The cell phone alarm blared its shitty digital melody. Every time I hit snooze, it came back with exponential vengeance. The default Verizon ringtone was beginning to blend into my nightmares, whether it was waking me up as an alarm or announcing a call before Jeff came through on the other end telling me to hurry the fuck up and get to wherever I was going. I sat up in bed and waited for the hangover symptoms to take hold – dry mouth, burning eyes, mild pounding in my head. Not too bad.
I picked out some fresh clothes from my suitcase. The hotel floor was littered with wet towels outside the bathroom. Charlie and Greg had made it up for a morning shower; it was Greg’s first shower in a week. Jace was inside the bathroom plucking his eyebrows in the mirror.
“Jace, get out. I need a quick shower.”
“No way dude, I’m about to shower. And I’m using the last towel. Too bad, you should have woken up sooner.” He slammed the door in my face, giggling until the sounds of running water drowned it out.
I pounded a fist on the door, “Well hurry the fuck up then.”
“Don’t count on it. I’m shaving my legs too.”
Not enough time to shower. I brushed my teeth in the sink outside the bathroom. Then used a washcloth to freshen up. In other words, I cleaned my armpits before putting on more deodorant.
Corman was my designated co-pilot for the drive. Good news since Corman actually stays awake. He also doesn’t judge me when I load up the car with Red Bulls and proceed to mark every forty-five minutes of driving with the “kish” sound of a freshly opened can until the imprint from my pounding heart is visible through my shirt. Substance abuse and Corman go together like Jace and pissing me off, or Charlie Hoehn and understated handsomeness, or Jaimee and calling me creepy.
The bad news was Corman did not look well at all. A cold had grabbed him by the balls over night. The sickness was making its way around the bus. I was lucky to avoid it thus far since I spent little time, comparatively, in closed quarters with the crew. The drive would test my immune system.
Despite the early morning departure, I was alert and energetic. Images from the impending protest filled my mind. Police in riot gear were firing tear gas into the enraged mass of student protestors who, in retaliation, were tossing moltov cocktails lit off the pages of Tucker’s burning book. I take a breath behind a makeshift barricade formed from an overturned table. Angry hippies fire flesh melting rainbows that zip over my head. My shirt hangs loose in shreds from running through fire to gain a flank position. A vein on my right bicep raises from blackened skin as I cock my assault rifle. One last swig of beer before I stand to my feet during a pause in enemy fire. I front flip over the table firing automatic rounds as I stick the landing. My body pulses in rhythm with the bullets, muscles rattling as I holler. Hippies are mowed down back into the dirt from which they rose. I cartwheel in mid-air, rainbows firing between my extended limbs. One rips a chunk from my right thigh, I grimace falling to one knee, but the bullets don’t relent from my gun. Blood splattering amidst the unbathed masses. I kick a rainbow back at a hippie with sole of my shoe. The beam tears through his hemp sack before disintegrating his heart. I’m out of bullets. Pot smoke rises from the corpses and the scent of charred patchouli oil overwhelms me as I sprint toward the few remaining dirty tree-huggers with my knife drawn. DIE YOU HIPPIE FUCKS!
“Griffin.” Corman called between fits of sneezing.
“Huh?” I blinked, “What’s up?”
“Pull over at that gas station. I need to pick up some medicine.”
I watched through the store window as Corman swiped his arm across the cold remedy shelf, dumping various products into the crook of his elbow. He struggled not to drop anything on the way to the cashier.
Back on the road, Corman popped pills and swigged from bottles hoping that something would allow him to breath. I figured conversation might distract him from the mucus terrorism. “So, how do you think Tucker will react to the protesters?”
“I doubt he’ll be bothered.” Corman labored a deep breath unable to get air through his nose, “He’s dealt with it before, and it’s not like they’ll hurt his ego.”
“I always wonder if narcissism is a necessary condition to make it as a celebrity. It is prevalent in Hollywood. Unwavering confidence certainly doesn’t hurt in the face of constant criticism. I can’t imagine what it’s like to be a polarizing figure like Tucker. You’ve got thousands of people calling you a god and a thousand more who despise your very existence. I beat myself up enough as it is. I don’t really need others jumping in to help me out. Tucker doesn’t seem affected by the attackers. And he’s not even mainstream yet. It’s only going to get worse.”
