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Like I've mentioned in the past, my mathematical skills are nowhere near beyond reproach. If anything they are downright reprehensible, but the multiplied fact remains that this is Dave England and he once was
(Photo by Sean Cliver; London, England 2010)
You may think I am in an Olympian frame of mind, but no. In reality I've just taken an aeroplane over the sea where I now have my mind on the gap and the gap on my mind. That said, I'll most likely be prone to colouring my text in the Queen's tongue this week to recognise that not all English words are created equal and should be humoured as such, posting at increasingly random and erratic hours thanks to the Greenwich Mean, and I'll also be dipping my willy deep into the jackass European photo archive to find a few odd titbits that may or may not have ever been seen before*. Lastly, should I admit to having enjoyed a good in-out-in-out with a fanny, rest assured it does not mean I've engaged in recreational butt sex. One country's fanny is another country's keister, and that's one region you don't want to find yourself lost in translation at the border.
* This is all dependent upon my lifetime aluminium intake and how much it has already tainted my brain's memory reserves with a touch of the Alzheimer's.
(Photo by Rick Kosick; London, England 2000)
I don't know about you, but I've often wondered what an architectural interpretation of Dickhouse would look like. On one hand, yes, I'd obviously love to see the most literal erection imaginable, a bonafide Michelangelo unbridled, but then on the other, no, no I wouldn't. And not because of any philistine phallic phobia, or that a big bad wolf might come and try to blow it (grrrr...), but more so that it takes on a construction of castration a la Jeffrey Dahmer. That could just be me, though, as I've always had an unhealthy Midwestern backwoods imagination that more often than not veers and errs to the morbid serial side. Here, however, is a sign that I pass at least once every two weeks and it never fails to add colour to my day. And the more and more I see it, the more and more I see this as being an accurate representation of our world made flesh and building materials.
For those of you, like me, that opted to take six years of German in school for no real good foreseeable future reason in life, "El Castillo Divertido" translates to "Castle Fun" and by golly whoever painted this sign sure hit the good-time nail on the head. The rainbow's end, the beverage in hand, the sandals, the arms and legs, and the parapets—my god, the parapets! I've never really been a big advocate of tattoos, but this is the first true work of art I've seen where I could honestly see forking over some prime epidermal real estate in the sublime spirit of Dickhouse.
(Photo by Sean Cliver; Santa Cruz, Costa Rica 2012)
To be sure, ever since jackassworld.rip first got off on its own soft erection to the multi-colored skid marks now being left by dickhouse.tv, we've shown you a fair selection of disturbing images. Anyone remember Dimitry's "WTF" mystery clips? Those were always some gruesome reveals. Then there was a certain nutty exposé on the men's room toilet seat that left a few JAWs agape (including Johnny Knoxville's), not to mention the ill-fated construction of a what could and should have been a fantastic booger rainbow arching from urinal to urinal. Throw in the miscellaneous poo shots, testicular tragedies, and a handful of other ass atrocities and, well, you get the icky visual (whether you wanted it or not). And so that brings us to now. I almost forgot these shots even existed. Yes, gods help us all, there are others, but this was by far the one that stood the hairs on the nape of my neck on end as I once again heard the strains of "Goodbye Horses" far, far off in the skin-crawling distance... now if you'll excuse me, I have a full-length mirror I feel compelled to go and stand before. Tuck 'em if you got 'em!
(Photo possibly by Cordell Mansfield? That's my guess!)
Call me Lionel and ride me like a choo-choo, because we're all about the birthday train this week. Next stop, Trip Taylor! Our longtime producing man friend since 2000 on the jackass television show. This photo, taken in 2004 during the ultimo fantastico Wildboyz
So, what exactly is Trip holding in the bag here? Is it: A) a sampling of his morning runs after going straight from two weeks in India to two weeks in Indonesia, which is more than enough to deep-six anyone's gutty-works; B) a mind-erasing amount of that legendary Dayak Jungle Juice that makes for all those wonderfully missing myths of the night before many, many days if not years later; or C) a genuine kilo of Kopi Luwak, a coffee that comes from berries first brewed in the digestive tract of the civet before being pooped out, washed off, dried, roasted and, finally, brewed, essentially making it "poo brew". Knowing Trip and how much diehard love he has for the bean, I'm sure the answer must be C*.
