Editorial: Big Balls, Rabid Jimmy, and The Legend of Ken MacDonald

By Paul St. Fakename, Esq.

Homo Hungoverus

How many people here own a genuine chunk of Elvis’ rack of ass? That’s right, just me! All I had to do was forward an e-mail message from someone I’ve never heard of to 1,432,768 of my closest friends and then have them send the final product with all the e-mail addresses back to this "Joe Smith" guy. He said I was guaranteed to get an autographed piece of the King’s hairy keister for all my trouble. I can’t wait to mount it on black velvet and hang it right next the refrigerator. Then, every time I get up for a midnight snack, I’m going to wave that greasy leftover pork chop at his pimply hick ass and dance around like Bea Arthur at an Uglies’ R’ Us fundraiser. God, I hate that dead, fat-assed bastard.

Actually, when I get it, I’m going to trade it on ebay.com. But, instead of cash, I’m going to hold out for someone to offer me something really cool. Ken MacDonald tells me he once traded a dead hooker’s left thumb to some lady in Kansas for Scott Baio’s original nose, Herbie the Love Bug and a quart of Brazilian fish paralyzer. Of course, Ken has been known to exaggerate slightly for effect and exaggerate greatly for absolutely no reason at all. How else does a man of Scottish descent get dubbed The Sheik of Hampton Beach by Dick Clark in front of a national television audience? In a ladies’ swimsuit competition.... I was there, though, when The Sheik traded up for the entire Chia Head Collection from the guy who owns Parker Brothers in exchange for thirteen paper clips and an idea for a new board game called "Where’s Your Dickie?"

Trust me, when Ken MacDonald says, "Here comes ‘Funny Pete’!", look directly into the sun. Do not pass Go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. Just hold yer nuts and hide yer booze.

So if you want to own Elvis’ ass, offer me a miniature Shetland pony. I’ve always dreamed of canvassing this great country atop a midget horse in search of underprivileged children needing wholesome entertainment. "What’s your horse’s name?" the children will ask. "Big Balls," I’ll say. "Them’s some nice fuzzy dice you got there, hanging from his ears," they’ll add. "Thanks," I’ll say, the smoke from my cigarette obscuring my rough-hewn, weather-beaten face, "A couple of nuns gave them to me for trampling some Episcopalians." And as I ride off into the sunset, leaving a trail of happy, well-adjusted children behind me, the children's parents will say, "Who is that masked man? And where, for the love of God, are his pants?"

Maybe I’ll even get a leper for a sidekick. A leper with a little, one-eyed leper horse. Of course, after a few weeks the leprosy thing would freak me out and I would have to leave them stranded in the desert, leaving only a note that said, "Your nose fell off again last night. I gotta go." And I’ll hook up instead with Ken MacDonald and his horse "Rabid Jimmy The Donkey." If there is one thing most people haven’t seen before, it’s a donkey with flames painted on it. No, Ken never waits too long at drive-thrus.

"Do not approach Ken MacDonald. Do not smell Ken MacDonald..."

Of course, first I would have to find Ken. Last time I needed to find him, I told the cops he murdered my sister and had America’s Most Wanted put out an APB on his haggis-lovin’ ass. They found him in Alabama using the name "The Most Rev. Sheik Al-Jihad of the Sacred Brothel of Christ." By the time I convinced the cops that I had never had a sister, Ken had finally come down from his Percodan high and we were on our way. I still can’t remember what the hell we did that time but, when it was over, we were in a villa in Northern California with the guy who played Mr. Kotter and we had somehow cleaned out the state’s entire supply of Cocoa Puffs . I had a third nipple, a 35% stake in Microsoft and had legally changed my name to "Julio J. Julio." Ken had that hooker’s thumb and an autographed picture of Rick James kicking the shit out of M.C. Hammer. We found Rabid Jimmy in the Jacuzzi, wearing nipple clamps and a tutu.

Maybe this time Ken and I will be like the Scooby Doo Gang, riding our undersized horses across the country solving mysteries for a small amount of methamphetamines. Maybe we’ll hijack that guy who created the X-Files and show him how every conspiracy theory he ever thought up could be explained away by one evil guy, some swamp gas, and three funky rubber masks of Richard M. Nixon. Then we’ll take his thumbs for good measure and maybe steal his Cocoa Puffs. God help Chris Carter if he does not have an ample stockpile of Cocoa Puffs. Ken MacDonald might have to bring out Funny Pete.

And when I finally grow sick of my midget horse and Ken MacDonald leaves for southern Mexico, just like he always does, that’s when I’ll hang up my spurs. I’ll leave the noble, solitary life of a true American hero for the far more lucrative one of selling pony semen to dumb rich folk as some kind of skin revitalizer. Because, to paraphrase P.T. Barnum, "People are stupid. And Shetland ponies come by the bucketful."

Main Archive Table of Contents

September, 1999 Issue Table of Contents

Tae'd Up   Legend of Ken MacDonald   Carving up Celebrities

Month in Pictures   Squinty the Monkey

Blair Jerk Project   WAVing Our Dicks   Virus Warning

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