Mike Wise Discovers Fire, Promptly Dies in One

Fire Good.

Chances are the name Mike Wise isn't ringing a lot of bells for you. By the look of him, he's not ringing a lot of bells for anyone. This taupe Neanderthal is the latest in a long line of Washington Post sports writers who never played sports, but nonetheless manufactured a career talking authoritatively about what it is to be an athlete (we're looking at you Michael Wilbon and Tony Kornheiser). Honestly, we don't know how the Post keeps digging these guys up. D.C. figured when ESPN took those yabbering motormouths off our hands that we'd get a respite. Kornheiser spent the ten years following the Redskins last relevant season writing variations of the same annoying article just with less and less actual sports. But no, The Post brought in Mike Wise as a scab. Lucky us.

So we open up the sports page last week. Top left corner is Mike's bemused face, and an article called, Even in Season of Change, Some Things Remain the Same. It begins:

Great. Beautiful. Just swell. I am finally geeked up to attend an entire, 48-minute WNBA game - which for a lot of my colleagues in town is the work equivalent of visiting your in-laws - and they blow it.

Why is going to a Mystics game so bad, Mike? Is it because they're so much worse than the Redskins, Wizards or Nationals? Teams that picked #4, #1, #1 in their respective drafts due to their magnificent incompetence. The Mystics were in contention all season, and are the number one seed in their division. They don't feature an Albert Haynesworth malcontent and their shooting guard didn't offer to play Russian roulette in the locker room. So why is going to see them so bad? Is it because you don't know the rules of WNBA games? Like for instance, oh I don't know, the WNBA play 40-minutes games? It's the NBA that plays 48 minutes. Easy mistake to make when you don't take the sport seriously, and openly admit you hate going to the games. And by the way, just because you corrected yourself in the online edition doesn't change how it looks in glorious print. So why is watching the Mystics so bad that despite employing a phalanx of beat writers to cover the minutiae of the Redskins off-season, it chooses to run generic AP articles to cover Mystics away games? Since when did being bad have any relation to the quality of the sports coverage in Washington? If that was the case, the Redskins should have been in a media whiteout since Clinton.

Is it because they're just girls? Is that it Mike? Have you spent a lifetime covering up the sting of getting picked last for sports by sneering at women? Let's see what else you have to say about the athletes you are paid to cover:

I wanted to see someone lay some wood on somebody, plant a babe on the hardwood, put a forearm in somebody's trachea.

Babe? You wanted to see babes? What kind of wood are you talking about laying on somebody, anyway? Were you dreaming of making it rain at the strip club after the game? Are you fucking kidding us? How is the weather in 1958? Are you lost in a Don Draper fantasy where you have hair? And no, before you get started, there's nothing inherently wrong with the word "babe". Couples call each other "babe" and all manner of weird pet names all the time, but calling women you don't know babe, particularly in a professional setting, went out of style with Farrah Fawcett. It's kind of like the word "boy", Mike. Buddies can say, "he's my boy" and it's a term of endearment. But I dare you to walk onto a playground anywhere in DC and tell the first black man you see, "Hey, come here boy." See what happens. It's all context, Mike. Context and history.

But back to babe. See the reason we have our matches out is that you contribute to a sports culture that denigrates and marginalizes women's sports (see also: Don Imus' Nappy-Headed Hos). A male culture that only likes one women's sport, tennis. Why? Because, the women are viewed as babes to borrow your pithy idiom, and gives middle aged guys a socially acceptable venue to ogle fit twenty year olds in tight outfits. The rest of women's sports are thrown overboard because they aren't as good as their male counterparts. The NBA is better basketball than the WNBA. Major League Soccer features better athletes than Women's Professional Soccer, and so on and so on. We've heard that argument made quietly for years. Guys just prefer to watch the best athletes, and "sadly" men are the better athletes blah, blah, blah. Except there's one problem with that argument. It's not remotely accurate. We'll give but one example...

Where is the best football in the world played? The NFL obviously. So by that argument why would anyone watch college football? College football must be dying a slow death since it features thousands of players who will never play in the NFL. It's an inferior brand of football. No? It's hugely popular? And there's an entire Arena Football League filled with guys who couldn't cut it in the NFL? How can that be? Men only want to watch the best athletes compete. That's the explanation for why women's sports aren't embraced by men. But now you tell me that, in fact, men are quite happy to watch all levels of athletes compete from the professional all the way down to the cult status of high school football in Texas. Could it be that many sports fans just like to see evenly matched teams competing hard?