Now, where do we go from here? No, not Willoughby, but good call, you know me well. Instead, let's simply wish Trip an ass-blasting "Happy Birthday!" and sign off on a caffeinated high.
* There is a distinct chance that none of these are correct, not even C, in which case I could go a bit off the chain like Brad Pitt in Se7en and scream, "What's in the bag!? Ahhhhhh, what's in the bag?!" but a fat load of good hog semen that would do as there are no English speakers within a good 10 kilometers of me if not more.
(Photo by Jeff Tremaine; Indonesia 2004)
Okay, so since it's always nice to place a name to a face instead of a Betty Cocker menstrual monstrosity, here's the real Seth Casriel, pint-size Dickhouse editor at large, with his real birthday cake. Honestly, yes, I'm a little nonplussed at the overall nondescriptness of the cake, but I also do know that you can't judge a book based solely on its cover. It's the inside that counts, so I'll simply have to assume there is a shit in that sheet or at the very least a quaint rubber dildo in the shape of a midjit's fist.
Today is not Seth's birthday. This is not Seth's cake. And this is not my beautiful wife. But it was Seth's birthday this past weekend, and as I diligently scoured the archives for a photo of him to accompany this belated post, I realized that photos of Seth are as rare as dodos' dicks. In fact, I only have one single photo of him, and it was used for his last year's birthday post. I did, however, find this image of a birthday cake that was made for Johnny Knoxville's assistant Dennis way back in 2010. It's a real peach, ain't it? Makes me want to inexplicably write sweet nothings with nothing but submarine euphemisms... Crimson Tide, this is The Hunt for Red October, Das Boot is docking hard—so hard. Hope you had a good one, Papa Seth!
(Photo by Lindsey Shupe; Burbank, California 2010)
I know it's a rather worldly and well cultured lot that comes to visit our little neck of the backwoods here, so I'm simply going to assume you're all familiar with the Dr. Seuss children's classic Horton Hears A Who!
Now the tricky thing with the Phantom is that the camera operators need a solid heads up when we're ready to film (a feat all in its own while working with the impetuous jackass cast) as you can only capture mere seconds of motion before it "rolls out" (it's a digital frame rate thing). So most all were caught unaware and off-guard as Preston bent over and farted. Only it wasn't just a fart. It was something more, much more, but not that much more. In fact, hardly anyone realized what really happened. You see, Preston, similar to Horton hearing the tiny Whos, had his own tiny world all unto its own—a poo planet!
Preston quickly pulled up his shorts and exited stage left. I suspected something was up, but couldn't quite put my finger on it until later looking at my photos from the day and noticed an odd, renegade shadow and highlight combo where a shadow and highlight should not be on Preston's ass crack. And, yes, I do consider myself to be an expert on the subject matter, thank you very much. But, sure enough, there was indeed more going on with his butt there than at first met the eye. Now, years after the incident took place*, aren't you glad that it has finally met your eye, too?
Ferris Bueller
* Memories making you feel nostalgic like you want to go back there? Drop your drawers and digitally do so on demand with jackass 3 and jackass 3.5.
(Photo by Sean Cliver; Winnetka, California 2010)
Today's lesson is tapped out in the random key of life and goes out to all hardcore advocates of sex education and the Wildboyz—two things which may not sound like they go together, but puzzles are as puzzles do, much like the mechanics of mating with a tail. That said, please meet my fucking housemates.
These are two of probably 30 or so geckos that reside in my house. By day they mostly hide behind the framed photos, prints and art that hang on the wall, or skitter across the ceiling with remarkable aptitude and pluck. By night, however, is when they really come loudly and proudly out of the closets, nooks, crannies and wherever else they jam their bodies into, to feast upon insects of all shapes and sizes. That's the upside to geckos. The downside is that waste is as much a part of sustenance as sustenance, so what goes in must come out and I'll be damned if it doesn't entail a daily morning process of sweeping up all their dried crap (gecko poo looks like a fat grain of rice that is pitch black in color with a little white dollop on one end). And, sadly, because I am a mouth breather and tend to sleep on my back, the odds are unfortunately good that a gecko on the ceiling has successfully deployed a fecal missile right into my open, snoring orifice. How ya' doin'.