“When it does, he’ll be ready for it. You have to believe in yourself before you can convince others to do so. Tucker has being preparing for success for a long time.”
Corman dozed off for an hour and when he awoke the drugs had taken effect providing him with momentary relief. We spoke about the ways Dawes was planning on fucking with the protestors. Every time Corman sneezed, I pictured millions of microscopic germs swarming my immune system – that is, if it was even active after the abuse I’d been doing to my body.
At the hotel, Corman went straight to bed to get some rest before the big show. I put the luggage in various rooms and did the UPS run. The drive from the hotel to the theater was a little longer than usual. In some cities I’d get lucky. It’d be five minutes. This time it was more like twenty minutes. What made it trickier is that the theater was on campus. Not even on the outskirts, but right smack in the middle with cars clogging the tiny roads and students bloating the sidewalks.
As I navigated the final roads to the theater, I didn’t need to check my map. I knew I was in the right place by the thirty or so protestors who had already lined up with cardboard signs hours before the show.
SAY NO TO RAPE.
MEN CAN STOP RAPE.
DON’T RAPE.
I shook my head, taking in the spectacle. The signs baffled me. What were they trying to accomplish? I couldn’t imagine a student walking by, looking at the signs and saying to himself, “ohhh rape is wrong. Well shit, that changes everything.” These protestors might as well have had signs saying “breathe so you don’t die” and “murder is bad.”
There are hundreds of reasons to hate Tucker Max. I could provide you with several. Hell, he’d list most of them for you if you asked him. But calling him a rapist was so utterly retarded, it was beyond comprehension. I’d spent a good amount of time with Tucker by this point, including watching him interact with girls. Although he was by any standard a complete asshole, never once did I see him do something that was even remotely aggressive in a sexual nature toward a girl. I did, however, see a few girls effectively ‘rape’ him.
We’d learn from reading signs and listening to the chanting that the protestors’ basic argument was an individual cannot consent to sex when drunk. Therefore hooking up with a guy or girl while they were drunk equaled raping them, which, by my impression of the US college environment would narrow the college rapist population down to almost every male and female ever outside of protestors and computer science majors.
Bill Dawes, after debating multiple approaches, decided to go undercover as a gay reporter. He wore a beret with matching jacket that he borrowed from Greg. The disguise worked. It wasn’t long until Bill, Charlie and Greg learned that not a single protestor, aside from the girl who organized it, had read Tucker’s book.
I always hated the protestor types during my college years. I don’t have anything against demonstrations on a fundamental level, quite the opposite. The world could use a lot more uprising beyond the racists and homophobes who plague most rallies today. The problem with college protestors was they weren’t people driven to action through an impassioned cause. Rather, they were socially awkward, unkempt weirdos who protested everything. The same forty people holding up dead fetus pictures to protest abortion on Monday would then lock themselves in a cheap bamboo cage on Wednesday to protest that situation in Tibet. More than likely they participated for the social interaction and camaraderie. But in the process they made a mockery of otherwise serious causes by taking a sensationalist approach to complex topics without bothering to understand the inner-workings of what they were protesting. What bothered me the most was that they seemed to bitch about everything. There’s nothing more draining than a person who has something negative to say about any issue without actually providing any constructive solutions. The protestors who had shown up against I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell were just these types of people. Whiny outcasts with no real agenda, lacking the awareness to understand they were only helping the movie’s cause by bring attention to it.
The video crew wrapped up filming early upon realizing they had more than enough hilarious footage. Inside the theater, Jeff had Jaimiee and Jace working double time on removing all the pint glasses from the swag bags. We would hand them out to the people upon exiting instead. Meanwhile, Ben was checking-in the blossoming lineup while I moved boxes around trying to keep the fire marshal happy. The possibility of a protestor pulling the fire alarm to disrupt the movie led NC State to disable the fire alarms. The fire marshal was now responsible for ensuring the building’s safety. The bomb squad swept the building beforehand as an extra precaution – pretty intense preparation for a comedy movie, if you ask me.
Our fire marshal was a stickler for policy. His glasses rested on a string against an ill-fitting plain white button-up shirt. “I hate to be a pain,” he’d say (liar), “but I’ve got to abide by the rules they give me downtown.” Procedural bureaucrats tend to annoy the fuck out of me, but in this instance abiding by the man’s every whim was the only solution since he could shut the show down with the flick of a wrist.
