Category: Articles

(This is a reader submitted story. If you want to see your own old skool shenanigans in this space, submit them.)

It was our standard, warm summer evening. It was about midnight on a Friday night, and me and my prankster pals were just wrapping up the night with our last prank of the evening. We were sitting in the parking lot of a grocery store just chillin’ and snackin’ and trying to think of what prank to pull next, when suddenly a big ass, shitty, rusty boat of a car with reservation plates pulls up along next to us, and shouts something out. I was sitting in the passenger seat with my windows down, and they were right next to me.

Not having a clue what it was they said, I flipped them off and we began to roll. None of us were thinking anything of it, when I looked in the rear-view mirror about a block away from the grocery store, and the same piece of shit car was right on our ass. The thing was JAMMED full of Indians, at least 8 or 9, and one of them was hanging out the front passenger side window holding a hatchet!

“Shit, shit! Fucking go!” I yelled. Everyone turned around and saw what was going on, and all the people in our back seat ducked down. It took us all by surprise.

“CRACK!” I turned around to see a hole in the rear window of our car and a hatchet laying on the floor in the back seat. By this time we were going about 55 MPH weaving in and out of traffic down a busy street, already 20 miles over the speed limit, and the car was still on our ass, and they looked like they were ready to throw something else at us. I saw a giant bald, basketball-shaped head peering out the window of the Indians’ car, and he had a bigger hatchet in his hand. I alerted everybody to be prepared, and everyone ducked down. The light ahead was red, so we ran it (barely avoiding a collision). I looked behind us and the Indians didn’t make it through.

I breathed a sigh of relief and decided that we should all head over to my house to hang out for awhile. I had no desire to be on the streets anymore that night. We decided to take the shortest route possible, which was cutting through the mall parking lot. We were driving through the dark, abandoned lot when out of nowhere the Indians’ car appears up ahead. We were at least a couple miles from where we had lost them, and now they were heading right for us again, brights on and all. Our driver put the car into reverse and floored it. We were driving backwards through the mall parking lot at a very high speed, not really knowing where we were going.

Our driver finally got the car turned around, turned off his headlights, and sped into a nearby residential area. The Indians were again right on our ass. Were were in a Plymouth Acclaim, which had poor acceleration, but luckily their car wasn’t any better. We were weaving in and out of yards, taking turns down other streets without hesitation at well over 50 mph. The whole time I was blinded by the brights reflecting off our mirrors from the Indians’ car. We kept racing through the maze of streets, and next thing we knew they were no longer behind us. We looked around, but saw nothing in sight.

We cautiously drove around the neighborhood trying to find a way out. We finally saw a main road, and headed towards it. We again felt relief, and we decided that they must have given up. And even if they hadn’t, we saw no way that they could find us again.

We were driving down the main road, now several miles from where we wanted to go, when suddenly we saw the car drive past us going the other direction. We all turned around to watch the car slow down…and flip a U. Within minutes they were again on our ass, just as before. We sped through traffic again, weaving in and out of cars, and eventually hit some 2-lane secondary roads. We were scared for our lives by this time and had no idea why they were still after us or what they planned to do if they caught us. And we didn’t want to stick around to find out. We decided to try to lose them in the next town, and then take the secondary road back. We were driving down the highway at about 85 mph, when we saw them gaining on us. They pulled into the no-passing zone and started to pass us. There was a car coming fast right towards them in the other lane, and at the time I was actually hoping for a head-on collision.

Somehow they avoided a collision and passed us and started to pull in front of us. They turned their car sideways, taking up our entire lane and part of the other. We slammed on the breaks and started to flip a U, when a Durango came barreling down the opposite way we had been going, and nailed the front end of the Indians’ car, sending it around in circles several times. The Durango just kept going. The Indians were already stepping out of the car, and one of them had a rifle. Just as we started to speed away back to where we had come from (hoping to never hear about this again), a bullet whizzed by the car and nailed the passenger side mirror, shattering the glass and taking a chunk of the car with it. All only inches from my face.

We got back to my house about 10 minutes later, pulled into my garage, closed the door, and sat in the car in silence for the next 15 minutes. Then everyone just crashed at my place. We analyzed the situation we were just in, realized how crazy it was, and decided not to tell anyone about it for fear for our lives.

We never heard about any of it again. Never read anything in the news, never saw nor heard from any of the Indians again.