But enough about poo—I mean, not that you can ever have enough poo, from cradle to grave it's one of the most consistent things you will ever do in life, give or take random battles with constipation in your colonosphere—let's talk animal porn! I know not the exact sexual orientation of these geckos, but I'm going to go out on a very straight limb and say this is a hetero coupling. Male on female, as doggy-style as geckos can get with the added upside-down twist a la Lionel Richie. Yes, they are doing it on the ceiling in total "Cirque du Solagartija" fashion, if you'll forgive the French and Spanish mash.
Once they're finished and the male mops up the astoundingly large cum slick, the female goes off to make the babies and eventually squeezes out two pea-sized white BBs from her uterus. I don't know where they normally deposit the eggs in the wild, but our domestic geckos prefer to leave them inside the strike plate cavities on door jambs. Not exactly the best of nests, in my opinion, because we've scrambled more than a few of them. Hey, it's not my fault they're stupid, but from what I've seen the gecko is far from endangered and lives life on the edge with Olympic-caliber sex and chirps louder than birds. Viva los geckos!
(Photos by Sean Cliver; Costa Rica 2012)
Sadly, it's not to go make maritime merry for me this morning, but rather an early trip to the dentist—a Costa Rican practitioner, mind you—so my head is elsewhere other than nonsense for the nonce. However, it just wouldn't be a dental occasion without mentioning Danger Ehren, so here is today's photo folly of the day. The fish and all actions thereof are self-explanatory for the most part, but there is one thing I would like to address and that is the Ack-ademy Award for the Most Obnoxious and Eye-Distracting T-Shirt Ever to Have Graced the Big Screen (Both Front and Back!). Much grief was given, but Ehren stuck by his fishy fashion-ish guns—it's a friends' band thing, I believe—and blazed big time. The casual jerk that I am applauds his dangerous noncompliance and flagrant disregard for the subtle crafts of the Silver Screen—albeit with the sound of one hand clapping, because the uptight aesthetic within me still cringes every time I f'ing see it*.
* The back print of this Toxic Holocaust shirt is boldly seen in the corner as Bam Rocky's the poo out of Preston at the lunch tables.
(Photo by Sean Cliver; Winnetka, California 2010)
...welcome to SpongeBob SquarePants! This Saturday, July 21st, listen for the distinctive voice of Johnny Knoxville in the episode entitled "Extreme Spots," as he does the celebrity guest voice-over chores on Johnny Krill, "a member of The Drasticals extreme sports team."
Here's the Bikini Bottom press release blurb for Knoxville's episode in particular:
"When The Drasticals come to town, their new super fans, SpongeBob and Patrick, try to do whatever it takes to join them, no matter how extreme – or dangerous. Whether attempting sand motor biking, hang gliding, seashell surfing or extreme bubble blowing, SpongeBob and Patrick undertake the challenge in an effort to demonstrate they’re extreme."
"Extreme Spots" is part of a special SpongeBob SquarePants one-hour television event that starts at 8:00pm ET/PT on Nickelodeon this Saturday, July 21.
It's that dick thwippin' day of the year when we celebrate everyone's favorite birthday party boy, Chris Pontius. Me, myself, I've known Chris for 18 years of his life now and I've loved almost every minute of it. I italicize almost because there was this one time in Jacksonville, Florida, when he failed to arrive at the airport (because he first failed to board the plane in California, much less even leave the apartment of his girlfriend) on that fateful* Big Brother skateboard tour of January 1999. As a punishment, Jeff Tremaine "fired" him from the magazine immediately thereafter. Every downturn has its upswing though, and if it wasn't for this momentary dismissal, how would Chris have ever logged his first few fleeting cracks at professional employment? If Charles Schwab and Jamba Juice only knew then what the whole world knows now: Chris was never meant to wear a uniform or suit—or possibly even any clothes at all for that matter—because nobody bares a birthday suit better than he does. Happy Birthday, Chris!