When it came time to drive Jerry back to the hotel, the protestors had moved from the sidewalk to gather in a grassy park outside the theater’s exit. None of them made eye contact with me during all the times I walked by them. Jerry seemed like he wanted to stick around to see if anything was going to happen. That, and to keep an eye on his bus. I assured that it was going to be an uneventful night. Besides, we’d hired security personnel to guard the bus. At the hotel, I darted up to my room to have a shower. I hadn’t had time in the morning or before we left for the show. Things at the theater seemed to be running smoothly enough without me.
Ten minutes later, I was back in the van. The phone rang. Jeff came through, “Griffin, are you driving back?” He sounded pissed.
“Yeah, on my way right now.” My pulse quickened at the thought of having to admit I dicked around at the hotel.
“The fire marshal says the bus is blocking a water outlet on the building. We need Jerry back here as soon as possible. Nobody gets let in unless the bus is moved. No Jerry, no show.”
“I’m on it.”
“I’m counting on you Canadian.” I couldn’t help but smile as I called Jerry to come down to the van as soon as possible. Jeff probably figured I was almost back at the theater. I’d look like a hero when I showed up in half the expected time. Jerry got back in the van. He seemed less than pleased at the unexpected disturbance, more so as he held on for dear life while I blasted the van through traffic. The rush hour was a pain, but the campus traffic had died down considerably now that it was early evening. I called Jeff when I was three minutes out.
“Just a heads up, I’ve got Jerry.”
“Good. He’s in the van now?”
“Yeah.”
“How long do you think it’ll take to get him here?”
“Like two minutes. I’m just down the street.”
“Down the… what? Two minutes?” Jeff’s mood improved instantly. “Well, shit. Drop him off right at the bus.”
Jerry hopped out of the van. I parked it in a loading bay across the street. When I came back, Jerry had repositioned the bus. I couldn’t even tell. That was because, Jerry explained, he only had to reverse about three feet. Unbelievable. But our fire marshal was happy having exploited his authority to the maximum potential so that when he found himself sitting alone on his couch with only the television’s icy glare to keep him company he could feel accomplished. The show was back on.
I took Jerry back to the hotel again and picked up pizza on the way back. Keri-Lynn Pratt flew in to participate for the after show. She had a certain class to her that was absent from the rest of the crew. Though, she did take the mediocre pizza in stride. When Kerri-Lynn was on the bus, the dynamic changed. Dave and Nils made a deliberate effort catering to her and making her feel at home but the whole thing felt artificial. I wondered what Keri-Lynn thought about the treatment. Did she recognize that people were essentially kissing her ass? Did it annoy her? Did she interpret it as genuine?
I poured beer in a red dixie cup and stepped off the bus. The sun had disappeared. Halogen light bled down buildings, occasionally disappearing among passing headlights. Students still walked up and down the streets. The drunk ones would stop to scream variations of “I love you Tucker” at the bus. A frat boy shouted “Fuck you” and stuck up two middle fingers before strutting off with his friends, as if the bus had feelings. I walked around the corner to see if the protestors had disbanded.
To my surprise, the protestors were still in the park outside the theater exit. They had formed a large circle with each person holding a lit candle. A halo of loneliness. In the middle of the circle rested a small stereo playing the sounds of a crying baby. I stood in disbelief. I moved closer to make sure the sound wasn’t an actual crying baby, but nope, everybody stood in stoned silence and the noise was clearly emanating from the stereo. Unbelievable. They either sell wailing baby CDs or somebody took the time to record and loop this most aggravating of sounds. I could understand if they were playing it over a loud speaker, but the only people they were irritating were themselves. They might as well have played Nickelback. In what world could somebody take this protest seriously? Even if I was forced into it because I liked a girl – back when I was naïve and kind-hearted enough to do dumb shit like that – I couldn’t have retained my sanity. Watching it from the outside, my every cerebral operation was dedicated to processing how lame the scene was. There’s no way these people could look each other in the eye and not think “what are we doing with our lives? I mean, really, what are we accomplishing right now? Is this all an elaborate prank?” I would have made it ninety seconds before lighting my pants on fire with the stupid candle. Baby screaming and rape. I don’t get the connection, and please don’t attempt to explain it to me.
