jackassworld

On the previous post toasting the adventurous memory of the late Steve Irwin, I mentioned that the Wildboyz were undoubtedly inspired by his wacky and wonderful actions down under. Well, this wasn’t one of those occasions. This was all them, as Wildboyz as it gets. Except for that thing on Steve-O’s back. That’s a three-toed amphiuma, just one of the many mysteries of the Louisiana bayou. Say, that reminds me … what’s the old saying? What happens in the bayou stays in the bayou? Especially if it squeals like a pig? Man, that’s one cinematic moment in history I could have done without seeing in my lifetime. I don’t know how Ned Beatty did it and I sincerely hope they gave him an Oscar for doing to the Cajun bayou what Jaws did for the ocean. Anyway, I often wonder if this should have been one of those backwater incidents that remained far upstream under the mangrove tree, but as you can see from the Louisiana blooper reel I’m sure glad it didn’t. In fact, I don’t think Chris has ever been so tongue-tied, twisted, and excited over an animal before.

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Whenever I think of the late Steve Irwin what immediately springs to mind is a grown man in uncomfortably short khaki shorts chasing after a crocodile, leaping atop it, and wrestling it into submission, all the while providing a running, huffing, and occasionally grunting commentary peppered with “Crikeys!” Irwin revolutionized nature programming—well, at least up until the Wildboyz came along, that is, but even then the inspiration was more than apparent in whatever absurd form it took—and made it excitingly fun and accessible for kids again, not just bird nerds like Jeff Tremaine. Anyway, this freshie’s for you, Steve, but should you ever find your way back to Earth via the Hindu beliefs of reincarnation I hope it is as a monster saltie. You earned it.

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Do you remember a photo from a while back that featured our fearless Wildboyz crew enjoying a fully catered meal in the middle of the Masai Mara of Kenya? That was pretty f’ing cool for a Third World location, right? So can you imagine how sad it was for Rick Kosick to be back in the good ol’ USA, home of the free, the brave, and other things, only to be served this for lunch in the state of Louisiana? I mean, don’t you think it looks like he’s about to cry here? And how many more question marks am I going to use, anyway? This is getting ridiculous? Damn straight? Another brick in the wall? How soon is now? Enough already, goddamnit? I agree. And if you’ve made it this far you deserve a treat. So here you go: EAT ME.

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This Sunday, November 15th, Spike Jonze will be appearing at the Family store in Los Angeles to meet, greet, and scribble his name in copies of the new behind the wild thing scenes book entitled Heads On and We Shoot. I’m fairly certain Spike’s scrawl is a step or two above Johnny Knoxville’s (maybe even three), so it would indeed make a nice addition to your book and not look like your baby brother got a hold of it with a wayward Sharpie. Plus, the holiday season is coming up! So, if you’re in the giving mood but just haven’t found that special item yet to set you apart from the rest of the Wal-Mart and Target shopping hacks, here’s your unique chance to get ‘er done.

Toward the later stages of the show there were a few segments that beg some kind of explanation: first and foremost the “Jackass Spermathon,” a randy celebration of juvenile self-absorption at its best. The idea stemmed from my own personal life when my wife signed me up for a test at a fertility clinic prior to our attempts at serious procreation in 2001. Johnny Knoxville was particularly intrigued with my results—which were by no means stellar on any account—and was hellbent on assuring one and all that he truly was the alpha male of our pack.

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So apparently our resident model-maker Nate Merritt took Trip Taylor’s suggestion to heart and has since cobbled together not only a Michelle Klepper figure but a Stephanie Hodge one as well. Consequently, Michelle shall now not only go down in jackass history as the woman credited for the phrase, “GET IN THE VAN!” but also for being “loose in the box.” Unfortunately, I can not lay claim to that doozy as I’m quoting it directly from a video that Nate made about “finding” the Michelle Klepper figurine in a store. No, make that fortunately, because if he knew Klepper like I knew Klepper then he never would’ve made that crack. A wolverine, that one, as Chris Pontius knows from firsthand brawling experience.

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No trip to Portland, Oregon, would be complete without a stop at Mt. Tabor. We, in fact, made many, many stops at Mt. Tabor, because its slopes were notorious for not letting anyone stop—at least not before gravity turned against them for better or worse (and usually the more worse the better). The ice block skates we tested there were a curiously fun concept that instantly turned to heavy hell on uncontrollable earth the second you lost your footing. Not that Johnny Knoxville really had to be concerned about this since momentum was the least of his worries. Simply standing up proved to be his biggest stumbling block to overcome. Anyway, we left more than a few human-sized craters around Mt. Tabor over the years, some of which can be seen in impacted action on the “Tandem Biking“, “Big Wheel Craze 2“, and “Yellow Sled” shoots, but one of the most endearing memories of all remains to be Dimitry Elyashkevich’s impromptu act of terrorism with “Poo on a Stick“. Giggles are good, people. Giggle often, because a life not spent giggling is a life not lived. Stick that in your tao, you zen motherf’er.

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I’m not sure what’s more alarming about this photo: Jeff Tremaine’s post-modern fashion statement or the fact that some fool actually believed Dave England’s over-the-top antics with the bloody cell phone prank. Three little numbers later and it was all sirens, cops, and an ambulance for us. Oh my. And poor Dave, sitting there on the curb with crusty fake blood in his ear and an ill-fitting suit, hoping to hell that the police officer doesn’t take offense to the two Hollywood kooks standing before her and toss his stupid ass in the hoosegow. Anyway, on your walk through Portland today, you will no doubt stumble upon Pioneer Square: ground zero to the “Cell Phone,” “Poo Diaper,” “Human Tricycle,” and a few other things that fail to come to mind (perhaps because they failed to make it to TV) were committed to tape, circa 2000-2001.

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Someone in the community appears to soon be going on a trip through Portland, Oregon, so guess what? You’re going on a vicarious trip to Portland, too. This individual was primarily interested in seeing the sites where jackass left its fecal footprint during the years of 2000-2001, many of which aren’t all that difficult to find since most of the idiotic action took place in and around the downtown’s city center. Take the seminal “Urban Kayak,” for instance, where Portland’s downtown decorative fountains and public parks set the stage for our two creative kooks armed with a one-man flotation palindrome and a common goal—to tame the urban landscape and bend it to their imaginative whims. Who needs nature anyway, with its clean, fresh air, peaceful surroundings, and cataclysmic destructive forces? That shit’s for the birds. Pave the world, goddamnit, pave the fucking world!

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Hey, Russia! America used to be at odds with them and now we’re not. Sort of. It’s no longer a Cold War, I know that much, but every so often you hear something in the news that leads me to believe it’s more of a Tepid Friendship. At least by way of politics, because people are people and even though we have different needs we’re all made out of the same stuff: blood, guts, musculature, bones, and a fancy skin suit to zip it all up and hold everything in place. Sometimes I’m not so sure that the supposed advantage our brains possess over every other living thing on planet Earth is a good thing, because it’s all the “other stuff” that just gets in the way of essentially being human. So can’t we all just be humans and get on with getting on already? On that Utopian note, I’d like to extend a happy birthday to late American novelist, supreme satirist, and humanist Kurt Vonnegut. Your bodily presence is sorely missed, but thank you for leaving your legacy of thoughts and words behind. Anyway, were it not for Mother Russia finally dropping her iron-clad Soviet issue skirt in 1991, the Wildboyz would not have had this opportunity to go play amateur soldiers of fortune for a day and joyride/joyfire expensive military hardware. God bless you, Mr. Gorbachev!

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