That’s my story that started out as a usual summer night. The Indians somehow read our minds, knowing exactly where we were going. Maybe it was just luck, but somehow I don’t see how. It’s one thing to have a car load of crazy bastards chasing you, it’s another thing when they have some bizarre tracking skills. The incident took me completely by surprise, and it’s something that’s I’ll likely never forget. I consider myself lucky that we survived.

DoctorBlueSpruce

(I love these reader-contributed stories, and apparently you guys do, too, since I’ve been getting so many of them. So keep sending ’em in.)

This tale is one of many from way back in the day when I had (one of) my beloved motorcycles.

The bike in question was a 1995 Kawasaki ZX-7. Ninja to those of you who are curious. 0-60 in under 3 seconds, pulls into redline (12500 rpm) in 6th gear, which equates to 165mph by the tachometer. (If you’re wondering, yes, I *know*.)

Needless to say, this vehicle was a never-ending source of amusement to the local constabulary. When you’re riding a machine designed to leave other machines in your choking dust, you can just FEEL the eyes of Johnny Law burning holes in your back.

Anyway, on to the story. A buddy of mine and I were hanging out at the historic battery of beautiful downtown Charleston, SC, looking for friends of ours. Normally, weekend evenings and the battery meant lots of motorcycles, but this night we couldn’t find anyone. We decided to head to North Charleston and Rivers Avenue, which was the 2nd best option for hooking up with a crowd of hooligans.

We got on the beginning of Interstate 26 and started our ride. Three minutes and 16 miles later (that was fun) we exited I-26 on the river’s exit and pulled up to a stoplight that had a good view of the parking lot where everyone hung out. No one. At this point, the adrenaline from the 120 mph run up I-26 was still kicking, but we were on River’s Ave, which is cop central, especially at 11pm on a friday night. I was thinking “Ok, no call for being rowdy now. I really don’t feel like getting arrested.”

The light turned green, and of course, my buddy has to take off like a bat out of hell. Not to be outdone, I quickly catch and pass him, and for good measure, redline the bike in 3rd gear. This equates to 130mph in a 45 zone. We get about a mile down the road, and the adrenaline rush is so sweet now that i want to pull over and have a smoke. I pull into a gas station to fill the tank, my buddy pulls up next to me, then next thing I know, we’re BOXED IN BY COPS.

Oh shit.

One of the cruisers opens up and a smiling cop gets out. “Good evening, guys, how’s it going?”

“Um, not too good, now.”

“Yeah, any idea how fast you were going?” He’s smiling the whole time, looking at his pig-cop friends, laughing.

“Not really, officer, but it was probably a little bit faster than 45.” Lucky for me, I maintained a straight face through all this, didn’t show too much dissapointment, etc. Knowing I was doing almost three times the speed limit, I was waiting for handcuffs.

“You don’t know how fast? Do you think it was 90 mph?”

HAHAHAHAHA, HOLY SHIT! NO RADAR IN **ANY** OF THOSE THREE CRUISERS?!? SWEET!

“No way officer, I’m sure it wasn’t 90.”

“80?”

“Couldn’t have been.”

“65?”

“It could have been 65 mph, though I’m not sure.”

So at this point, one of the other cops retires to his cruiser and starts writing tidings of joy in his little blue book. The other two leave, and this guy comes back with two tickets for 65 in a 45. I asked him how he arrived at 65 mph, and he said we admitted to doing that speed.

Hahaha, whatever, I said “might have been.” My buddy started to speak up, but I effectively shushed him, knowing I could call this cop 4 days before the trial and bargain with him, because he didn’t have a confession like he claimed.

In the end, we settled for a bullshit charge that came with a $100 fine and no points. (S.C. operates on a points system, if you accrue enough, you lose your license.)

Looking back on it, I paid $100 to rocket down River’s Avenue at 130 mph. Sweeet. : p

Peter Ramins

(Another wonderful contribution from a faithful reader. Submit your own story and more than likely we’ll post it.)

BITD (Back in the Day) my crew was all about dumpster diving and B&E. It was what we did. We would go anywhere in search of bigger and better dumpsters where we could find bigger and better prizes. It was the order of things and we were happy. One day though, we got cocky. We decided that we should hit something ‘big’. So we scout for a couple of days, and decide that Digital Equipment Corporation is the place to go ‘just think of the dumpsters at that place.’