The movie and after show went off without incident. Tucker did an admiral job addressing the ridiculous accusations by pointing out that the protestors were actually exploiting the victims of rape by hijacking the issue to push their own ignorant agenda. The fans reacted with cheers, and then everybody got back to telling stories about shitting themselves.
When everything was packed up, I made the drive for Jerry one final time. The crew decided to hang out on the bus for the night since the hotel was a distance from any good bars. When the bus came to a halt in the hotel parking lot, I went straight for my bunk. I was thoroughly exhausted from the previous week. The bus was alive with chatter, a few girls had come down to drink. I hoped I would fall asleep despite the noise. I opened up my laptop in my bunk to check email.
I heard one of the girls mention that she was an x-ray tech.
“Really?” Jeff jumped in. “Can you get me in for an appointment in the morning? I hurt my elbow but I haven’t been able to get to a clinic because we’re on the road every day.”
I heard a collective “Ewww” that no doubt came from Jeff revealing the massive liquid-filled, golf-ball-sized bulge that now decorated the tip of his elbow. Jeff was crafty at avoiding the specifics about what happened to his elbow. He’d usually mumble something about hurting it before trailing off. The real story might have got him into some trouble. I will say Jeff did not get into a fight with a large mechanical object and win. That object was not an elevator. He did not knock the door off track with a vicious elbow and then have to climb up to the second floor at head-level after prying the doors apart because he was trapped inside after the elevator came to an emergency halt.
The chipper x-ray tech seemed more than happy to help. “I can get you in whenever you want. What time? First thing in the morning? I have the keys. We could go right now if you want.”
“Really?” Jeff sounded relieved and excited. “That would be awesome. Let’s –“
“Wait,” Tucker interrupted his voice dominating the other voices. “You’re an x-ray tech. If we go with you, could you take an x-ray of me and her fucking on a table?” I figured Tucker was referencing the girl sitting beside him.
“X-ray picture or video?”
“What,” Tucker fumbled for words, “there’s x-ray video now?”
More giggling. “Yeah, totally. It’s, like, a moving video of your bones.”
“Oh my god. Video x-ray?” Tucker was shouting. “Call Griffin. Tell him he’s driving.”
I leaned out of my bunk. I saw Jeff standing up. “Jeff,” I called tossing the keys at him. “I’m too tired to drive.”
“Get some sleep. We’ll be fine.” Jeff called back as Tucker sprinted passed him and out the door with childlike excitement.
I noticed Charlie and Greg were on the bus. I decided to try my luck in the hotel room. Jace would be in there, but a tv is a lot less distracting than a bus full of drunk people. I dragged my feet across the parking lot to the hotel. There was a dull pounding in my head. My stomach felt sick from the disgusting mix of booze and caffeine. Bill Dawes, his hair slicked back and dripping wet, was standing at front desk talking to the clerk.
When he saw me, he came running toward me waving his hand. “Griffin, Griffin. Come here. What are you doing?”
“Going to bed, man. I feel like I’m going to die.”
“Fuck that shit,” Bill said, somehow whispering and shouting at the same time. “I need a wingman. I’ve got two girls in the hotel pool. Hot girls. I want to hook up with one. I need you to distract the other.”
“Ask for a threesome.”
“Nah, dude. I’m not getting that vibe. They’re roommates or some shit. Come on, don’t be a pussy.”
Dawes pushed me along. The pool was located in the center of the hotel. It was an outdoor pool. We walked up to the gate. A large sign hung on the front indicating that the pool closed at 10pm. It was now well past midnight. The two girls spoke quietly to each other until Bill got their attention. Together they emerged from the water like the slow-motion bikini scene in a James Bond movie. Two college girls, blond hair pasted to their cheeks, smiling as they sauntered toward us. Goddamnit, I thought, what does a guy have to do to get some sleep around here?
Bill put his hand on my shoulder, “Girls, I’d like you to meet Tucker’s brother.”
“Tucker’s brother?” The shorter one with slightly darker blonde hair cocked her head sideways.
“No,” I frowned.
“Oh come on. Don’t be modest.” Bill leaned over the fence closer to the girls. “He’s always embarrassed about being associated with Tucker because he’s the nice brother.” He put his hand back on my shoulder. “So are we going to swim or what? We could chicken fight? Yeah, that’s a great idea. Chicken fighting.” He pinched the taller girl on the stomach, which I took as an indication of the one he was after.
