dickhouse

happy birthday to andy bell!

It's a longstanding tradition within the Dickhouse family to present individuals celebrating their day of birth with a "Birthday Blue." The "Birthday Blue" is basically a tropical-ish alcohol-based concoction that one would typically find on the grim seafaring menu of a Red Lobster franchise. In fact, that's where this whole dumb tradition began, when a "Birthday Blue" was first purchased and presented to Earl Parker on his 21st birthday*. Since that time many a "Birthday Blue" has been merrily presented and ruefully accepted, mainly because it's a surefire hangover bullet to the head the next morning. I'm not exactly geographically-inclined to buy Andy Bell such a drink at the moment, but I do have this blue-ish memory of him to share from jackass 3D. Andy, too, was a victim of "The Blue Room", but unfortunately most all of the paint exploded up his backside and not up-the-nose-and-into-the-brain as Dave England's awesome experience went. Happy Birthday, Andy!

* In addition to his desired birthday entree of "Popcorn Shrimp".

(Photo by Sean Cliver; Agua Dulce, California 2010)

piece of shit artwork

How many times have you walked into a museum and thought, "Wow ... that's some real piece of shit artwork there!" I know I have, but that's mostly because I have a low tolerance for bullshit art theory. Like, if someone has to describe it to you, or use a bunch of art school mumbo-jumbo to justify its relevance, well, that's just stupid. Me, I like it literal and at face value, and here's a prime example of what I'm talking about: a piece of shit artwork. This is, of course, a bit more from the arts 'n' crafts period. I much prefer the work of the post-organics that was done in February 2008 during the jackassworld.com 24-hour takeover of MTV weekend. Longtime stalwarts and finger-painters here will know exactly what I'm referring to, but for everyone else on the ADHD fringe it was a challenge to create a truly pootastic alphabutt; or, in plain English, a wholly accidental alphabet made in the toilet bowl by fecal matter coiled straight from nature's soft serve machine. We never did assemble the full alphabet, but (butt!) we sure had fun viewing all the shitty shots of shit uploaded by viewers over the weekend. Ars excrementia artis!

Feeling like an art stool student? Craftily crave the copro? Feel free to share your butt creations here, or simply buy jackass the movie, jackass number two, jackass 2.5, jackass 3, and jackass 3.5 on DVD to experience poo the way Hollywood meant you to!

(Photo by Sean Cliver; Poo by Dave England; Hollywood, California 2006)

happy birthday to dave england!

If there's one common bond that you could say about all the jackass guys—well, aside from Preston Lacy—it's that we all share a history in skateboarding. I don't know what that says about it, us, or anything else, because that's not my job. I mean, if I'd wanted to draw parallels I'd be getting my geometry rocks off elsewhere, wouldn't I? Wood eye, wood eye! Harelip, harelip! There, that's more like it. It's the absurdist spirit that puts the flatulence beneath my wings. Dave England's, as well, for that matter—or should I say, fecal matter? Because you can't barely mention Dave's name without picturing a pile of professional poo, too. Happy Birthday, Dave!

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You know, it's just been one of those WOOF! weeks, so let's go out with a big bang that would make George Lemaître spatter a universe inside his knickers. What am I talking about? As if you even had to ask. Semi-straight out of the Monday gate you got a hot dose of #SHADLIFE, then you got a couple days of some boys looking like girls, and now ... now you get a full party platter of spicy sausage courtesy of some downtime spent on the Amazon with the WBZ. Yep, only at Dickhouse.tv can you have your beefcake and choke on it, too. Suck it, M. Antoinette!

Too many dudes to shake your stick at? Hang your brains like a cephalopod on Wildboyz Season 1, Season 2, and Seasons 3 & 4 on DVD.

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the dickhouse holiday card outtakes

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safari-o

big brother snow globe fern fart: weedolph

Does everyone here remember the time Weedolph assisted Olde St. Knoxville in urban sledding about the Greater L.A. Basin on the very first (and only) jackass Christmas special in December 2000? Man, talk about a horse shit selection of punkified holiday tunes we used there. Oh well, 'twas the shitty season, I suppose. Anyway, that wasn't the first time we threw Wee Man in a reindeer costume for festive shits 'n' giggles. A few years earlier, circa 1998, we'd done the very same thing to have him hawk $19.95 year subscriptions to Big Brother skateboard magazine as its unofficial spokesmodel. The real deal here of course was the HUSTLER-style Big Brother logo T-shirt—the perks of having the one and only Larry Flynt as your boss.

