The Kjaorn Supremacy

New Portfolio Cover

 BOOM! 

Whip your hair...

Delving deep into my mind's eye in an attempt to paint a picture of the type of person who might push an '85 Volkwagon Cabriolet, I picture a youthful and free-spirited young woman who probably rocks leg warmers and a side ponytail. She listens to Bon Jovi cranked to 11 as she rolls top down through her local streets and aves. BUT, dear friends, this is hardly the reality - as I learned yesterday.

While approaching a stop sign on my way to the local Blockbuster I happened upon one of the finer existing examples of a mid 80's Volkswagen Golf Cabriolet. As I rolled to a stop I noticed the 40 something, mullet rocking, burnout looking at me in his rearview. I stared back, and began a telepathic dialogue with him that went something like this:

Me: Hey, sweet Cabrio, bro.

40 something burnout: Shes my baby. Bought her brand spankin' new off the show room floor back in '85.

Me: That was kinda the pinnacle of your life, huh?

40 something burnout: Yeah.

Me: Sorry. 

Do it for the kids, man. The kids...

 

What up, kiddos! Listen up over here!

Last December my big bro rediscovered his passion for running (that's him above in the short shorts passing the baton). Truth be told, he's a god damned fanatic. He literally jumps up and down when a new issue of Runner's World hits his mailbox. He won't shut up about fuckin' Kara Goucher, whoever that is. And a day doesn's pass that I don't hear about his speed work or pacing or splits or whatever, but it's cool 'cause I love the shit out of that dude.

Anyways, after realizing he could still get it done out on the road - he decided to register for the Eugene Marathon and is actually running on behalf of a super rad little charity called Canine Angels. Unfortunately, his training has not gone as planned and he's sustained some injuries along the way, so he'll instead be participating in the half marathon, BUT would still like to try and make a couple duckets for the wonderful people and puppies over at Canine Angels. He's got a little FB page set-up and all: http://on.fb.me/e59lIR. Check it out.

So, this is where you come in, friendos. It's time to do your good deed for the day. Shit, with all the good karma you have coming your way you can go be a total asshole for the rest of the afternoon. Matter of fact, I just made a donation myself (In memory of Russel Tyrone Jones aka Big Baby Jesus aka ODB - for realz, you can do that!) and will be terrorizing the city of Grants Pass, OR USA on my motorbike for the remainder of the day.

This is an absolutely wonderful organization that trains dogs for children with disabilities (read more here: www.canine-angels.org), so if you're like me and have a soft spot for kids and puppy dogs, go ahead and break out your debit card and make a little donation. Seriously, do it. Do it here: http://bit.ly/h6Rq9p. And if you can't afford a donation please help spread the love by hitting me with some like or a retweet or whatever you kids are doing these days.

I love you. Hard.

It's hard out hurr 4 a pimp, mang...

I've been relentlessly searching for a writing gig since the conclusion of my internship at 72andSunny last July. I'm fairly certain that I've sent my stuff out to every agency on the planet. While I have had a handful of interviews and found myself on a couple of people's shortlists, or so they've said - I've yet to land a gig. Most days I'm entirely convinced that I'm the worst fucking copywriter in the whole wide world and consider giving it up all together. But I LOVE this shit. I really do. Writing the copy. Solving the problems. Strategizin' and all that good stuff. I dig all of it. I really do. I keep on truckin'. Hard.

The other day I sent my stuff off to a CD at a rad little shop in SLC. This is the email I got back:

Jake,

Thanks for the email. Knowing that there is still one young good copywriter out there makes me feel less dead inside. I may not even go thru with plans to kill myself later today. (Okay -- truthfully, I made a promise to myself a few weeks ago that I wouldn't kill myself untill AFTER I'd killed every single person responsible for the giant pile of dogshit that were this year's Super Bowl ads. Seriously -- WTF?) 

But I digress. If I had a position open here, you would be on a plane right this second to visit us, drink profusely, and then sign your name in blood. With that in mind, I'd invite you to do two things: 1) Keep me posted on your job hunt. 2) Drop by our offices if/when you're back in town. If/when some freelance comes up, I'd be more than willing to give you a shot -- although I don't know what "more than willing" really means. So let's just say willing.

It was nice to hear. I know that my stuff is a little different, and it's not going to appeal to everybody, but it's nice to be reminded that there's at least a couple of folks out there that dig my style. For awhile longer I'll refrain from creating a Bose Noise Canceling Headphones print campaign...