We pack up the entire crew that could show that night with accompanying womenfolk (about 10 people) and get into three cars and drive out. Now, out of those ten people, mebbe 5 are reliable. We drive out to the industrial park that DEC is in (what I should really say is industrial country this place is huge, about a mile of drive from the main road to their parking lot. The parking lot it self is several acres) and park between two tractor trailers (no cab, just the trailers). I leave 2 of my good guys with the three cars, and we all take off around the edge of the nearest building.

After getting everyone around the building (keeping one of my guys in the back as a tail, and having one on point), we check the dumpsters, find nothing (they’re those big locking compressor dumpsters… no good for diving), so we turn to leave. Just as we’re about to go around the building and head for the cars, my point man comes back.

“Cops.”

Shit. We sneak up a little bit and look. Looks like every single cop in this podunk town and the security for the industrial park is grilling the two bastards I left with the cars. And then it hits me. We left three cars. No story they tell is going to work. GAH!

So I start running all of my people through the forest that surrounds the park. We dodge the patrols they send into the woods, and watch as they chase off two cars, leaving the other one still there. Ick. This is going to be messy.

After about an hour of running and hiding through the compound, we come to the forest that borders the road. About a mile through that, and we’ll be on the highway. I grab the keys to the last car from the girl who owned it (she didn’t want to give them up, but was convinced by ‘impound lot logic’) and told my two boys to run them through the woods and I’d meet them by the highway.

I take off back through the compound, creeping through the little forested islands in the parking lot, until I get about 30 feet from the car. The cops are all sitting on the hoods of their cars about 100 feet away chatting with the park security, who are still in their cars and take off to do patrols every couple of minutes. I’d been dodging them and their searchlights for what seemed like days now.

I crawl over to the car. They don’t see me. I open the door. They don’t see me. I sit down and close the door. They don’t see me, but the dome light won’t go off. AGGH! It was a four door Toyota POS, and it had one of those fading dome lights. Grr. So I start trying the keys. Wrong Key. Wrong Key. Right Key.

“HEY!” They saw me.

I start up the car, and take off. The security guys in the Broncos are right on my ass. The cops are scrambling for their cars, but failing miserably. I’m doing like 50 through this industrial park, and I see my turn. I turn down this side street thinking, ‘This is out’ and I see a dead end.

Now I know two things at this point, and they flash through my head. Broncos have a tendency to flip, and this is a four lane wide road. So I do a bootlegger turn at about 35 (managed to slow down at the last second), and take off past them. The security guys have this Boss Hawg ‘I’ll get that boy!’ kinda look on their face, but it’s way too late.

I manage to take off out of the complex and start driving around. No sign of my crew on the highway, so I keep driving. I’m driving back and forth in this town, and surely every cop in three counties is looking for this car right now (or so I was thinking). I just keep driving back and forth looking for them, avoiding cops, and then my windows start to fog. So I pull over onto the shoulder.

Now my friends had just crawled through the woods, which turned out to be a lot of swamp, and ended up on the highway… All they see is some car with their brights on (I couldn’t figure how to turn em off) pulled over in front of them, so they figure it’s the cops. They sigh and wander over to the car.

Meanwhile, I finally find the defroster. My window clears and I see them.

“Get the fuck in the car!”

We take off (8 people in a 4 door Toyota, it was comfy… ) and never return to the town. Actually we did, but that’s another story…

Le Pretre De Voyou

(Yet another reader-submitted story, this time by Crazy Es more-often-than-not partner in crime, Sparky.)

We all understand the beef that mofos have with SUVs, but I have to say… minivan drivers are just as bad, if not worse. Most people driving minivans are “soccer moms” driving their little shits around town, or limp dick fathers who have forfeited the pants in the family to their wives.

So I’m sitting behind one of these aforementioned nutless wonders in the left turn lane during rush hour. The opposing traffic has cleared, and he has ample time to turn. So I wait… wait… and wait. No dice. Finally, fed up with his crap, I just turn from behind him. And sure enough, at this exact time he chooses to do the same. Oblivious bitch. So I floor the gas pedal of my V6 engine and cut him off, as I need to turn into the bowling alley parking lot, the first driveway on the right.