Maybe you want to provide another explanation for why the Mystics are such a horrible part of your job, Mike. And why you pander to such a stereotypical, knuckle-dragging male viewpoint on your radio show. You are a smarter guy than the anything-women-like-is-lame persona you play on the air. Women aren't actually that bad, Mike. You might discover you even like women if you took them seriously and didn't treat them like punchlines in bad stand up. You do know Henny Youngman is dead, right? Take women's sports.....puhlease. It just isn't funny anymore. So start acting like a guy with a college education. Start leading and stop following, or else quit inflicting your prehistoric fingers on computer keyboards. Would you do it for us, babe?

Mark Zuckerberg Should Die in a Fire

No One likes this.

We're going to keep this short and sweet. Facebook was odious enough when it was just giving a generation of idiots the illusion that they mattered to anyone. Fine, whatever, P.T. Barnum would have loved the Web. (Important Safety Tip: If more people wish you happy birthday on your Facebook wall than to your actual face then you need to stop, unplug your computer and hang yourself with the power cord.) But now this billionaire mouthbreather wants to trademark the word "face," and sue anyone who uses the word "book" in the context of online or social networking. Because it "creates a false suggestion of an affiliation or connection between [Teachbook] and Facebook, where none exists."

Surprisingly, we would actually agree with you except for one problem. You didn't coin the term "facebook," and it doesn't belong to you, Mark. Colleges have been issuing facebooks for years, and they called them, wait for it, facebooks. You know who had a facebook? Harvard had a facebook; that's where you got your "idea" to create an electronic facebook so you could scam on girls (seriously, have you looked in the mirror?) This is a little like creating a website called Hardware.com that sells hardware, and then trying to prevent anyone from using the word "hardware" to sell anything to do with fucking hardware. The word "face" and "book" were associated with social networking long before your pimply-ass appropriated them. It's why you appropriated them. If you wanted an original name you should have invented a word like "Sony." But you didn't. You took an existing word, and used it for your website. Trying to say that it belongs to you now is just the pinnacle of ex post facto douchebaggery.

Wherefore the sudden bravado, Mark? Is it because David Fincher cast that Michael Cera shaped tumor Jesse Eisenberg to play you in the movie? Perhaps you should ponder the significance of that casting decision, Mark; it's not a compliment. Otherwise, after you get done with teachbook.com you might try something stupid like suing Apple for it's video chat feature: Facetime. Hey, video chat is social and it requires a network... We'd like to see that, and watch Steve Jobs defile your corpse like a Silicon Valley Vincenzo Coccotti. He's done it before.

Maybe we'll trademark the words "die" and "fire." Watch your ass, Firefox. You know, as in, Mark go die in a fire(™).

Rod Blagojevich and Lou Pinella Leave Chicago Cab Fare

A Happy Ending is an Extra $50.

The City of Chicago was seen teetering uncertainly down Michigan Avenue early Sunday morning wearing only a dazed expression and the same cheap cocktail dress from the night before. Makeup haphazardly reapplied, the City looked a little worse for wear and even it's oversized Gucci sunglasses couldn't hide its self-loathing. How long would it go on letting itself be America's booty call? Hounded for comment as it tried vainly to hail a cab, the City flashed an embarrassed smile and said, "well, it ain't Breakfast at Tiffany's."

Meanwhile, tucked comfortably into a booth at Smith and Wollensky, Rod Blagojevich and Lou Pinella were overheard ordering another round of bloody marys and comparing exploits. Both had been seen romancing the naive City of Chicago, and it was unclear which of them had bedded the impressionable Second City.

(Transcript from Patrick FitzGerald's wiretap of conversation between Lou Pinella and Rod Blogojevich):