“My swimming shorts are in the room, and I’ve got this.” I held up my laptop.
“You don’t need shorts. You got underwear on, right? Come on. This will be fun. Let’s go.” Bill should work in infomercials.
The short one spoke up again, “I’m not chicken fighting. You said there would be a hot tub and there isn’t. We need some drinks.”
Bill didn’t miss a beat, “Alright. That’s cool. We’ll get some drinks from the bus. Fuck this hot tub-less hotel. Actually you girls want to go out to the bar? That’ll be fun. Go get changed.”
Bill and I waited while the girls changed back into their clothes. Apparently they had gone home to grab their bikinis after the show and met Bill at the hotel. I pleaded with Bill to find an alternate wingman so I didn’t experience heart failure. But he was having none of it. The look of disgust on his face made me question my manhood. Next thing I knew, I had stashed my laptop back on my bunk, grabbed some fresh beers, and we were all sitting in the girl’s car driving to a bar.
10:41 am on January 22nd, 2010
“A halo of loneliness”. Actually that whole paragraph was really great. You’re style is evolving. And, it ‘feels’ like you’re becoming more jaded and less of a blind yes-man. I’m looking forward to more.
11:51 am on January 22nd, 2010
The hippy battle!
Really enjoyed this one.
1:25 pm on January 22nd, 2010
@Ain’t
Thanks, man. It was difficult writing the earlier entries for the tour after I’d returned home since I was a different person by then. I truly was an eager to please yes-man when I started the tour. I was extremely grateful for the opportunity (still am) and thought the movie was going to explode. I needed to capture that mindset, even if it made me look like the ass-kissing fanboi that I was.
@Bryan
I fantasize about hippy genocide on a daily basis.
2:38 pm on January 22nd, 2010
I think you might be judging the protestors without knowing enough about them. It’s cheap writing just to try to downplay their significance by attaching qualities to them which may or may not be true.
You wrote describing your college years. Did you graduate with a degree in journalism?
I also think it’s notable that most people go on an adventure for the sake of an adventure and decide to write about it after the fact. But this tour consisted of so many people that are trying to be writers, that it seems like they went on this adventure specifically to be able to write about it.
I know Tucker constantly states that if you want to be an interesting writer live an interesting life. But what Tucker has always failed to do is give an interesting perspective. So, here you are, not doing something unique because it’s shared by similarly situated people doing the exact same thing, but it’s nice that you are trying to bring an interesting perspective to it.
Have you spoken with Tucker recently? How are the DVD sales advancing?
4:49 pm on January 22nd, 2010
@Interested
The protestor part was definitely a generalization. But the specific protest in NC was terribly sad. If you don’t believe me, just watch the Raleigh video on the beer in hell website. I had a permanent cringe on my face when I was around them. No doubt some of them were well-meaning, nice people.
I have degrees in Poli Sci and English. I definitely wanted to be a journalist since I was young. It’s even listed in my highschool year book as my future occupation. I dabbled in newspaper journalism and loathed it. There was a ton of shit I didn’t expect such as no room for creativity (at least not until you get your own column which may take a decade) and the fact you couldn’t write anything that was contrary to the newspaper’s beliefs. So you had to align yourself with certain political values, or write positively/negatively about certain sports teams, etc. I did not expect that. It was depressing.
I still think the Beer in Hell tour qualifies as unique. It wasn’t unique within the group, but compared to the general population it was. I mean, twelve people out of the entire world got to share that experience. Still, it doesn’t really matter how interesting it was for me, it’s all about whether I’m capable of making it interesting for others. I’m trying my best. It’s a struggle.
I exchanged emails with Tucker maybe a month ago, but haven’t spoken to him at length since the tour. I have no clue how dvd sales are coming along. I imagine sales will be slow. No marketing budget, it’ll need word of mouth to start selling. I figure college-age people will buy it, but then again college-age people pirate the shit out of everything.
6:09 pm on January 22nd, 2010
“I have no clue how dvd sales are coming along. I imagine sales will be slow. No marketing budget, it’ll need word of mouth to start selling.”
Dude, how far up your own asses do you all have your heads? No marketing, no word of mouth, yadda….THE MOVIE FUCKING SUCKED!!!! God damn already. And you’re talking about the ass kissing fanboi that you WERE? WERE? As in, not any more?