Well, perhaps sacking up for the first time in his life, the cocksmear has the audacity to follow me into the parking lot. As my driving skills often result in my being followed, I take no alarm and begin to have fun with him. Despite the pleading of the apple pie in the passenger seat, I begin speeding up in the parking lot, then slamming on my brakes, taking turns fast but going really slow on the straightaways. Now, I have no problem with a little parking lot fun, but in addition to perturbing me with his stunt in the turning lane, I find out this guy is a middle aged man putting his kids in danger by driving like me. I felt that his actions called for a little mofo enforcement. So I drive more unsafely than he dared, and eventually lose him, but at the same time, keep track of where he parks in the lot. Once I see him walking into the bowling alley, I drive up to his car. I see that the self centered whore took up two spaces.

Now I’m really pissed.

I park my car several aisles away to prevent retribution, and calmly walk to his. I think to myself, “this man most likely keeps a spare tire,” so I release the air from not one, but two tires. This would require the service of the Auto Club, if he was even lucky enough to be a member. In addition, as a crowning triumph and as salt in the wound, I affix a KIIS FM bumper sticker to his hood, which I had perchance picked up at Raging Waters the previous day. I’m confident the afternoon sun made the decal a permanent fixture on his bitchmobile.

And It’s Like That
Sparky

(Listen up. This is a submitted article from a reader, so none of the events herein can be verified by anyone. It may be a lie, but I doubt it. Carry on.)

Our story begins with my friend Steve. Steve is what I would graciously call a weird kid, I assume no more detail is necessary. Hes a rather large kid, 62 260 something pounds, but this comes into play later. Steves parents were gone on this particular day, so we decided to have a little get-together at his house.

The parties in attendance were: Steve, Skinner, Jimmy, a handful of our mutual friends, and myself. We started off the night with some mediocre bottle rockets, the ones you get packaged 50 together for $2.00. Instead of lighting them off individually, we took the sticks off of them and bound them together with scotch tape, one of Steves brilliant ideas. Steve and Skinner were hit by stray bottle rockets a couple of times, so we stopped that.

Steve then told us he had some good stuff, so we told him to go fetch it. Well, Steve comes back in about a minute with a bag full of mortars and a tube to launch them. To us, this was big we live in Florida and good fireworks are hard to come by legally. Steve picked them up on a road trip or something, but we really didnt care. Now we were going to have some real fun lighting these bitches up.

Steve comes up with another Einstein-caliber plan; we should light them from his roof! Skinner grabs a ladder from Steves garage and Jimmy, Skinner, Steve, and myself climb up. The others opted to stay on the ground and watch from there, which was a pretty good choice. Steves roof has no horizontal parts to it; its all slanted. This immediately shouldve told me this was going to be trouble.

I ignored it, and Steve set up the tube and loaded a mortar. After a few botched lights from Steve, the wick finally sparks up and we prepare for lift off. *BOOOOOM* The mortar bursts out of the tube at an exponential rate and climbs for the stars. Then the mortar arcs and *BOOOOOM* it explodes into a dazzling array of color. God damn that was cool, light up another one Steve! I yelled to him from across his roof. So Steve lights up a few more and we start to attract quite a crowd of his neighbors with our bitchin pyrotechnics.

This is when Steve gets careless. He lights another one and turns around to say something to Skinner, while I am watching in stark horror as the tube containing the lit mortar falls over and points its payload of doom straight toward Steves pathetic array of scraggly bushes in his front yard. By the time I yelled out, OH SHIT!, the mortar screams out of the tube heading directly at the bushes. When the mortar came into contact with the ground it exploded into multitude of blinding flashes of color that set my eyes alight with pain. I turned away from the blast to avoid any prolonged exposure and just like that, it stopped. I jerked my head around to survey the situation and I find myself gazing into a twisting helix of amber-colored death. The mortar had sparked off a rather sizeable brush fire in Steves front lawn.

I was dumb struck for a moment, then I burst out into one of the longest and glee-filled tangents of laughter I have ever experienced. Here I am, on my friends roof witnessing a quickly growing brush fire that could very well set the whole house ablaze and all I could do at the moment was laugh my fool head off. When Steve and Skinner saw the flash of lights and heard the explosion they immediately knew what happened. Steve sprang into action, running across his rooftop with the speed borne of a man in a life or death situation. He performs a superhero leap off of his roof that would make even Batman proud. When he lands, he takes off around the house looking for the water hose.

Meanwhile, Skinner dashes off toward the ladder and attempts to scale down it in a timely manner. This doesnt work, his foot slips and he falls to the ground with a large hole in his pants where a seam used to hold them together.

