dickhouse

jackassworld flashback: the 4:20 show!

Once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far away, it was the best of times, it was the worst of times, and one barometer of the manic mood in the jackassworld.rip office could always be witnessed on the weekly-ish "live" show hosted by the one and only Rick Kosick. Some would say watching the live show as it streamed was like playing craps in Vegas and all bets were off, but I've never played craps in Vegas so I really don't know what the hell they're talking about. I'm an open-minded person though, so if they say that's what it was like then so be it. All I do know is that some played to win, some played to lose, and me... I just played along. In this particular cut-down of one such 4:20-ish show, Chris Pontius came in to spin some yarns, sing some songs, and talk about things that hadn't really been openly talked about before—particularly that one time in Russia—and it was a real trippy walk down memory lane. So come along, re-walk among us, and enjoy!

photo of the day: danger ehren

Context is everything. For a minute—and only a minute—pretend there was no such thing as jackass. No famous cackle from the even more famous face of Johnny Knoxville. No Who. No Why. No recently stalked and quite possibly very nearly raped Bam Margera. Just this grainy photo of a couple dudes in a dimly lit barn on par with what you might find in a more visceral Saw or Hostel flick, one of whom is only barely semi-clad, obviously roughed up, and painfully prone in the hay. What would you think? Perhaps something snuffly Eastern European? Deliverance is as Deliverance does? Just another rip roarin', hole borin' day in the hinterlands of Appalachia with a dash of southern comfort? Okay, time's up. Jackass is and always will be a silly smear on the world's underpants, so all is good, right, and natural in the universe with a purely symbiotic relationship between Ehren, the ass, and his tickled pink pals.

(Photo by Sean Cliver; California 2010)

jackass number two premiere on the mtv

This coming Sunday, August 26th, will mark the premiere date for jackass number two to poke its li'l turtle head out on MTV to smear a bit o' the brown on the Moon Man's silver underpants—and it only took six years to do! Sounds unbelievable, I know, but it must be true because someone other than the Internet told me so. The flick fest will air at 9:00pm ET/PT with an immediate encore presentation knocking on the back door at 11:00pm ET/PT. In the event that a few of the guys live-tweet during the initial broadcast, do yourself a following favor and cover your bases with @realjknoxville, @steveo, @prestonlacy, @iamweeman, @daveenglandshit, @BAM__MARGERA, @rickkosick, @dangerehren, and @jackassworld. No guarantees, of course, but who knows... who knows... who knows.

(Photo by Sean Cliver; Hollywood, California 2006)

amsterdumb and dumber

So when we last left off this random, haggard reminiscence of the post-Gumball Rally Euroblitz of filming that took place in the spring of 2001, Dave England was on the verge of flipping out and flying back to America (but not after first calling ahead and cancelling all the jackass-reserved hotel rooms in Amsterdam), and Chris Pontius was going Chernobyl in a mess of greenish-blue body paint—all of which made for a very entertaining train ride from Paris to Amsterdam the next morning. Only then was it discovered the trip was to be sans Dave England (and only after all the late night blur of dots and shenanigans were connected), and, physically speaking, Pontius was technically present but wholly piled, the upside to which was his making a makeshift Christmas tree of himself for the others to span travel time boredom (see Exhibit A). Once in Amsterdam, however, he did succeed in rallying his faculties for filming purposes—all sad transvesticisms excluded—and played quite the coquettish and Dutchy dyke (see Exhibit B).

(First photo by Danielle Saxe; Second photo by Dimitry Elyashkevich; Amsterdam, Holland 2001)

the hunchback of notre dumb

Excusez-moi, mais est-ce une baguette de pain dans votre pantalon ou êtes-vous tout simplement heureux de me voir? This week, in honor of France and all its fries, toast, and rolls, I'll be retracing the infamous steps taken post-Gumball Rally in 2001, starting with old fumble hump here. For the full unabridged and unexpurgated account of Dave England, a/k/a Dr. England and Mr. Darf, and his misadventures abroad, I roughly shove you in the direction of the late great tome jackass: 10 years of stupid. There you can read all about the poo, the door handle, and the retaliatory pee that sent Darf into a tailspin back to the USA instead of the train bound for Amsterdam that he was supposed to be on the next morning. It is one of the many legendary after hours and on the road jackass tales that still gets laughed and disputed about years later. For the inane record "The Hunchback" segment is one of the jackass TV breed that I positively adore, much like "The American Werewolf (in London)" and a certain green menace I'll be sharing tomorrow.