* I say "fateful" because this was in fact the first real time we all met Steve-O in person. It would be another year and a half (while filming for the first season of MTV's jackass) before Chris and Steve-O finally came face to face ... no, that doesn't sound quite right ... or maybe it does ... but that really didn't happen ... at least not quite then yet. Anyway, you get the idea.
(Photo by Sean Cliver; California 2010)
Before sampling today's appetizer treat, I'd like to virtually pat the backs, cradle the balls, and work the shafts of the 59,000 odd people that visited the site yesterday to view Preston "You Will Like Me When I'm Angry" Lacy's big night out in Miami, FL, in 2002. It was a crowd pleaser back then and equally if not more so now a decade later. Woohoo!
Now let's tickle your palate with this mouthful of explosive goodness: Allegedly there was a 63-year-old woman in South Korea that was gobbling up a plateful of calamari, when all of a sudden her mouth was alive with the prickly sensation of squid spermatophores being shot into her tongue, cheek and gums blunderbuss-style. Woohoo!
You can read the full medical brief here, but if you're a lazy ass motherscratcher then here are a few other bite-size digestibles, like, what the fuck are spermatophores? A dictionary states, "a protein capsule containing a mass of spermatozoa, transferred during mating in various insects, arthropods, cephalopod mollusks, etc." So, basically, upon examination of her oral cavity at a hospital, the doctor removed 12 bags of embedded squid sperm. Woohoo!
As Johnny Knoxville might say, "The Wildboyz
(Photo by Caterina Gennaro; New Zealand 2003)
Hey, ho, let's go! Say, Sigmund, what's the first thing that comes to your iddy li'l mind when you see this photo: Raging Bull? The Anti-Buddha? Boys Gone Wild? For me it is, "I'm Not Leaving," or perhaps a radical faction thereof, because the original "I'm Not Leaving" game, created by Jeff Tremaine if I'm not mistaken, has more of a Mahatma Gandhi-like quality, owing to its 100-percent pacifistic civil disobediance.
Here, let me set a scene: You're in a bar, last call has long been called, and the lights come on, illuminating everything you've never ever wanted from a bar experience. Still, you don't want to go. You want to stay. So when the barkeep and bouncers usher everyone out you simply sit back and get comfortable—real comfortable, like Jell-O pudding settling into a Bill Cosby mold.
Eventually the bouncers will take notice of you and congenially say, "Okay, buddy, come on, let's go." But you don't. You simply say, "I'm not leaving." They might crack a smile at this and ask you to leave once again. After all, it is their right to do so, it's their job and you can't blame them for that, but again you only reply with, "I'm not leaving."
Now they're probably getting a little miffed and hot under the collar of their tight-fitting man blouses. But you haven't acted out in a belligerent dumbfuck manner, so they're a bit confused, too. Chances are they'll now go to grab you by the arm and usher you out of the seat, and again, that's fine, that's what they're supposed to do, they really just want to close up and go home, but this is where you become one with gravity. Be the dead weight. Make absolutely no moves to make your situation more comfortable, nor theirs, and be nothing but Zen about it all. This will actually confound the bouncer(s) even more, as they will literally have to drag you out of the bar by any and all limbs as if you'd passed out. Remember: Bonus points are awarded if it takes two or more musclebound men to lift your carcass and awkwardly muscle it out the door.
Now, once outside the door, here you have the option to: A) Go on your merry way; or B) Give into a greater magnetic attraction that draws you back to your former seat in the bar. The bouncers will have thought their job is done, and, if by the grace of a bacchanalian god you manage to sneak past them like mercury through a pitchfork and back into the bar, repeat the process.
Above all, you must remember the only thing that should ever slip past your lips this entire time is an infuriatingly impassive, "I'm not leaving."
Warning: At some point the bouncers will tire of your dumbass no matter how peacefully you may disobey them and will want to be rid of you by any means necessary, including, but not limited to, choking your ass out and dropping you onto the concrete like the sack of shitty potatoes you've made yourself out to be. Trust me, I've seen it happen, and the concussed results aren't pretty.
To wit and end, was Preston engaged in a little "I'm Not Leaving" antics in the photo above from a night out in Florida during jackass the movie
(Photo by Whitey McConnaughy; Florida 2002)
