Editorial: Fast Times at The WB

By Paul St. Fakename, Esq.

The Imperial Boob Elect of the Church of Scientology

I’m pleased to announce that I will be starring in a new television drama on the WB network called Slappy: The Dope Smoking Retard. I’m basically like that Corky kid from Life Goes On, just, you know, with a killer case of the munchies. Usually I just sit on the couch all day drinking beer and smoking myself into a pants-shitting coma, occasionally shouting racial slurs at the fucking dago TV.

One of the first episodes even gets into the whole marijuana legalization debate. It all starts when I get arrested for buying my medicine from some hippies in a Lexus. Just as the driver asks if I’d like an oversized novelty bong with my purchase, these DEA goons jump out of the bushes and steal my Fritos. Then they turned into bunny rabbits and jumped into Willy Wonka’s Nestlés-Sponsored Chocolate Truck. No fucking Gene Wilder Nazis were gonna steal my goofy chips without a fight, so I followed them on my skateboard with a can of Cheez Whiz and a toaster oven. Halfway down Sunset Strip, I flagged down Pamela Anderson and her V.I.P. chicks as they were racing to stop a Code 5153 ("Unflattering Boob Job") already in progress. We chased The Easter Candy Gang halfway to the Mexican border before I woke up in the back of a squad car, handcuffed, naked and, for some reason, yelling "SHOW ME YOUR BREASTS!" at the entire offensive line of the Oakland Raiders. The other actors on the show are really nice. I still have the cards they sent me while I was in rehab.

"No fucking Gene Wilder Nazis were gonna steal my goofy chips!"

Hell, I’m just glad to be working again. I thought I’d never get work after serving those "Crap Burgers" at Wendy’s. Damned FDA. And to think that I ate nothing but salsa, refried beans and raw corn for a week straight trying to get the consistency just right. My semen spoke Mexican for months after that stunt but, dammit, the consistency was perfect. Mental note: next time stop at Grilled Leper Salad.

My penis used to be about a full two inches longer. That’s really all I wanted to say about that.

I think that this TV exposure will lead to even better roles. After all, I don’t want to locked into playing Corkys the rest of my career. Already my agent has said there’s some interest in me playing a bit part in the next CHiPs reunion episode. I’m told that this time it won’t be for television. I guess the producers felt that they would make more money shooting it straight to video. And for some reason it’s going to be called CHiCs. I’m going to play the uptight yuppie guy who walks in on an orgy in a fitting room and reports it to the manager only to have the manager join in. Then I stomp out of the store to go buy Ethel Merman records. I am kind of disappointed that my Mom will have to go to Spankland Video to see her baby in his first full-length feature film, but I will be glad to finally work with my absolute favorite actor, Erik Estrada. What a pro he is. He’s already showed me how to stomp out of a store like I meant it.

Just the experience of auditioning has really helped me with the TV gig. Now that I’m a method actor like Erik, I’m going to try to bring more of myself to the part of Slappy. I’m going to drool a lot more and maybe wet my pants on the weekends. And when they try to arrest me for public drunkenness I’m going to take a few swings at the cops just so I can get resisting arrest thrown on top of the other charges as well. See, it’s the little details like that, I think, that separate a true thespian like me from a hack like that George Jetson guy.

And if the Slappy gig falls through I’m not going to cry. Hell, my agent heard that the WB is already lining up a show to replace us called Pamela Anderson’s Naked Tits Watch Paint Dry. I mean, even I want us to be replaced by that. Sure I’ll have to find my directions to the Unemployment Office again but it’s like Erik says--"Hey man, can I get a lift to the nearest Circle K? Those bastards repo’d my Colt Vista again."

Remember, it’s not how much you make or how long the show runs that’s important, it’s how many cases of Coors you steal from the props closet before you get put on hiatus. This one’s for you, Erik. You and and that shriveled, uncircumcised thing you use to spit at transvestites.

Shine on, you crazy, unemployed retard.

Main Archive Table of Contents

August, 1999 Issue Table of Contents

Dead Kennedys   Fast Times   Secret of My Happiness

Month in Pictures   Blue Moon

Stupidity   George W. Bush   Escape From Ricky Martin

The American Jerk™ and all contents © 1999 - 2005 by Rob Reuter and Paul St. Fakename, Esq., © 2006 by Rob Reuter.