(Photo by Dimitry Elyashkevich; Paris, France 2001)

urban kayaking in 2016!

I am going to go out on a very short sporting limb and say that Urban Kayaking will not be admitted as a new event in the 2016 Summer Olympics in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. Not that I am surprised, nor that I care, but what does concern me is this: In the first installment of Peter Jackson's The Lord of the Rings trilogy, The Fellowship of the Ring, did or did not Frodo affectionately stroke Sam's cheek in the canoe after that fat Astin nearly drowned himself at the end of the flick during its original theatrical run? Because in all the DVD versions I have since watched this scene is nowhere to be seen.

My wife and one other dearly departed friend that was with us that night claim to have witnessed Frodo's questionably ticklish "cheek stroke" as well, so I know I'm not entirely crazy and alone in this—unless, of course, it was a cinemacabre event of mass hysteria isolated to one theater in Burbank, California, on the film's opening weekend. Stranger things have happened, I suppose, two of which I'll now mention, because they too would have been on my hit list of pop-culture events that may or may not have actually occurred had they not been later confirmed.

The first: Did I really witness "athletes" in the very first Extreme Games of 1995—before the word "extreme" was deemed to be incredibly annoying and overused, much like "fail" and "epic" are now (and actually have been for some time)—competing in an interpretive bungee jumping event that included one fellow plunging and springing about while seated in a kayak? The answer, astoudingly, is yes, and verified not long ago by Erik Roner. Up until then I was convinced I'd completely imagined it while trying to tune out the lot of street luge boobs who were busy driving as many last nails as possible into the EXTREME! coffin.

The other, another seemingly impossible occurrence in a galaxy far, far way (though much easier to validate since the arrival of the Interweb, much to George Lucas's dismay I'm sure), was the Great Star Wars Thanksgiving Holiday Debacle of 1978. This special aired one time and one time only and was so obscenely bad it almost has to be seen to be believed if it just wasn't so goddamned unbearable to watch. For the sake of comparison, let's just say it makes Hayden Christensen's Anakin look like Sir Laurence Olivier's Hamlet (sadly, not even the power of 3D will be able to add any iota of dimension to that boy's poorformance).

This concludes our impromptu and relatively sad ruminations of a middle-aged nerd.

(Photo by Sean Cliver; Portland, Oregon 2000)

england x england = eennggllaanndd

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 in merry olde England. Look kids, Big Ben! Parliament! I could go round and roundabout like the London Eye with that quote for several more sentences, possibly throwing in a moose for good measure and to confuse matters all the more, but it would appear several were already suitably confused yesterday when I mentioned being in London for the nonce. To clarify, yes, I am in London, but no, the rest of the jackass cast and crew are not. My vacation would be anything but a vacation if I had to be constantly vigilant like one of those wacky, bearskin-wearing, Buckingham Palace guards, waiting for someone to pee on me or paint my passed out face up fully Union Jacked. So please, if you are naive to London, don't take to the tubes this week with visions of Roller Bobby roller-dancing in your head. You will be disappointed. Cheers!

(Photo by Sean Cliver; London, England 2010)

preston makes a poo!

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! without having to get into all the nitty-gritty details of the tale. Well, this one day, on the formal set of jackass 3 and 3.5, we rented the super-duper expensive Phantom HD Gold camera to catch every quiver and tremor possible on Preston Lacy's big beautiful body of flesh. We were primarily planning to do so via a "Kissing Booth", but while Dave England was administering some paint-to-mouth on the speed bag, Preston suddenly hopped up from his seat, reversed face, and dropped his trousers before us all.

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 said it best, I think, or at least he should have said it like this: "Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once and a while, you could miss a shit."

* 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)

jackass bingo

It's been a while since I've done something stupid (well, not that long, considering I did recently ask a homeless man where I could find an ATM to withdraw some cash in Charleston, SC), but here's an online stuipd—stuipd?—stupid just for you. Why? Because you are special. A snowflake. A butterfly. That last little turd that hangs on for all its fibrous worth before disengaging to join its big brown brothers below. You get the idea. So here it is: jackass bingo! Simply print it out, pop in a DVD, and play along for no real reason at all in the privacy of your own home, apartment, or squat. No dress code is required to do so, but it is always fun to imagine people watching movies in nothing but their underpants (or, if it's a marathon, in Depends adult diapers).

