Brevity is a bowl of shit, as Shakespeare once famously said, so today's post is a shout out of photographic big ups and mad props to the Earth. Why? Because any fan of the Wildboyz knows we're all about ecological conversation conservation. Good job, Earth!
Love planting trees for Jesus? Like seeing moderately grown men pee? Pick up Season 1
(Photos by Dimitry Elyashkevich, Jeff Tremaine and Cordell Mansfield)
If you remember our last "getting with the program" flashback from jackassworld.rip, Rick Kosick appeared to be onboard and hip to the fact who shined his penny on a daily basis. Many, many months later, however, the tables (and our minds) had all flipped out and another stellar moment in the day-to-day (sur)realties of our ridiculous professional lives was missed out on—well, at least on a televised scale. The clip itself was miraculously caught by Dimitry (I say "miraculous" because he was rarely if ever actually found in our office environment) and delivered on a silver plate to our online audience, but it was just that and only that and it wildly fluxtuated between 8,000–20,000 site visits a day. Some of those people are still found here today, and to those people I say, "Suck it!" In a good way, of course.
If you ever get a misty dew drop in your eye—not one of those icky goo drops, mind you—some of what was lost online can sort of still be found in digital putty on the jackass: the lost tapes
Is it live or is it Memorex? Does Memorex even exist anymore? Excuse me while I go check the great and omniscient god Google for verification and illumination ... [dramatic pause] ... well, soak me in suricate shit and swab me silly, it does! And who cares! I don't. What I do care about is that today we celebrate another year in the life of Dimitry Elyashkevich*. I've known Dimitry since he was a wee skate photographing lad of 19-years-old. I even helped him get his first big-time job as the exclusive team photographer for World Industries in 1996 and it has been nothing but an "America, what a country!" adventure for this Eastern Bloc Belarusian ever since. In honor of Dimitry, I'll na zdrowie to that—Happy Birthday, Dimitry!
* Technically today is the day of the late, great jackassworld 24-hour takeover, but seeing as Dimitry's birthday got overshadowed then in 2008 I thought I'd give him his full day in the sun now.
(Photo by Johnny Knoxville; 2013)
Once upon a time there was a website that could have been a TV show on par with any other dickhead "reality" program offered by the networks. The ingredients were all there: volatile personalities, dysfunctional camaraderie, professional immaturity, Playskool™ paint schemes, flea infestations, asbestos, and a perverse lack of windows to an outside world. What could have been, however, was never exploited. Instead it all went straight to an Interweb where no one can hear you scream above the million billion other odd uploads competing for your ADHD time of the day. And on this particular occasion there was indeed screaming to be heard. The screams of the damned in a ridiculous argument that easily and handily could have kicked the tragicomedy tuchas of any televised (scripted) reality scene on that day of the month. But, thanks to the Interweb, we'll always have the echoes to listen to in those special times of sadistic glee and need... like now!
Enjoyed this trip down mammary lane? Prefer your areolas of dinner plate proportions? First suckle on this and then choke on the boob
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)
Thanks to the wicked words and deviled locks of Glenn Danzig, I will always remember Halloween. Even if I'm not the dress up type. Dressing down is much more my preferred tropical style these days, but to each his own—case in point, all the kooky costumed characters that the jackass
(Photos by Dimitry Elyashkevich, Benzo, Jaime Owens, and Sean Cliver)
What are all the cool kids in Dickhouse doing these days? Getting the boot! Derek (at left), who is still hobbling and wheeling his way off an Achilles injury incurred during the 2012 Ryan Dunn Memorial Softball Tournament held this past summer, was recently upgraded to boot status after getting the cast off. Oaf is as old-as-fuck does, but that wasn't exactly how it all went down for new kid on the boot block Dimitry Elyashkevich (at right). His was more of a vehicular moving incident where push came to shove and automotive strength won out in the end. Good job, boots!
Familiar with the ancient Law of Fives? The ol' 23 skidoo? Apparently a Shoggoth is alive and well and squatting beneath the canals of Amsterdam, which may, for all I know, be mapped out in pentagonal form when viewed askew from the air. For conspiratorial starters, there is the formal door number two and then we have three people on each boat: 2 + 3 = 5. This alone makes me hop, step, and jump to all these conjectures and more: Were each of the working class entertainers paid 23 Euros for their services? Does it take exactly 23 foot peddle revolutions to travel a distance of 5 meters? Could there have been 23 discarded needles mired in the canal muck below when this photo was taken with a 5 megapixel camera at 2:30 in the afternoon on April 23rd. And, lastly, were suspected agents of the Illuminati involved in the appropriation of this peddle boat consciously keeping The Beast at bay when they subtracted one letter from "canal" to render it a harmless 4? Leviathan may never know, but I'm guessing the immanentization of the eschaton was narrowly avoided this day in jackass history by the length of one wascally anal hair. Plain to see, in plain sight, or just another case of a null void like so much else pomp and circumstance in the world? You be the judge, Judy.
