, if we're really lucky, may they ricochet into Jeter's stunningly handsome mulatto visage.

Oh, please. Like you weren't thinking the same thing.

The Biggest Douchebag In The World

2009-04-02T08:07:00.000-07:00

No, I'm not talking about me—even though I left you sans Johnny for more than a week. My sincere apologies, Johnnyheads—I know how much you need a hit of Johnny every now and then.

Johnny's been out on the road, seeing this great nation of ours. I know, I know—I should’ve told you. I don’t know what I was thinking. You’re right, you’re right—I wasn’t thinking. Perhaps this little tidbit will make up for it: During my travels, I had the exquisite pleasure of seeing the world’s biggest douchebag. Surely, you’ve seen him, too. He’s currently waiting in the lobby of upscale hotels across the country. I’m talking about this guy: early- to mid-30s, white as cocaine, decked out in matching golf shirt and pants, mirrored Oakley sunglasses, wearing flip-flops while holding golf shoes in his left hand, golf bag over the shoulder, visor atop his carefully gelled hair (the preferred head attire of all d-bags), talking loudly about some pressing deal on his Blackberry, smirking all the while.

Yes, all these things qualify him as a first-rate douchebag. But, what truly sets him apart—the coup de grace, if you will—are the two cigars he’s carrying in a Ziploc bag. No doubt he saved them for this special outing—carefully packing them in his suitcase next to his silk boxers—to share with a business associate on the first tee, or perhaps his fellow douchebag buddy (“bro”) from business school who’s getting married in a couple weeks. (They’ll light up and reminisce about the time they double-teamed that passed-out girl from Vanderbilt, both steadfastly denying to themselves that it constituted rape.)

Do I purposely step on the back of his flip-flop as I walk behind him, causing him to nearly trip over his golf bag? Yes. Yes, I do. Do I apologize profusely while telling him with my eyes that I feel no remorse and wish him nothing but suffering for the rest of his days? Yes, I do that, as well.

Johnny’s back, motherfuckers.

Like You’ve Never Been Pope, Visited A Continent Where 22 Million People Are Living With HIV, And Said That Condoms Only Increased The Problem Of AIDs

2009-03-24T10:22:00.000-07:00

Apparently, priests had complained to the Holy Pontiff that
sex with altar boys "just didn't feel as good" with condoms

Like You've Never Imprisoned, Enslaved And Repeatedly Impregnated Your Austrian Daughter In A Windowless Dungeon For 24 Years...

2009-03-21T11:15:00.000-07:00

The doting dad, Josef Fritzl—is it too much to ask for a smile?