Fair disclosure: This is by no means an original idea. In fact, I borrowed (stole) the concept after seeing a much more hipster version of it called "Wes Anderson Bingo", but that takes likes smarts and shit to play, whereas this is just dumb and isn't far off from real shit. Plus, because of the sheer amount of crossover content, cast clusterfucks, and peanut galleries galore, queries will surely arise like, "Well, it's throw up and it's Steve-O, so where pray tell do I put my official jackass bingo chip?" In the end, I suggest doing what Jesus would do: Live fast, work with wood, make some fish wine, raise some zombies, and don't leave a beautiful corpse behind. Godspeed and good luck making little to no sense of it!*

* Worst case, you can always tap on the image, print it out, and decorate your refrigerator or toilet lid.

happy birthday to ryan dunn!

Yesterday we gathered in Eagle Rock to celebrate Ryan's birthday. Today he would have been 35. We played softball, because Ryan enjoyed doing that on the weekends sometimes in West Chester. Hats and jerseys were made with Ryan's image, and the turnout was big enough for us to field four teams. Spirits were very high even if the skill level was very low. It was a special day for our brother we lost almost one year ago.

Photos left to right: Knoxville takes home plate with his trademark running style; Preston Lacy, large and down to charge; Beardo Josh Lingenfelter and Capt. Caveman Cordell Mansfield, out standing in their field.

In true Ryan Dunn fashion there were a couple of injuries, too. Assistant editor Lacey Reilly got knocked dizzy when Don Swedo accidentally ran her over at home plate. She was okay, but that's more than I can say for jackass exec producer Derek Freda. The poor bastard tore his Achilles tendon and had to go to the emergency room for just running to first base!

Photos left to right: Knoxville, Steve-O and Jeff Tremaine; Wee mound Man; Guch rounds third and goes for home.

Anyway, I checked in on Derek after the game and told him I was sorry he got hurt. He replied, "Way I see it, Ryan and I became friends in an ER, so it's fair I stopped by one today. The best part were the giggle fits Welshie [Jennifer Welsh] and me would go into when the ER nurse said 'swollen', 'throbbing', or 'hard.'"

Photos clockwise from top left: Chris Pontius with an unusual amount of skin coverage; Jennifer "Lefty" Welsh; Dimitry Elyashkevich channels his inner Brooklyn; A portrait of Jacaso as a young batter with Paul English, Jr. as his close personal catcher; Trip Taylor sets his shady sights on centerfield.

So you see, Ryan's spirit was there with us on the ball field, and it was definitely with Derek and Welshie in the ER. No one liked dick jokes more than Dunn.

Photos left to right: Dave England's son Roan runs; Jukka Hilden, Chris Pontius and Wee Man on deck; Derek Freda bats his way into a first class trip to the ER.

Photos left to right: Big Ryan and his wife Vanessa; HP of the Dudesons; Derek Freda and the Achilles tendon that couldn't.

Happy birthday, Ryan. You are loved, cherished, and very missed.

Love,

Knoxville and everyone in the Dickhouse family

(Photos by Rick Kosick; Eagle Rock, California 2012)

(shhh... i just poached off rickkosick.com!)

Feel that? Don't touch that. Awkward intro, yes, to be sure, well aware of it, thanks, but I'm just trying to throw off Rick Kosick from following my trail directly from his site to this site. You see, a poaching I did go and just look what I found: this all-new video of Rick's entitled "Skateboarding With Wee Man" (don't let the freeze-frame fool you). Guest skatey appearances by Heavy Metal Chuck, Jason Ellis, Brandon Biebel, Marc Coronel, Mike Kassak, Dave England, Christian Hosoi, and Jake Reuter.

breaking records v. breaking toilets

You can row or you can wade, but in the end it's all up to the jury to decide which way to let it all hang out. For Jolene Van Vugt of Nitro Circus fame it was to break a land speed record for the world's fastest toilet. For Dave England it was a more leisurely outing that ended awkwardly in a broken American Standard.

While I admire both for taking toilets to the extreme, I'm of the loosely moral, if not more bowel mindset that if you're going to do something it should be done all the way no matter what the cost, e.g. financial, physical, or mental. After all, is a toilet really a toilet if it's not being used as a toilet? Not to get all existentially bent, but someone somewhere would probably be thrilled to have a finely crafted ceramic flip-top chair* to sit upon simply for sitting purposes and not shitting porpoises. A stool without the stool, if you don't pardon my aforementioned merde.

