jackassworld

Okay, so I knowingly skipped Canada Day on July 1st, but you know what? USA #1! How dare you canuckleheads think you can upstage us in July, on OUR month of Independence. The nerve of it all. The humanity. This continent ain’t called North AMERICA for nothing, you know (not to mention the fact that North Canada would sound absolutely redundant). I am, of course, just yanking your tundra-covered chain, because I know full well there is a Central and South America, too, and that this correlation has nothing whatsoever to do with the price of tea in China. But if you look the whole world over virtually every country celebrates some form of independence with fireworks. Because what’s more fun than watching things go boom and shit? Nothing, that’s what, although my memories of Fourth of July are forever entwined with the opening title sequence of an old television show from the ’70s called Love, American Style—I know, it sounds like an early version of HBO’s Real Sex atrocity, but it was much more of a comedic soap opera. Incidentally, Real Sex is the only time I have vocally yelled at a television screen in the privacy of my own home. Humans really can suck at times and I don’t mean that in a oral manner. (more…)

Clyde Singleton has a longstanding history with us that first truly began on a Big Brother “Rocky Mountain” road trip that he accompanied us on in 1996. The tour lasted no more than a week, but in that time frame he went through no less than four pair of underwear (all lost to late night urination issues) and forever became “one of us.” We later tried to introduce him to the world at large when jackass went to television series on MTV in 2000, but I think he may have proved to be “too black” for a certain standards department? Or maybe it was just the scenario itself, “Ghetto Surfing”? I don’t know, but while digging through my old snapshots today, I ran across this outtake from the beach that just screamed Fourth of July (amongst other things). “Jeah!” to borrow a Clydism. (more…)

It only makes sense that since April took the Mother’s Day playlist honors this past May that we should assemble a salute to Phil for today. So we did just that and here it is: An extended look at several days in the life of Phil Margera, a father who has justly earned his stars and bars in parenthood, not to mention a baker’s dozen of Purple Hearts. Seriously, do you think Phil had any idea at all what he was getting into back then? I mean, from personal experience, it all seems so innocent at the outset. You know, poking your penis into a vagina with the intent of making a baby. Then there is that first nerve-wracking year of its life when you constantly find yourself staring in wonder at the mewling, burping, crying, shitting, sleeping thing before you, lost in thought and imagining all the great and wonderful things it will potentially grow up to do in its lifetime. Now I may be going out on a suppositional limb here, but I’m of the mind that all this you’re about to see was probably the last thing Phil would’ve ever bargained for with his second son Brandon, a/k/a “Bam.” Talk about a modern day tale for Frank Capra to tackle. (more…)

History has proven that you cannot go wrong with Chris Pontius as photo of the day subject matter. History has also proven that you cannot go wrong with a good bared ass in public. Young or old, buff or lean, dudes of all gender bias will inevitably give it a good long hard gander. I mean, you can’t not look. Bared skin of a generally private nature demands attention. For example, while in New York City and careening through the trans-everything crowd at Wigstock back in 1995, I even found myself momentarily entranced by the exposed meat pods masquerading as breasts on the chest of one burly bull dyke. Technically, yes, they were of female origin, but through the grace of god they’d taken on an entirely different meaning on her mannish (actually it was much more pearish) body. So the fact that they were naked for all to see only made them all the more curious, because they really were no different than the male sort you’d normally see moobing out and succumbing to gravity on the beaches of south Florida. (more…)

Half the time—no, make that 11/16ths of the time—I don’t know what to believe on the Interweb. So I’ve since made it a blanket policy to simply believe everything. Why not, right? I happily gobbled up all the educational shit spoonfed to me by the U.S. public school system, some of which no doubt was laced with bias, misrepresentation, and insidious propaganda, and I’m none the worse for wear. I mean, look at me now. I’ve made a career out of documenting my friends who play with poop. America, what a country! So great it is, in fact, that today is marked in history as being National Fudge Day. What does the Interweb tell me about National Fudge Day? I don’t know, I couldn’t give a good goddamn. Fudge was always too rich for my palate, anyway. (more…)

In an abstract world this photo makes perfect sense, but as it stands now it will simply be one of those historical artifacts that will baffle any remotely intelligent life form that manages to survive the impending apocalypse and stumble upon it in their archaeological searchings for clues as to “what the shit went wrong” with the prior civilization. All doomsday missives aside, what appears to be a renegade still from the highly top secret set of Survivor, starring the jackass cast, is actually a random moment in time from the shores of Camp Pain, circa 2001. Although either one could, I suppose, be construed as key topographical points in culture that indicate western civilization is still well on the decline. Punk and heavy metal music may have been the first two horsemen, but reality-based television was certainly the third. As for the fourth and final jockey of doom, look no further than the Interweb. That said, look for the number of the beast to be drawn on your computer desktop soon. Real soon! (more…)

On this day in history, Steve-O entered the world as we know it in 1974. Twelve years later, Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen would attempt to one-up him in this vaginal stunt by popping out in duplicate, but Steve-O still takes the celebrity cake when it comes to making a public splash, much less a gastro-splash. It’s been one heck of a last year for Steve-O, what with his road to recovery, high-profile return to the spotlight on Dancing With the Stars, and the sobering Demise and Rise special, so let’s all wish him well as he journeys on through his anything but ordinary life. Happy Birthday, O! (more…)

Lately several community members have inquired as to the whereabouts of Seth, a/k/a The Wolf Den. Clearly he’s gone missing from the site, but his absence is even more apparent in the office, where unconsumed boxes of donuts and Hostess treats are now piling up in ad nauseum in the kitchen. The only reason I bring this up now—in Ryan Dunn’s birthday post of all places—is because our once outstanding birthday montage assemblies have long since fallen off the editing assembly line. Maybe Seth growed up and got himself a real job (television), or maybe he’s just off in search of his precious (movies). Whatever the case, we would have sincerely liked to present Ryan Dunn (and you) with a neatly edited reel of his best and most haggard moments on jackass, but instead he (and you) will have to settle for a long-form playlist that will take much longer to consume than the time it would take Seth to chow down a family-size box of Ding-Dongs. (more…)

The other day, during one of our more productive content meetings, it was brought to my attention that poop is supposed to float in the bowl once it’s been expelled from the rectum. I was like, “What, huh?” because for as long as my short term memory could recall my brown marbles sank right to the bottom like fecal granite dropped in a water-filled quarry. Derek said, “What, your poop doesn’t float?” “No,” I said, “I mean, not like a canoe or anything.” I was then informed by several people in the content meeting that seaworthy poo is apparently a sign of good health and indicative of high-fat content crap. News to me. Someone then asked if there was any remaining bonus material on the Wildboyz DVDs that we had not yet exploited on the Interweb. Wolfie, the keeper of all things trivial, quickly piped up that The Making of Wildboyz special (put together by Nick Hutchings’ UK outfit) had yet to be violated and could easily be spliced into a four-part post—the first of which you’re about to view now. (more…)

Even though I’m a half-ass vegan, I’m going to be very frank with you: We don’t have any new breakthrough videos for today. Nope, not even another fun-filled fantastic way to use small, plastic, promotional footballs in the workplace. Luckily it’s International Children’s Day, though, so I’m allowed to dip my wick into the archive here to pull together another video playlist. It’s a nice way to span time, no? Yes? Indeed. So what we have here is a tribute to the children. Go fuck yourself, Whitney Houston. (more…)