(Photos by Danielle Saxe; Amsterdam, Holland 2001)
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.
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.
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)
That's something real special for all our comrades out there, but for the rest of the fanny world here you go: "Happy Birthday, Dimitry Elyashkevich!"
Similar to anywhere else in the cubicle universe, I suppose, there's a birthday tradition within the Dickhouse production offices—well, there's actually two traditions, the other being a cake of exceedingly ill repute—that involves the ritual "passing of the card" in which everyone writes something foul, derogatory, sarcastic, or marginally to overtly well-wishing (the latter typically from the straighter-laced accountant) on a birthday card that is slipped person to person in a Manila cloak 'n' dagger fashion.
I always took these opportunities to doodle a penis of some sort, be it erect or flaccid, horse balls or squirrel nuts, with or without fluids, et or al, but since I'm no longer desk-jockeying in Los Angeles there have been no such things drawn.
So, in honor of Dimitry, I'm leaving one here just for him. I miss you, buddy, and I hope your birthday is totally turgid.
P.S. The reason this particular peniscrawl bears a striking resemblance to the one once branded on Bam's ass in jackass number two is because I designed that mini-hard dick as well. Just another proud peacock feather in my cap ... too bad it didn't stick around on his butt for as long as it was hoped.
(Photo by Sean Cliver; Madrid, Spain 2010)
With a name like Dickhouse you know we've got nothing but long ribbed love for our fans. So today I'm digging deep—so deep—into the archive to pull out an apropos photo courtesy of Dimitry Elyashkevich (also seen in jackass: 10 years of stupid). This was not taken in the summer of love, but rather in 2001 during Steve-O's joint transcontinental move/filming trip from Miami-ish, Florida to Los Angeles, California. He was escorted in said relocation by a handful of jackass crew members with various stops made in Florida, Louisana, Texas, and New Mexico to shoot shit for the television show—some of which actually made it, others of which were "too hot for TV", and a few of which became lost and found material on jackass: the lost tapes. This particular image de l'amour of Steve-O came hot on the heels of "The Brand" and bares it all in a single sear of symbolism: love hurts. Especially if you accidentally wander into a leather bar to use the bathroom and suddenly hear a soft, rumbling "Grrrr..." from behind and feel the hot, turgid huffs of a grizzly breathing down your soon-to-be cub neck. Happy Valentine's Day!
Steve-O's stand-up comedy roadshow continues with upcoming dates in Illinois, Iowa, California, Florida, and Canada. For further information on dates, cities, and venues: http://www.steveo.com
(Photo by Dimitry Elyashkevich; 2001)
...and the answer to this half-ass Shakespearean intro was, obviously, yes, but not without a good deal of used car salesman work by Jeff Tremaine. It was a day like any other in the production offices of jackass back in 2001. We had our usual skeleton crew on hand, some time to run out and shoot something, but not a lot of actual cast hanging about. So, while simulating the look and feel and intensity of a Hollywood brainstorming spitball session, we came up with the idea to give Rick Kosick a male-pattern baldness cut and then slap an ill-fitting toupee on his newly chromed dome. The primary objective was for him to hang about in public places and then violently sneeze, thereby losing his rug for reaction. The prank delivered in the end, which was all fine and dandy, but the real motivation behind the idea was just to see Kosick first wrap his head around the idea and then submit to it actually being shaved by Johnny Knoxville. Hence the intial office pre-amble to the televised bit. All in all it was an interesting look for Rick. Once shaven and clothed in a business suit without his glasses he looked almost exactly like Steve Ballmer, the CEO of Microsoft—minus the distinguished air of a million billion dollars in fuck you money, of course.
Memory got you down? Prefer harmonicas over mnemonics? Kick back and relax with such digital banks as jackass the box set and jackass: the lost tapes on DVD for all your storage needs.
(Photos by Sean Cliver; Hollywood, California 2001)
Everyone remembers when the Wildboyz
Clueless when it comes to any links smaller than a ballpark frank? Can't find your Wildboyz Season 1 on DVD? See O'Shea get in deep—so deep—with dead giant squids here: http://youtu.be/sA8oA4fKV3s