The next level potty stunt, I think, and I believe Dave England would agree with me after his first misfired attempt at the hardware store prank in jackass the movie, is the stressful combination of a precision movement with imprecise movement. Timing becomes of the essence, not to mention focus and continence. Major cog though you may be in the production of said shitty stunt, you are still only one of many moving pieces and you're the piece that can't start moving until all others—cameramen, producers, etc.—are well in place. Because if it's not caught on tape then you might as well be that proverbial tree falling in the woods with no one around to hear it. In fact, if you're lucky, the only thing you may hear at all is an amazing argument between the director and the cameraman. Just a word to the wiseass, as everything I say does come from years of laughable and not so laughable professional experiences.

Congratulations, Jolene!

* Piles and prolapses may be a hazardous side effect of such an item, so do please use caution when considering such unorthodox interior furnishing options.

(Photo by Sean Cliver; Portland, Oregon 2000)

paging dave england relinked and revisited...

I don't know why I think of Dave England every time I hear or see the word poo, but perhaps it has to do with my witnessing him shoot shit and shat all over the place for the better part of ten years. In fact, I may have even witnessed him defecate more than any other person I know, including my son throughout his entire infant-to-toddler experience. Normally watching another man work through his primal anal urges would fall into the mid-level deviant category, but I, fortunately, have the escape clause of writing it off as work. I'm a professional! And Dave's a professional! So, together, we are professionals that do the poo we do to put food on the table. Sure, it's a shitty job, but I wouldn't have had it any other way in this lifetime*.

Anyway, here's the latest link to fall on my Facebook plate courtesy of web-comber Seth Casriel. It has to do with faux-poo—something we've never ever professionally messed or faked around with (our fallback poosition is always of animal origin)—but apparently there are other professional types that do. In particular, those in the toilet manufacturing business. They use an extruded soybean paste to do the shit trick (think a congealed miso poop, if that helps), but I really think they should reconsider their business practices and employ Dave England for the final certification process. You know, like a "scat of approval stamp" or something. I mean, I'd certainly buy a toilet endorsed by Dave, because whatever bowl can withstand that punishment is sure to become a family heirloom to be cherished and flushed for generations to come and go number two.

* Happily agnostic, I am, but just leaving the Hindu door open for any reincarnational shits and giggles!

(Photo by Sean Cliver; Hollywood, California 2006)

johnny knoxville v. the oldbooth app

All useless wooden toys aside, apps were tailor made for people with little to no attention span and/or those suffering from manic procrastination. Fortunately, Johnny Knoxville fits the bill on both counts—but with super focused precision—and just the other day he stumbled upon the "OldBooth" time suck. Well, one thing lead to another as he honed his picture placement skills and before he knew it there went most of the working day (the remains of which were no doubt frittered away in some other happily distracted manner). All was not lost, however, and here is the final collected fruit of his digital loom (I added the names, but feel free to come up with your own). It's good to be the Dickhouse waste receptacle and reservoir tip!

the flatulent sounds of science

Honestly, who even cares if a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it? Especially when the scientific world at large has provided us with a "torpedo-shaped robot" to detect when fish fart in the ocean. Finally, right? I mean, there's only a few things I've been patienty waiting for since the '70s, and I'm not talking about the streamlined, phallus-soaked, sci-fi world of Flash Gordon. But I did have my heart set on an in-home teleportation pod, and I was genuinely, albeit perversely, looking forward to a fearful, paranoid life in a pervading world atmosphere of Orwellian dystopia. And I'm sure the concept of discerning and ecologically capitalizing upon fish flatulence wasn't far behind those broken Bradbury promises. So, all in all, it really has been one big futuristic bummer for me up until now ... kind of like when our big jackassian dream of lighting fart bubbles as they burbled up and burst upon the surface of the water didn't pan out*. But if fish can fart and be heard by mankind then perhaps one day science will come to our emotionally-stunted rescue, too. Keep reaching for the stars!

http://news.sciencemag.org/sciencenow/2012/03/scienceshot-robot-records-fish.html

* To be fair to everyone involved, this experiment didn't exactly get its fair shake in the sun. Misguidedly, we allowed Dave England to participate in the farting fun and he soon contaminated our petri dish with an unexpected shart. Why I say "unexpected", I don't know, because what else can be expected of his faulty fundament? Certainly not dryarrhea.

(Photo by Sean Cliver; Hollywood, California 2006)