R.B: How did you finally get rid of Chicago?
L.P: I squeezed out a few tears, and said I need to visit my sick mom.
R.B: No fucking way...and the City bought it? It actually applauded you? You're twenty-one games out of first place. The Bulls may win more games this season.
L.P: Yeah, but that's a pretty good year for the Cubs...and remember...Chicago never quits on a loser. Just ask Richard Daley. Anyway, you're one to talk... how did you manage to get into its pants again? I never thought it would talk to you after that trial.
R.B: I know; I can't believe it even took my call. But next thing I knew we were at the Chicago Comic Con. One thing led to another, and there I am posing for pictures and signing autographs.
L.P: But, did you really charge $50 and $80? Heard they were lining up. I almost fell out of the dugout.
R.B: What can I say?
L.P: You are shameless! I love this guy.
R.B: The thing to remember is the City has low self-esteem. It didn't like seeing me in N.Y.C doing The Apprentice. You should come with me next time...fish in a barrel.
L.P: You think Chicago would fall for it again?
R.B: Ask your sick mom.
L.P: What a town!
R.B: (Cell phone rings) Hold up! Speak of the devil, this is Chicago calling now (men giggle and answer). Hi, honey. How you doing? Yeah? We had a good time too...Of course we respect you. How could you think that? We just promised to visit Lou's mom this morning....No, of course we forgive you. Okay, gotta go.
L.P: Thank god, here are my eggs benny.
R.B: Mind if I steal that "my mom's sick" bit for my retrial?
L.P: Use it in good health.
R.B: Next time we should get it to invite a friend. I hear Cleveland just got dumped.
L.P: I like where your heads at.

Tila Tequila: A Case Study in Self-Awareness

Vhat ze fuck?

In Beyond the Pleasure Principle, one of Sigmund Freud's most controversial texts, the renowned cigar smoker postulated that people have a tendency to seek pleasure and avoid pain. A pretty straightforward conclusion if you've ever spent time at a county fair. However, he went on to argue that there also exists a "death wish" or "death drive" that can lead to dangerous or self-destructive behavior. In the ninety years since it's publication, the existence of the Freudian "death wish" has been hotly debated amongst his disciples and the profession as a whole.

Freud based much of his research on World War I veterans, and their self-destructive reactions to the trauma they'd endured. Now, we don't know the perfect modern day recreation of the horrific battlefield conditions seen at Verdun or the Somme, but the Gathering of the Juggalos has got to be close. Imagine the Lilith Fair except full of angry, disenfranchised white trash abortions. This annual get together of Darwin's footnotes is hosted by the rap duo Insane Clown Posse although when two guys started qualifying as a posse is anyone's guess. We'll let the group's lyrics speak for themselves:

I'd grab your titties and stretch em down past your waist
Let em go, and watch em both spring up in your face
I'd sing love songs to you, the best I can
Get you naked, and hit it like a CAVEMAN!!!

Apart from reinforcing the stereotype that white boys have no flow, we are shocked to learn that ICP's fans are largely men and that the Gathering of the Juggalos is also known as the Grinding of the JimmyDean. Apparently misogynistic lyrics, wearing clown makeup and throwing rocks at each other doesn't attract the ladies the way it used to. Seriously, can we suggest a World of Warcraft account, a six of Mike's Hard Lemonade and a Pauly Shore t-shirt as a step in the right direction?

Enter the Juggalettes' Revenge (not making that up). A Ladies Night event intended to give ICP's legions of female fans an equal chance to feel empowered...or something. An idea so shockingly bad that even Lil Kim backed out. But apparently it didn't seem like a bad an idea to Tila Tequila. No, she signed right up saying, "'Hell yeah! I'm down with the Juggalos!" Now the simple answer is that Ms. Tequila thought that as the 4'11" daughter of Vietnamese immigrants who through constant nudity and indecipherable sexual orientation had risen to quasi-reality TV celebrity status, she would no doubt be embraced by a group that shelve their copies of Mein Kampf next to the Bible. And that the imminent release of her oft delayed debut album needed the synergy of an open air Planned Parenthood rally to give it some street cred.

That's the simple answer, but we think the answer is a corollary to Freud's work - call it the "celebrity death wish" or "Evel Knievel Syndrome." Loosely defined as: the irresistible urge to do something catastrophically stupid and dangerous when the quasi-celebrity achieves self-awareness and recognizes their own pointlessness. When that moment arrives, the public figure in question immediately signs up for a Curt Cobain Firearms Safety course and the countdown begins. O.J. Simpson's low speed white bronco police chase is textbook Evel Knievel Syndrome as is Michael Jackson's pill popping, Gus Frerotte's headbutting a stadium and the X-Games.

But does Tila's ill-fated performance qualify? Consider the evidence. Among the items flung at Ms. Tequila: rocks, eggs, cans, bottles and dildos. Yes, that's dildos plural. Multiple dildos were lobbed at her although none struck her. Must have been one hell of a security checkpoint to get into the show. Ask yourself where they hid them. And why dildos, you might ask? Most likely because Shaggy 2 Dope (one half of the posse) told a thousand Juggalos the day before that, "I'll throw my dick at her." Must have a newer edition of Emily Post with the updated section on how to victimize your guests.