Guess where I am? Still on the roof, still laughing my ass off while the fire continues to grow, consuming much of Steves bushes and small plants in an attempt to reach the house and feed on the ample supply of wood and wonderful items contained therein.

Skinner picks himself up off the ground and grabs an old door that was hanging out on the other side of Steves house; Steves parents were remodeling parts of the house, hence the door. While Steve is still looking for the hose, Skinner runs out from the other side of the house with the door over his head and determination in his eyes. He ran up in front of the fire and tired to smother it with his dull white door of desperation. One, two, three. Skinner slams the door down on the fire. The fire starts to wane, its loosing oxygen and fading fast. Skinner slams the door down a fourth time and leaves it on the ground with the fire hopelessly trying to escape its demise. He then starts to jump on the door; one, two..and on the third try all 63 and 300 pounds of Skinner slips and falls right onto the door. *Whoosh* The fire dies an awful death at the hands, or should I say, from the cheeks of Skinners ass. Steve runs up with the hose and soaks Skinner and the area with water just to make sure the fire was out. I almost fell off of the roof from laughing so hard.

This whole fiasco has taught me but one thing, never let Steve think, period. I hope you enjoyed my recount of our New Years Day 2000 mishap. This is Scrantoine, signing off.

(This tale is a reader submission, so pay attention. It is filled with downright nasty situations and is most definitely against the law.)

First we must set the stage: Claire is my ex-girlfriend, and Sally is her best friend. When Claire lied to me, initiating our breakup, I made it my mission to fuck over her and all she held dear. So begins the greatest scheme since Michael Jackson tried to pass himself as a man.

The saga begins as I drive my friend’s borrowed car, drunk and horny as fuck on a Friday night. Now any person with common sense knows that it is damn stupid to be out while you’re drunk and horny. The only thing worse than experiencing beer goggles is hearing the story the day after a drunken romp that you sucked on the toes of a girl that Sparky called “Horse” in grammar school. Anyway, every true mofo keeps a backup slut for just such an occasion, and that night, mine just happened to be this new San Marino slam box, Sally (to call this female a whore is to insult the hard working prostitutes of America).

Here are her stats:

– 15 different dicks consumed by the age of 16
– a request for a cumsicle
– and, because of heavy cocaine usage, a miscarriage to boot.

A class act all the way.

That night I got my poke on with her parents two doors down, and went home. She must have mistaken the dick for friendship, because in the ensuing weeks she began to confide in me, revealing more and more as time passed. Foolish, foolish crackwhore. She essentially set herself up, telling me, “If my parents ever found out what I do, they’d take away my horse and my car and send me away to boarding school, and you know how much my horse means to me.”

*Click* goes the tape recorder, and within a week, I had stories that would make Jenna Jameson blush. I had found a new source of wealth.

In order to prevent her parents, brother, boyfriend, and most importantly Claire from receiving a copy of the tape, Sally merely had to keep me happy with various gifts and keep my and Sparky’s music collection healthy. And the bitch still gave up the nani when I needed it.

To this day, Sally has been an obedient slave, and my CD case has maintainted an entertaining variety. It’s become all too easy, and I’ve grown bored of my game. So with this story, I cut her loose and destroy her friendship with Claire, as they are badassmofo.com readers. Sally and Claire, it’s been real.

Peace Out,
Crazy E

There are many decisions in life. Many of the turns you take are going to be good, while others are going to stink like the lingering smell of an aged bedsheet fart that is loosed when you wake up in the morning. Some easy ones to deal with are like these:

• Should I take a dump in my pants?
• Is it alright to poke myself in the eye with this pencil?
• Which is better to drink – Coca-cola or vaginal wart ooze?
• Is the new John Tesh/Yanni duet album any good?
• Should I overthrow the government of a third-world country?

No problem for the average reader, I hope. But introducing another variable into the situation changes everything.

• Should I take a dump in my pants if I’m sitting on Cher’s head?
• Is it alright to poke myself in the eye with this pencil if there is a giant tarantula crawling across my eye socket?
• Which is better to drink – Coca-cola or vaginal wart ooze, if the Coke is spiked with scabs and blood from a dead hooker?
• Is the new John Tesh/Yanni duet album any good if it is packed with equal parts gay porn and $100 bills?
• Should I overthrow the government of a third-world country? Well, that’s an easy one both ways. Nevermind.