Griffin, I’m really getting tired of reminding you how bad you suck.
6:15 pm on January 22nd, 2010
“I exchanged emails with Tucker maybe a month ago, but haven’t spoken to him at length since the tour.”
Let me translate that for you: I tried to contact my man crush to see if I could ride his coattails for a little longer, but, since he got all he needed out of me by treating me like a bitch for the entire movie set and using me like a handtowel, he probably doesn’t even remember my name. So all I have left are my quickly fading memories of being somebody, if only for a moment on a fucking failed movie tour.
9:40 pm on January 22nd, 2010
“Tucker did an admiral job addressing the ridiculous accusations……”
Did you mean admirable? Seems like it would make more sense there.
Also, I usually find your stuff funny, but the hippie rant didn’t do anything for me. Not sure why.
10:18 pm on January 22nd, 2010
@Ballsack 3.0
I also grow tired of you reminding me how bad I suck.
But still, I’m trying to look at Beer in Hell objectively here. Yes, the movie is far from perfect. It has it’s problems, but it’s not a horrible movie. Tucker has a built in audience. People will buy the DVD, and people will enjoy the movie. DVD is a different beast than theatrical release. In theaters everything has to click for success. On dvd there’s a much longer life span, and more time for a slow build. Regardless, stop hitting on me.
@Ballsack came from my ballsack
You are correct. My bad on the admiral. Hungover as shit and brain not work.
The hippie thing was a little forced. Probably should have spent more time tightening up the scene, but it seemed fun and lighthearted while writing it. Admittedly there wasn’t much humor in it. Could have made if funnier.
1:37 pm on January 24th, 2010
I find your critics to be just as amusing as you are. =)
I’m always excited when I see that you’ve posted a new piece of the tour. Your writing is very enjoyable. You should consider putting together a novel. Aim for a novelette. Or perhaps I could provide you with some inspiration for a trashy romance novel. Ooh-la-la!
I hope your life slows a bit so you will have more time to spend on this.
p.s. I think it’s Ballsack who has the man-crush. Should I be worried?
12:57 am on January 26th, 2010
These posts are really good, but I feel like I need some backstory to fully appreciate the comments section. Is the Ballsack character supposed to be openly gay, or just a really blatant closet case? I can’t tell if he’s supposed to be a really immature gay guy who likes Griffin, so the joke is that he always teases him like a seven-year-old, or if the joke is that he is actually in the closet and just oblivious to how clear it is that he’s gay?
Either way, it’s a very disturbing character – the kind of person you laugh at uncomfortably online but would never, ever want to meet in real life. Whoever came up with “Ballsack” should do an Arthur Kade-style blog, where people read it and speculate “is this fake, or could someone actually be that much of a douchebag?”
1:14 am on January 26th, 2010
@future ex
I wish I had more time to spend on the site too. It’s rare that I don’t have the desire to write but between work and moon-lighting as a professional alcoholic, it’s hard to make room for writing. You may be right about Ballsack’s man-crush. I imagine his mom’s basement to have stalker pics of me pasted all over the walls.
@Theo
Awesome. I love the cosby show.
Also, your comment made me laugh pretty hard. I wouldn’t know where to begin with ballsack’s issues regarding homosexuality. You ask many a good questions. But you’re right, I would never want to meet this guy in person. Though he’d probably avoid eye-contact and creep off into the shadows if I did. But for the record, Ballsack is not a construct. He is an actual living, breathing person that exists somewhere in the United States. Who knows, you may pass him on the street every day. You might see him wearing his dad’s suit and running around his parents’ front yard playing lawyer with an empty briefcase before going inside and writing about it on the internet.
Creepy.
1:37 pm on January 26th, 2010
Or you might find him right here, on griffin’sgay.com, as the only real source of interesting subject matter that brings people to this website at all. 4 out of 6 posts not written by me are about me or reference me.
I’m batting .667…Ty Cobb’s batting record is .366…Chris Griffin isn’t even the main focus of his own fucking website…and he wants to assfuck Ty Cobb’s corpse. Loser.
This is awesome. I pretty much have my own website, and I don’t have to pay for it, maintain it, nothing…just show up and write.