Emily Post advises only throwing half-full liquor bottles.

So it wasn't as if she wasn't warned ahead of time that she was walking into a rogue's gallery of Anthony Burgess' rejects. It was an ugly scene by all accounts and the shuddering, slobbering beasts in the pit were starved for human blood. And still still she went onstage. But when it became clear that the Juggalo weren't going to light her on fire, why did she feel the need to goad them into it by shooting Silly String into the crowd, screaming "I don't give a fuck" and yanking off her top? Was it because she thought that what this sausage fest needed was bare breasts to cool them out? So again, we ask you gentle reader, innocent lapse in judgment or proof that Freud was onto something? Has Ms. Tequila achieved self-awareness and is now trying to fling herself under a bus Corey Haim-style? If it's true then we should expect to see Tila deejaying Taliban birthday parties in the very near future. Time to light that cigar, Sigmund.

Nice Try, Glenn...

Famed Matador 'El Becko!' taunting the bull into another senseless charge.

Forgive us for stating the obvious, but Bullfighting only works if the bull charges. The day bulls figure out that maybe charging blindly at the cape isn't working as a strategy is the day that bullfighting is done. Without the bull charging all you have is a silly man in marvelously tight pants and an inflamed sense of the dramatic pouting in an oversized sandbox. We here at Die in a Fire would never fall for such base provocation, but the bull never learns, does it? It sees that beautiful red cape fluttering before them and they're sure that this time they will gore the bastard. They feel it deep down in their primal cajones. Next thing they know, they're dead and their ears are being hacked off as trophies for pretty girls. It's a time-honored tradition.

Why our sudden interest in bullfighting? Simple. Because the greatest living American matador, El Becko! has returned to the scene and he's got a brand new cape for August. As we speak, he's out in the ring working the poor bull into a lather. We take you now live to the steps of the Lincoln Memorial where on August 28th, the forty-seventh anniversary of the March on Washington, El Becko is planning a "Restoring Honor" rally. It's a genius move - El Becko! restoring our honor is like Wilt Chamberlain restoring our chastity. It's like Ted Bundy hosting a Take Back the Night rally. It's like Heinrich Himmler presiding over a bris (oh that's right, El Becko!, we went Nazi for no reason, kind of stings don't it?) It's guaranteed to drive the bull insane...let's listen in:

"It was not my intention to select 8/28 because of the Martin Luther King tie. It is the day he made that speech. I had no idea that until I announced it and I walked offstage and my researchers said, 'The New York Times has already published that this is [the same day as the King speech]' - and I said, 'Oh, Jeez.'"

"I had no idea." Wink, wink. That's a nice warm up. Irritating, and obviously disingenuous. Particularly the passive reference to the NYT, which labels it the provocateur for pointing out El Becko's innocent coincidence in the first place. And a quick round of applause to the New York Times for finding and publishing the story in the time it took El Becko! to walk offstage. That's quality investigative journalism from the "lame-stream media". But despite his resplendent package, isn't this just the same old line that El Becko! has been using on hot headed bulls for years? Maybe he's lost a step because there's sure nothing new here so far. Surely the bull won't fall for such obviously and straight forward provocation! Let's see what happens next...

"There will be absolutely no politics involved. This rally will honor the troops, unite the American people under the principles of integrity and truth, and make a pledge to restore honor within ourselves and our country."

El Becko! really snapped the cape with that one, and the bull took it pretty hard. The bull is beginning to froth at the obvious hypocrisy, the hollow rhetoric, the claim that there will be no politics and then scheduling Sarah Palin as a speaker. Still, I don't know how the bull can fall for this. It can't be that stupid, can it? Surely it must know that it's a trap. That El Becko! wants the bull to charge, needs the bull to charge and will just argue that the bull wouldn't have charged if he, El Becko! wasn't right. Why must the bull persecute poor El Becko! But so far the bull has shown restraint. El Becko is looking a mite frustrated. Oh lord, he's pulling out the big guns.

"I believe in divine providence. I believe this is a reason [the date was chosen], because whites don't own the Founding Fathers. Whites don't own Abraham Lincoln. Blacks don't own Martin Luther King. Humans, humans embrace their ideas or reject their ideas. Too many are rejecting the Founders' ideas."