It’s always something. Should I buy the groceries, or pay the electric bill? The red pill, or the blue pill? It’s all very nerve-wracking. Monkeys in Botswana are scratching their heads over it. But I’m here to tell you that there is one decision that you have to make. One in which all your other decisions will pale in comparison to; the one in which all other options become microscopic amoebas of thought. It is the decision that all other decisions you make in life will be based upon. Do you hear me?! Don’t take this lightly, because death comes like a vile wind in the night, smothering you in it’s rancid cloud of noxious fumes. It is like a thief, coming to steal your new CD player. It is like a giant bird, kinda. But a bird with big hairy bat wings! Do you hear it’s call? It’s like a cross between fingernails running across a blackboard and the sound of a pigeon as it hits the window of your speeding car. Yeah, it’s that bad. You cover your ears, and the sound only gets louder, like it’s screaming right there in your skull. Holy God make it stop!

So what’s it going to be, you filthy corporate whore?! You have two choices:

Who’s it gonna be? US or THEM?

Choose wisely, grasshopper. It’s not so easy as it looks. There has been many graduate theses done on the subject, and the conclusions are murky at best – and ludicrous at worst. A recent article was written about the subject in a recent issue of US News and World Reports, but it’s obvious that they’re biased because of the US in their name. However, I was lucky enough to cull some rather interesting infographics from their pages.

I think it’s pretty obvious what these charts say, but I’ll let you make your own decisions. Personally, both graphics together make the red lines look like a little mountain. That’s what we in the biz call data mining. Take note.

Even with all this conclusive evidence, it still doesn’t make the decision any easier. There are just so many variables to take into account. Some questions I’ve heard that are pertinent to the situation have been compiled, but were lost. I had around 100 case studies of people that had been driven insane by the question, but my girlfriend cleaned my room, so now I can’t find them. I had a picture of the man with the answer, but the kid at the 1-hour photo place exposed my negatives.

One thing is clear, though. You must make the decision. Are you going to become a corporate yesman, dine at the best restuarants, and work for the infamous THEM? Or are you going to flounder in obscurity, putting smoke bombs in mailboxes, fighting for your rights as one of US? The crossroads will come to you soon enough. Make the decision before the question drives you into a life of debauchery and sin! Well, most of you people are into that whole debauchery and sin thing, so you people quit reading. Actually, everybody quit reading, because I’m done.

A lot of people have made fun of the fact that I went from a child star on a hit TV series to a Security Guard. They talk like it’s some demeaning job for a man to have! Well I’m here to set the record straight, because being a Security Guard is one of the best jobs I’ve ever had.

Being a Security Guard takes a lot of preparation. You’ve got to be well trained in self defense, you’ve got to get licenses to carry all your bitchin’ weapons, and a license to actually be a Security Guard. It all pays off in the end though, because in the eyes of everyone else, you are a badass. You are the authority, the last word on what goes. Somebody fucks with you, take them out back and bash them in the kneecaps with your nightstick. A perp gives you any lip, bust out your asp and whack him in the nuts.

And let me tell you, the chicks dig authority. Wherever you go, chicks want to hear stories about any crimes you’ve seen, people you’ve had to smack around, you name it. Security Guards get all the pussy.

This one fine chick was in a department store I was guarding last week, and she’s all, “Oh my God, you’re Arnold from Diff’rent Strokes!”. I fucking hate it when people call me Arnold, but she was fine like you wouldn’t believe, so I let it slide. I started telling her about this one time before I had my gun license, and two perps tried to shoplift. I start hauling ass after them, and just as one of them motherfuckers was about to jump the fence out back, I grabbed my keys and chucked them at his head. He dropped like a bitch, and I grabbed my nightstick and (WHACK) took out his knees. She got all hot and bothered after that one. You know I was gettin’ a piece of that ass.

There isn’t much to the job. When you guard a place with money, you watch the money, and sometimes go with them to the bank. Most of the time you’re free to do whatever you want. I usually do perimeter checks to see if any people are screwing in their cars (happens much more often than you think). Then usually I go back to the desk and watch some TV, or go try and pick up on some of the females. Wherever you work, you usually can get free shit too. Like the time I worked the supermarket and they gave me all the damaged shit at the end of the night. Damn, I was eatin’ free for a week! You can use thier phones to make long distance calls if you’re sneaky about it.