Disclaimer: Jeff Tremaine was the Art Director on Big Brother, and even though he committed the occasional graphic crime he cannot be held accountable for all the poor design going on with this sub ad. The reason for this being that soon after being admitted to the LFP, Inc. stable of publications in 1997, we lost control of our sub ads to a tyrannical subscriptions department that claimed to know better on all marketing/design fronts. Knowing when to pick a battle is an important skill to have in life, and with so many other more important pages going on in the magazine we eventually just let them have their shitty way with it. We would supply an image and occasional pertinent copy, but then grin and bear it as they bruised our sensitive art pussies with random oval rules, mixed fonts, and squiggly T-shirt renditions.

the dickhouse holiday card outtakes

Normally I would do a big busty Boxing Day tribute the day after Christmas, but I'm not exactly in a pugilistic mood right now. So, instead, let's take a lingering look at some of the hard work, ticklish effort, and sexy make-up that went into the creation of the 2012 Dickhouse holiday greeting card. And for the sake of being the only two real examples from behind the scenes, Johnny Knoxville and myself, Sean Cliver, will do all the duck-lipped dirty work to drive any and all creepy points home. We are, how you say, "HAWT", no? I'd even go so far as to say, "I'd fuck me," but Knoxville already did—I mean, he didn't do that, but he did say it while making his notes on the final Photochopped job by Jeff Tremaine (by the bi, if you're wondering why Tremaine isn't included in this awful exposé, that's because he played the big cheese card and lifted his made-up face from this past ode to "Goodbye Horses"). Special thanks to Amanda, Lindsey, and Dennis for making us all as beautiful as we could possibly be under such short notice and sad circumstance, although for future reference, I do believe I am more of a red-blue than a red-orange.

happy holidays!

First of all, what are you doing online? Shame on you! Go open a gift, talk to a family member, pet the kitty, latchhook a rug, sneak a swig, make the merry. Unless you've done all that and can do no more, in which case, welcome back to the world's foremost house of dick where we're keepin' on keepin' on with an online tradition started just last year: the sharing of the coveted annual Dickhouse holiday card. So... Happy Holidays from all of us to all of poo!

a dickhouse family holiday gift

I'm a man of limited means and minimum girth, so when I have the opportunity to give a little back to all my friends and co-workers than I am by all means for it. Especially at Christmastime. And you, you lucky little Interweb fart sniffer you, you get to come along for the inside ride! That said, and with a little tip o' the hat and thanks to Mssrs. Tremaine and Knoxville, check out the mufflers on this mudflap. All you really need to know is #SHADLIFE if you're down with hash and know how to twit it, but this does bring up a favorite topic of mine: iPhone self-portraits taken in the mirror. I'll be honest: I've been around the Interweb block a few times, including those free sites on the Lower East Side, and I can say I'm a HUGE sociological fan of these amateur bathroom/bedroom shots. They're just so f'ing fascinating these frozen snippets of a life exposed in more ways than one, and I'm particularly interested by what people seem to forget is seen all around them in the photos. You know, anything from posters, knick-knacks, books, what's on the TV, etc., the sum total of which can be equally if not more fun to ponder than the actual people themselves. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for those duck-lipped and cross-eyed shots where sexy tries to one up the concentration/constipation face it takes to manipulate an iPhone shot, and even though they're always just a hair off ... they almost always seem to find a way online. Anyway, this "Happy Holidays!" goes out to all my comrade-in-arms. Cheers!

you gotta be echidna me...

 

In last week's wildery world of willies, I shared the stupendous dong of the tapir. Today, let's go down under to examine the utterly bizarre undercarriage of the echidna. At first glance, I wanted to say I'd seen something like this penis reimagined by George Lucas as a creature in the cantina scene from the original Star Wars flick, but after far, far more concentration and thought than necessary I've since concluded it was actually the inspiration for the barely seen beast in the trash compactor. My only regret after peeping what awesomely out of this world privates the echidna has to offer is that the Wildboyz didn't do their own firsthand examination while in Australia, circa 2003, because I'm sure Chris Pontius and Steve-O would have had a lion's share of dick jokes to dish out.

behind the woodpecker

Well, you can't get any more on the nose than this! I promised you "behind the woodpecker" and here you go: Chris Pontius's behind from a behind the scenes angle on our first attempt at shooting "The Woodpecker" for jackass 3.5. If you want further behind the scenes info with a substantially more in front of the scene view on this bit, look no further than here and here, because there and there is where you will find out everything you need to know about the magical day a woodpecker pecked Pontius's peter and how it all came to fruity fruition.

Feeling blue, Ray? Jam on it with this Blu-ray edition of jackass 3.5.

(Photo by Cordell Mansfield; 2010)

the importance of having a nose for ass

A few of us often wonder: Could there possibly be life after Dickhouse? I can't imagine so. The idea of having to adapt to the real world would have to be one of the scariest fucking things ever. In that sense, some of us are, without a doubt, irreparably damaged goods and completely unfit for re-introduction to modern day employment settings. But every so often I'll see something that gives me hope. That maybe I could still go on to do something else in a gainful, professional sense ... something like this: How About An Exciting Career As A Professional Fart Smeller? Because, let me tell you, after working with such gastrointestinal Bikini Atolls as Jeff Tremaine and Dimitry Elyashkevich, my nasal passages have passed through the proving grounds and emerged as a nifty snoot snifter for discerning whiffs of stupendously toxic anal air. But not just me and my nose, we all have this ability now! Put 10 of us in a room—say an edit bay, Seth Casriel's, with poor ventilation and no windows—and the second a mustardy scent smears the first ions of atmosphere I'd wager that 9 out of the 10 can correctly identify the origin of the ugly ass from whence it steeped and seeped. Dear god... there may be hope for us after all!