Direct hit. The bull looks pissed. The calculated use of the word "own" was masterful, invoking slavery without directly touching on it while simultaneously wrapping himself in the protective mantle of the Founders. Not to mention the infuriating use of "divine providence," which is redundant and stupid - providence is by definition divine. And to further claim that God omnisciently steered El Becko! to that date to better "direct the universe and the affairs of humankind with wise benevolence." Magnificent. Arrogant, faux innocence mixed with just a hint of heavenly brimstone. We were wrong to doubt El Becko! The bull is teetering and is once again almost entirely under El Becko's spell. All it will take is the merest nudge...

Too many have forgotten Abraham Lincoln's ideas and far too many have either gotten just lazy or they have purposely distorted Martin Luther King's ideas of judge a man by the content of his character."

Quoting Martin Luther King, Jr.? Dirty pool! Oh God, the bull has lost it...it's charging...Nancy Pelosi is screaming bloody murder about the contents of El Becko's sordid character...John Stewart is rolling his eyes...Al Sharpton is blathering nonsense...as the bull passes harmlessly within inches of El Becko! Where did that sword come from? Oh, the humanity. We can't watch the carnage. And now El Becko!, covered in blood, is smiling that smug, knowing, half smile as his adoring public showers him with roses. Toreador! Toreador!! Toreador!!!

Stupid bull...but we're pretty sure we could get him. Such a pretty cape. Get. Our. Matches.

Profiles in CouRAGE: Steven Slater

You talkin' to me, gorgeous?

Periodically, Die in a Fire must pause from administering its signature brand of vigilante justice to recognize a citizen soldier. An individual who has stared into the abyss and, not liking what he sees staring back, grabs a couple of beers, deploys the chute and rides off into our seething, malcontented hearts. These individuals must be singled out for their commitment to feckless rage and for embracing their inner-tantrum. And for providing delightful daydreams for the countless chicken shits out there who talk a big game (see authors of this blog) but at the end of each day go meekly into that good night.

We recognize Mr. Slater as our Profile in CouRage for August. Not because he snapped like dry tinder in the Moscow suburbs, threw his career away and bitched out the passenger who epitomized what happens when you put Americans in cramped, enclosed spaces with other Americans. No, we recognize Mr. Slater for staging his epic flameout when the plane was already at the gate. And remember this was a Pittsburgh to NYC flight - what is that ninety minutes airtime tops? Can't imagine why he wasn't scheduled on international flights. Hello flash rage! Seven years in jail, or wait the ninety seconds for the plane to open normally? He chose jail...he chose jail! No one makes Stephen Slater bleed his own blood. No one puts Stephen Slater in a corner. No one.

Now some would argue that Mr. Slater is a criminal. Sure, technically. But since Mr. Slater jumped in his Jeep and drove home, he isn't a very good one. Some would argue that deploying an emergency chute endangered lives. Sure. But ask yourself during rush hour if you would really miss them. Some would argue that grabbing two beers is incredibly shortsighted...actually, here we can't argue with you. But Mr. Slater is his own crazy person, and sometimes crazy people think they're only going to need two beers after spontaneously and publicly quitting their entire industry. Sad but true.

Now a word of warning to you, Mr. Slater. The sad truth is you're going to die in a fire. Not by our hand (well at least not until you try and capitalize on your new found celebrity), but don't be mislead by this outpouring of support. Sure, there are already "Free Stephen Slater" T-Shirts for sale online. Yes, you've created quite a buzz and people are currently rallying around your Peter Finch-esque tirade against self-entitlement and mefirst-ism. Passenger behavior will be a hot topic on the Internet and cable news until, oh, Friday, but don't make the mistake of thinking this is about you. All you've done is given happy thoughts to a nation of cowards who dream of drawing such a showstopping line in the sand. That's it. But, right about the time you accept that invitation from Letterman to do a Top Ten list, right about the time the thirtieth parody/tribute video hits YouTube, right about the time South Park features you in yet another "oooh aren't we so topical" episode the worm is going to turn and that worm will have matches. Who knows, maybe you make it all the way to October, but the pop culture hipsters who dress up as you for Halloween will be your death knell.