4:10 pm on January 26th, 2010
@Ballsack
[gay joke], [gay joke], [delusional statement], [tired cliche joke], [gay joke], [delusional statement]
6:18 pm on January 26th, 2010
RALEIGH
[treated like a bitch], [put up with people who used me], [validated myself by quasi-famous internet people], [figured it'd be worth it when the movie check came]
EVERY OTHER TOWN WE VISITED
[treated like a bitch], [put up with people who used me], [validated myself by quasi-famous internet people], [figured it'd be worth it when the movie check came]
MOVIE PREMIERE
Sweet, this is going to be awesome…
3 WEEKS AFTER THE MOVIE PREMIERE
Huh? It grossed what? Where’s it playing now?
Oh…..
COMMENTS
[slamming ballsack with unoriginal shit all the while thanking him in the back of my mind for bringing people to my website], [dreaming about Brad Pitt's cock]
10:42 pm on January 26th, 2010
Good god Ballsack, give it up already.
The reason anyone mentions you is because you post inane shit on every single one of Griffin’s posts, which people then respond to because you’re such a delusional dipshit.
Go fuck those models you’ve mentioned, and don’t come back. Nobody will give a shit. I’ve said it before, but you’re annoying and I don’t find you even remotely funny. Please go away you creepy piece of shit.
10:43 pm on January 26th, 2010
I might have over done it on the “shits”.
12:31 am on January 27th, 2010
@Goose
Thank you for summing up my feelings. And you can never have enough ’shits’ on this comments section.
1:51 am on January 27th, 2010
Ballsack is the man.
3:51 am on January 27th, 2010
Can you please start deleting Ballsacks comments. The banter is slightly funny; however the anger that will consume him if he doesn’t have a platform is even funnier.
4:01 am on January 27th, 2010
Just ignore him. If he’s not getting anything to react to here he’ll take his hairbrush to another asshole.
Fun Fact: Hippies actually have their very own species, “Homo Purgamentum”, which translates roughly to “one with the filth”. Because of factors like the inability to reproduce with homo sapiens and an unusually long hunting season (spanning 6 to 12 months depending on climate) it’s quite likely homo purgamentum will become extinct within the next century.
11:28 am on January 27th, 2010
@Barry
Trolling is hilarious when you do it right. Well done.
@Anonymous
I believe you are right. Of course, the all-consuming anger will probably manifest itself via 50 comments I’ll have to sift through.
The growing consensus on the comments section and in emails to me seems to be that everybody has grown tired of Ballsack. I agree the dynamic has grown stale. I really wanted to make this place filter-free for haters and supports alike, but he’s making it impossible. It’ll be interesting to see what happens once I block his comments. If Ballsack’s predictions are correct my traffic should plummet about 400% in a week.
@Destiny
Extinct? Oh thank god. I didn’t know we had scientists on here.
As much as I like the dreadlocks looks, I do believe that hair should be washed on, at minimum, a monthly basis. And rubbing it in dirt does not count as washing.
11:57 am on January 27th, 2010
Delete his comments. Even people on the new board are getting tired of mocking him. His BS stopped being funny to laugh at a long time ago. Now, he’s just a sad clown. Besides, he lives in Kansas. I think God has already fucked him over enough by making him live there.
12:14 pm on January 27th, 2010
@Ain’t
Yeah, it’s sad what his interactions have turned into. When I used to piss him off, I’d do it about once every two months or so, just when he’d calmed down from the last time. It’d always amuse me how he would predictably freak out with the same intensity every time. But the constant, daily spazes are tiresome.
According to Ballsack, Kansas City law is the Big Time. He’s a huge prosecutor like they have on TV. Even though his IP address registers to some buttfuck small town.
1:30 pm on January 27th, 2010
I laughed pretty hard at the hippy battle bit. Awesome stuff!
2:31 pm on January 27th, 2010
@anonymous
Niiiice. Glad you liked it. It’s a diversion from the narrative. I’m happy to hear it worked for you.
11:18 am on January 28th, 2010
Very good so far, I’m loving this one. Curious to hear whether Keri Lynn picked up on the ass-kissing and was it artificial by the guys? It’s not like she is an A-List actress.
1:33 pm on January 28th, 2010
@Jennifer
In our little world, Kerri-Lynn was A list. Though it’s not like our crew rolled out the red carpet for her. They were just more accommodating than they normally would be. I think actors and actress are so used to being catered to, that they come to expect it out of everyone.