P.S. The shot above was not at all about the air from down there but rather the mud stream that shot out Dave England's shit chute moments after he touched butt hard—so hard—during the "Firehose Rodeo" skit in jackass number two.

(Photo by Sean Cliver; 2006)

elastically tied to the yuletide

Do you remember the very first time you saw an elasticated butthole? I do! It was a week before Christmastime in the year of our Lord one thousand nine hundred and eighty-seven. I had just flown the parental coop and was living on my own, well within spittin' distance of a video rental shop that catered to my swiftly diminishing standards in film appreciation. Having decimated the schlock horror and sci-fi selection, I was looking to widen my VHS horizons and delved deep into the world of cult film, starting with John Waters and his landmark contribution to sleazy cinephiles: Pink Flamingos. Now I'd seen some stills, heard some rumors, and read some books*, but it's safe to say I was still relatively unprepared for the politics of filth as they were about to play out as I simultaneously threw together my very own kitsch Christmas tree with all the white trash trimmings while watching the flick. Ninety-three minutes later, not only was I forever changed but so was Christmas. Instead of sugar plums dancing in my head and sleigh bells ringing in my ear, I now had the elasticated anus of a relatively emaciated but very limber man rectal lipsyncing to "Surfin' Bird" by The Trashmen. It was a silent night indeed within my apartment that night, but the next day I went jingle balls deep into the video store to find Polyester and Multiple Maniacs, and things have been wrong for me ever since. Ho ho oh well!

Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm gettin' there. That's Chris Pontius. That's Steve-O. And that was the little bungee ski bit that got stretched somewhere between jackass 3 and jackass 3.5.

* I now formally make the motion a third marker be added to our history of time, e.g. B.C. and A.D., with that of "P.I." to denote the age of Post-Interweb life—simply because anyone to grow up under the all-consuming umbrella of P.I. cannot fathom an A.D.D. existence without it.

(Photo by Cordell Mansfield; Truckee, California 2010)

bam's balls vs. steve-o's ball

Today it is only fitting that I back that ass up. What am I talking about? I don't fuckin' know! This shit writes itself and I shit you not on that. But yesterday I posted a photo with Jeff Tremaine and Rick Kosick re-enacting ye olde "William Tell" skit in a modern day office setting, and I'm a real Tootsie Pop sucker for a ball lickin' theme—especially when it sends Bam off into the weekend on a high octave note. This shot was snapped during the incredibly great "Nut Shot" escapades of 2010 while filming for jackass 3 and jackass 3.5. (Both of which can be yours to own just by clicking on those links and leaving a hot shit plastic skidmark on your Amazon account!) Granted, there doesn't appear to be a whole lot of truly "incredible" going on here in the photo, but that's just because you didn't first see Steve-O bonk the ball on his head a few times before his foot sent it flying expressly toward Bam's package.

(Photo by Sean Cliver; Bithlo, Florida 2010)

photo of the day: william hell

To be honest this isn't all that uncommon of a scene to be seen in the Dickhouse offices—especially one with Jeff Tremaine being the eager "pitcher" and Rick Kosick being the reluctant "catcher". It's a scenario that has played out innumerable times with an equally innumerable amount of projectiles. This time just happened to involve a mini-basketball and a golf club, and one almost has to appreciate how little regard Tremaine had for the mounted wooden penis of Pontius's situated directly above Rick's head. Bonus! If you remember a super crummy iPhone video shot in the credits of jackass 3D where Lance Bangs was seated in a chair and then nutted right down to the floor in a great wooly heap, this photo was taken the very same day as that. Granted this has nothing to do with the price of tea in China or the square root of my last poo, but you can take that knowledge to the grave just the same.

(Photo by Sean Cliver; Los Angeles, California 2010)

mutual of ohmigod's wild dingalings

In today's wildery ode to the memory of the Wildboyz let's take a goose of a gander at what has to be one of the more wily willies found in the animal kingdom (aside from that belonging to Chris Pontius, of course). This, ladies and gentlemen, is the tapir: a piggish-looking beast that has nothing whatsoever to do with pigs and is most often found in zoos rather than its mountainous tropical forest habitats. Why? Because all the assorted species of tapir are red listed as endangered or threatened—allegedly due to habitat loss and hunting, but if you ask me it might also have something to do with the fearsome size and nature of the male's penis, which appears to be nothing short of a vaginal destroyer in length, size, and damn near prehensile ability. Can I get a witness?