Americans eat their own media creations (and Britain's, we're looking at you Susan Boyle). We're very efficient that way. So be careful how much you milk this. Keep your yapper shut and don't believe the hype. Eventually the irony of celebrating a guy who stood up to self-entitlement by deploying an emergency chute (thereby selfishly inconveniencing the rest of the passengers) will catch up with America. And on that day, it's going to get very flaming torches and pitchforks around your condo.

Sarah Palin is on Notice

Sarah Palin seen devouring American Political Discourse.

Sarah. May we call you Sarah? Never mind, we don't actually care. Sarah, we here at Die in a Fire have been struggling with what to do with you. You represent a unique and difficult challenge for our fledgling revenge-zine. Ever since you rose up from the briny depths of American Politics, ripping our legs from under us and leaving us tottering in stunned disbelief, we’ve known that one day we would meet again. Like Zeus, John McCain released you Kraken-style upon the American zeitgeist, his misbegotten political love child birthed from the quivering, crack-addled thighs of Fox News. You are this blog’s raison d’etre, our inspiration...our white whale. Your relentless mangling of logic, common sense and civil behavior wrapped in the mantle of patriotism both horrifies and inspires. Like vengeful monkeys, we will return your lessons upon you tenfold.

We look down at the mangled stump, a reminder of the equilibrium and moderation we've lost. We used to be nice boys. We held the door open for pregnant ladies, gave tourists accurate directions and let people merge in front of us in traffic. Now we are but the twisted remains of those fine young men. And we vow to hunt the seas for signs of the vile spume discharging from your fearsome blowhole. Revenge shall be ours.

Unfortunately, we realize the offenses that would consign an ordinary douchebag to the fire are mere child’s play for an über-douche of your caliber. You’re the Ernst Blofeld of international douches...if douches met in underground volcano lairs, you’d be the douchebag at the end of the table petting the Persian kitty. Your douchebaggery is of such monumental scale that we realize we must bide our time. Your penny-ante, day-to-day nonsense has made it hard for any one thing you do or say to stand out as significant. We must build an airtight case and wait for you to unleash a douche-nami of such staggering scale that no one will dispute your fate.

An example? Of course. One word: “refudiate.” You pulled a George Bush, and made up a word, “Ground Zero Mosque supporters, doesn’t it stab you in the heart as it does our throughout the heartland? Peaceful Muslims, please refudiate.” Repudiate? Refute? Who knows, and apart from the whole stabbing in the heart bit, who cares? We all misspeak, and we all misspell. Actually, up until this point we have no real issue. But then you went and deleted the first tweet and followed it up with this, "'Refudiate,' 'misunderestimate,' 'wee-wee'd up.' English is a living language. Shakespeare liked to coin new words too. Got to celebrate it!” What the fuck? Seriously?

English is a living language? Check. Agreed.

Shakespeare liked to coin new words? Check. Agreed.

Got to celebrate it? Sure? But by being an assclown?

The difference? Are you kidding? You need us to explain how you are different from Shakespeare? Come on, Snoop Dogg (who has eleven braincizzells left) has made up his share of words but even he knows better than to claim common ground with the Bard of Avon. Fine, fine, we’ll explain: Shakespeare did it on purpose, you fucking banshee. “Coin” implies intent, not spontaneous dyslexia. Do you even know how hard it is to make coins? I painted the guest bedroom last week. I accidentally spilled some paint on the floor. “What?” I said, defensively. “Jackson Pollock spilled paint too. Got to celebrate it!” What? What!? No. Nice try, “irregardless” of outcome, intent is a critical path, Sarah. Jackson Pollock made art; I made a mess. William Shakespeare was a towering figure in world literature; you just aren't that bright or well-educated (even by 17th century standards). Can you appreciate the difference? But as long as we’re talking about intent...we want to incinerkillinafireu. God, we love a living language.

Yup, anyone else...bonfire city. But you? This would be like sending Bernie Madoff to jail for shoplifting a pack of gum. Can’t do it. Why? Because we know you can do better. As scary as it is to admit, deep down in a place that we don’t stick in the mashed potatoes at parties, we want to see your masterpiece. We need to see it. Even if we can’t handle it. So bring it, you big beautiful white grizzly-whale. We’ll be waiting on the roiling high seas of American culture, flaming harpoon in hand. And so we leave you with the paraphrased curse of another batshit crazy, hate-filled sea captain, “to the last we grapple with thee; from hell's heart we stab at thee; for hate's sake we spit our last breath at thee...anyone bring a lighter?”