They got some fine-ass chicks at the place I been working on Tuesdays. I been working there for awhile, and I’ve gotten to be pretty good friends with the people there. Some of them like to fuck with me though. Like the time they told me some guy was passed out in the broom closet, and when I opened the door they shoved me in and locked it. I was stuck in there for two damn days! The janitor finally had to let me out, and when he did I was so pissed I pepper sprayed his ass. Sometimes after they close the store we have chicken fights, where people get on other people’s shoulders and try to knock each other off. I kick ass at that game. Usually I try to grab hair, or look down the chick’s blouses when I get close enough. One of the guys got drunk and thought it would be cute to jump up on my back. Nearly put me in traction. I barely had enough strength to kick him in the balls when I got up.

Next time you go to a mall and see one of us “Rent-a-pigs”, give a little more respect. We’re not all the wannabe cops you think we are. We may sit behind a desk most of the time, but we could kick your ass, and we probably score more than you too.

Peace Out

Gary C.

My friend Jon had this great idea, and I’ve gotta share it with all of you.

Have you seen all the welfare mothers and families that exist in L.A.? It’s quite a sad state, I must say. But for some reason, even though they can’t afford it, they have more kids! It’s like their only form of entertainment is screwing, and since they can’t afford contraceptives, they bring another mouth into the world. But what can we do about it? Plenty.
There’s a drug out there that basically nullifies the ability to reproduce. It’s called Malthion X. What I propose is that we rally up anyone on welfare, and stick them into some form of government housing. Then what we do, is come up with a temporary version of Malthion X, and spray the government homes in a crop duster once a month. This prevents any of them from breeding unnecessarily, and gives them a chance to get back on their feet without their hormones fucking it up.

Hey, I think it’s a great idea. Too bad the liberal commies run the world, and it’ll never come to pass.

Hi everybody, it’s me, Gary Coleman. You may remember me as Arnold on Diff’rent Strokes, or as one of the judges in the Hawaiian Tropic Pageantry. I admit I was surprised when the staff at BadassMoFo.com asked me to write for them, but after awhile I warmed up to the idea. I figure this is a great place to voice my opinions, and let people know that I am and always will be an entertainer. That having been said, I’d like to use this first article to give you all some insight into my childhood, and what it was like growing up on TV.

First off, child actors don’t get laid half as often as you’d imagine. I mean, when I was on Diff’rent Strokes, everybody was talking about how cute I was and shit, but they’d always end up screwing Jerry, our producer, or Todd Bridges, my TV brother. I was the damn star of the show. None of these people would’ve had jobs if I didn’t say, “Watchoo talkin’ bout Willis?” thirty times a day. I should be getting the tail. My first time was emotionally scarring. This fine woman came to the set on my birthday, and she started massaging my shoulders and telling me how much she loved the show. We talked for awhile, then we ended up going to my trailer. Just after we got started, the door burst open and everybody yelled out “Surprise!”. Todd had a camera and snapped a picture. It turned out that the girl was a hooker that they hired. Every time I got angry on the set Todd would break out that Polaroid.

I never got any respect. Like that Chrismas party where Conrad Bain got drunk, whipped out his dick and put it on my head. Then he says, “Look everyone, it’s a headrest! Get it? Headrest!” Everyone laughed, but they were all so coked up they would’ve laughed at the impending death of their careers. I pretended to laugh, then when nobody was looking I punched that old sonofabitch in the nuts. He didn’t think that was very funny.

You know what else pisses me off? I tried for a year to be an Ewok in Return of the Jedi and that bastard Lucas turned me down. I mean, I was the star of a primetime sitcom for years, and I get the shaft. Kenny Baker and Warwick Davis are two midgets who shouldve ended up in gay porn, now they’re immortalized in the hearts of geeks everywhere. While they’re milking the sci-fi convention circuit I’m getting harassed by fat women in convenience stores on my coffee breaks. There’s no friggin’ justice in this world.

Lastly, I would like to say a few words about my former co-star Dana Plato, who died over the weekend while I was writing this article. She was always the nicest person on the set to me, she usually didn’t join in on the horrible pranks that they used to pull. Of course, she was usually passed out in her trailer, but I appreciated that she left me alone. I will miss her, and I think we should all learn something from this. If you are an ex-celebrity on VH1’s “Where are they now?”, it may be time to take a serious look at your life and how to better it.

Peace out.

Gary C.