Michael Edwards Jr. Should Die in a Fire

How you doin'?

How are we doin'? Fuck you. That's how we're doin'. Hey! If we wanted the Black Joey Tribiani leering at us we'd be getting makeup tips from that Land Manatee formerly known as Snooki. Don't worry if you don't recognize this smug douchebag. Consider yourself fortunate...and dry. What's up with the wife beater? Didn't they outlaw those back when Cops was still on the air? Jesus, he's still looking at us. If we want a guy to look at us that way, we'd watch Old Spice Guy commercials on YouTube:

"Hello Ladies, look at your man."
"Now back to me."
"Now back to your man"
"Now back to me."
"Thank god he doesn't look like me, but if he started jerking off into a Vitamin Water Bottle four or five times a day he could smell like me."
"Look down. Back at me. Where are you? You're in the grocery store with the man your man could smell like if he jerked off into a Vitamin Water bottle four or five times a day."
"What's in my hand? I have it. It's a Vitamin Water bottle."
"Look again! I'm now aiming that bottle at the back of your neck!"
"Anything is possible when you are a cowardly semen squirter."
"I'm in a jail."

Yeah, you read that right.. You see... this smirking motherfucker here got charged with second degree assault for spraying a woman outside the Gaithersburg Giant and then speeding away in a car. Apparently he may be a serial semen sprayer (say that five times fast Kevin Spacey). We don't want to put other sex offenders up on a pedestal here, but I'm pretty sure that even the pedophiles will try and shank you in the joint for giving them a bad name.

But how did this criminal mastermind get caught? DNA? Sure sure that's a possibility. The fast thinking of some CSI drone? Surprisingly no. This is actually the part where the Old Semen Guy reveals himself to be even dumber than his smirking mugshot might suggest. You see, he used his Giant Rewards Card to make a purchase right before he pulled out his ten inch Vitamin Water Bottle. Really? What the fuck did you need to buy? Klenex? Maybe some Lubriderm and two cantaloupes? I mean really the mind boggles. Who mixes sexual assault with a trip to the grocery store? Did you think you were going to class up your assault by buying some fava beans and a nice Chianti? Look I hate to break it to you, but Thomas Harris didn't write Hannibal Lecter as a semen squirter because he didn't think it was cool enough. Actually, as I remember Miggs in the next cell threw some semen on Clarice. How did that work out for ole Miggs?

Well there's no need to chew off your own tongue, just use that Giant Reward card to buy a big bag of charcoal so that you, Mr. Michael Edwards Jr. can die in a fire. And the fire should be doused with Vitamin Water. Yes actual Vitamin Water, we're ironic and vindictive not pervs.

Snooki Polizzi Should Die in a Fire

Tell them apart, we dare you

Well, it didn't take long but we have our first long distance dedication die in a fire. Lindsey B. of Bethesda, MD writes:

Dear Die in a Fire Guys,

Long time reader, first time writer! My boyfriend is in the Army and is posted in Germany. I miss him so much. I write him everyday, but the distance is really hard. His name is Lorenzo but everyone calls him Icicles because he's so cool under fire. He's always wanted to see a cast member of the Jersey Shore die in a fire, and I think if I can make that happen that it will bring us closer together than ever!

Lonely in Bethesda,  Lindsey B.

Well Lindsey, we here at Die in a Fire were moved by your blatantly fake letter. So much so that we've decided to set the tanning beds to Hiroshima. So from Lindsey to Lorenzo, this one goes out to you!

Snooki, Snooki, Snooki... what is left to be said about this wet bag of oatmeal stuffed in faux animal prints? What is there to be said that wasn't said more succinctly by the guy who punched you in the face during season one? Remember how no one came to your defense? For most people that would have provoked a moment of reflection. Most people would think, "Hmm...I got punched in the head (real, real hard) and no one unfurled the 'Violence Against Women' flags." Hell, the National Organization of Women released a press statement saying, "the bitch had it coming. We get that. We're cool." So one of two possibilities emerge. Either NOW misidentified you as a Shih Tzu or in a place she doesn't like to admit Terry O'Neill wants to douse you in gasoline and dance naked around your charred remains.

We think secretly even you know you should die in a fire. Some part of your ancient reptilian brain knows that if you were to breed there is a good chance you would eat your young, and let's face it the odds that you are correctly using birth control are fucking remote. Condoms don't go on your head, Snooki! Jesus. That doomsday clock that is your uterus is ticking, and a brood of cocobutter lagoon creatures suckling at your milky funbags is only a matter of time. Your uterus must be stopped, and deep down you know it. Hence the tanning beds! You're just trying to set yourself on fire one cancerous cell at a time. Sure it's slow, but so are you. We applaud you for that. Too few of our nation's biggest douches are willing to pitch in. And we here at Die in a Fire would have left you to complete your slow humbling self-immolation by UVA ray. That was until last Friday when we were greeted by the unsightly image of a drunk hobbit with a bad dye job getting dragged to the hoosegow.

The second season of the Jersey Shore, set in Florida, premiered last Thursday. Apparently, Jersey is so sick of you that they shipped you off to Miami (say hi to Zydrunas for us). Anyway, you celebrated in the only way you know how: getting obliterated at bars in Seaside Heights, N.J. and faceplanting on the boardwalk. That's fine, you're forty-seven years old and legally entitled to a little fun. No problem. Perhaps the pink, zebra striped t-shirt with the word "Slut" across the front is a little tacky but let's not nitpick. We think you need to die in a fire for the following outburst:

"You can't tell me what to do, I'm Snooki. Do you know who I am? I am fucking Snooki. You can't do this... I'm fucking Snooki!"

Yes, yes you are. And for the sin of thinking that being a national punchline is a good career move and for not knowing who Andy Warhol was you can die in a fire, Snooki.

Zydrunas Ilgauskas Should Die in a Fire

So the fat barrel of monkey spunk pictured above is leaving the Cleveland Cavaliers via free agency. Who can blame him? LaBron James is out of there, the owner has revealed himself to be the Yosemite Sam of the NBA, and as a wiser man than us once said, "there's nothing to do in that town except masturbate and cry." So fine, Zydrunas, go. Take your career 13.8 ppg to Miami, go live in the Sunshine State until you look like Uncle Fester in blackface. That is if LaBron ever runs out of chores for you to do around the house. No one minds or even cares. Just go. But we beg you, whatever you do, don't do something like this:

Wait, what? You did what? You took out a full page add in the Cleveland Plain Dealer to thank the people of Cleveland? For what, tolerating twelve years of your impression of a big white dude walking into the wind? You're a center not a fucking mime. Why are you so slow? Run! What makes you think anyone cares? Back home you may be the Lithuanian Elvis, but here you're just another reminder why white men shouldn't shave their heads. So we find it dubious that you would think to write a "Dear John" letter to the city of Cleveland after a) you average 1.3 ppg in the playoffs b) the whole team chokes in the playoffs again and c) LeBron goes on ESPN and publicly dries his cock on Cleveland's dress. Hasn't Cleveland suffered enough without getting told it has no chance of ever winning a championship by the white Sinbad?

Let us try and contextualize our contempt with a metaphor. You're a bald, European fuckstick and Cleveland is a busted tranny crack whore you've been shacked up with while trying to finish Junior College (okay so far it's an obvious metaphor). You're kind of a 'tard, and you just can't get your diploma even though it's been like twelve years and that tranny is starting to get creaky and annoyed. This other dude, we'll call him LaBron, has also been putting it to your tranny the last seven years or so. Actually he moved in, and made you sleep at the foot of the bed. He couldn't get his degree either, but heard about this easy night school down south. Now he's down there sending you postcards of this banging chick named Miami, and how that diploma is a sure thing if only you can get your ass down there by September. So what's a bald fuckstick to do? Sit down and talk it out man to tranny like two adults? Disappear? Just pack your shit and go? No. I know, leave the tranny a note. Tell the tranny how much she meant to you all those years. How you appreciated the way she gargled your nuts every June when your report card arrived. How much it meant that she didn't throw your bitch ass out when you begged her to wait one more year. How it isn't you, it's her. How she has nothing left to offer now, and it's just in your best interests to move on. But do it in a way that seems like you're being grateful. She was a loyal tranny, after all. Thanks for the memories!

We think you capture it best in the lines:

"But as I enter the last few years of my career, I felt I owed it to myself and my family to chase my dream of winning an NBA championship."

"I hope you understand."

Well, we hope you understand that we think you should die in a fire, Zydrunas.

Linda Hogan Should Die in a Fire

So why have we decided to inaugurate our blog with that yule tide log known as Linda Hogan? Why should she die in a fire? We're glad you asked.

Read Full Post