My Gift To You, World

PUSH PLAY! DO IT! Let's set the mood, friends. Let's make it sexy. Kick off yer shoes. Take off that blouse. Dim the lights if you'd like...

 

Only moments ago, after lovingingly cleansing my body (with extra special attention paid to my genital region, and more specifically, my penis) I stepped out of the shower, dripping wet and reaching for a towel WHEN in my periphery I caught a glimpse of what many, if not most, would consider to be the best looking man of all-time. OF ALL TIME! I was looking in the mirror, ya'll. It was me. 

Anyways, that's ONLY HALF of my revealing revelation of revelous revelry. I have no idea what that means. So, after briefly getting lost in my own eyes, I, as per usual, gave my mustachio a quick part when I realized that it's basically a ribbon, or a bow, a fucking bow, if you will? that you grow on your face. It's gift wrap for your god damned face! What I'm trying to say is, simply, and in essence, that my face is basically like a present to all of mankind. A neatly groomed, drop-dead handsome present for the whole wide fucking world. 

Do I consider myself a philanthropist of sorts, well - yes. Absolutely. It's a lot of work, kiddos. But the smiles I put on yer faces time and time again make it all worth the while.

Enjoy it, errybody. Enjoy it hard. And 4eva.

That's all.

I love you.

Groupon x Mel Gibson

Dear Groupon,

I caught your Super Bowl ads yesterday, and BOY WERE THEY AWESOME! Your disregard for human rights, freedom and life in general was amazingly refreshing. And the way you were all like, "Fuck whales!" was soo hardcore. Being a bit of an ad guy myself, I was all like, "FUCK! I wish I wrote these ads! They're god damned groundbreaking!"

What I'm trying to say is, simply, I am your fucking SUPER FAN! And being the go-getter that I am, I wanted to write your next ad. Yeah. Truly. Maybe this can be next years Super Bowl commercial? Who knows?

Here goes...

OPEN on wide shot of beautiful African landscape. There's probably lions and some other super rad African stuff.

VO: Beautiful. Majestic. Africa. (Maybe you can have the golden-voiced bum do it? He's so hot right now.)

ZOOM to war torn African village. There's kids. Skinny ones, 'cause they're starving and sick.

CUT to close-up of child attempting to drink from a puddle.

VO: This is Mel Gibson. Pathetic, isn't it? Africa, it's a beautiful place, but let's be honest - it's a fucking shit show.

CUT to close-up of Mel Gibon's face.

MEL: AIDS. Hippopotamuses. Civil Wars galore. And maybe one of the greatest concerns of modern times, the grievous scarcity of clean drinking water.

ZOOM out to shot of Mel Gibson with tittays out and in some boardshorts. He's at a water park and standing above a huge water slide.

MEL: Luckily for us, we don't live on that god forsaken continent, and our waters flow clear, clean and crisp! No Cholera here, kids! And because 200 of us bought at Groupon.com we're getting a 50 dollar water park ticket for only 15 bucks here at Raging Water in Sacramento! 15 BUCKS!

MEL then dives head first onto the slide and screams: FUCK AFRICA!

TITLE: Save the money.

VO: Save the money...

TITLE: Groupon.com

What do you think? Great right? That's for you. Yeah. You're welcome.

Seriously though, I appreciate that you were trying to do something different. I really do. But you missed the mark, and the vast majority of people who saw these commercials didn't get "it." They don't want an explanation of why it was such a brilliant concept, it wasn't by the way, they want an apology. Take your medicine. Tell us you'll do better next time. Man up. Say you're sorry.

Jake's Hella Awesome Sauce...

Today I sent my stuff off to Goodby, which triggered a response email which asked:

If you had an opportunity to create/start whatever you wanted and were given 1 million dollars and 6 months what would this thing be and how would you go about making it happen?

This is what came out. Pretty sure they'll think I'm a lunatic, but it was pretty fun.

I'd buy a little farm. I'd grow hella tasty veggies, like tomatoes and onions and habaneros and cilantro and garlic, and other secret ingredients that aren't really any of your business. And with those veggies I'd make the greatest salsa the world has ever tasted. Ever. And I would call it "Jake's Super Awesome Sauce." Or, "Jake's Hella Awesome Sauce." Or something like that. Hella. I probably need to work on the name. I'd bottle it up proper, and sell it from my salsa truck, to start. It would be just like an ice cream truck, but it would play something spicy and awesome - just like my salsa. It would probably play salsa music, in fact, but like salsa music remixed by Tiesto 'cause even his name sounds pretty spicy. And the kids would all come a runnin' when they heard it and I would sell 'em the salsas, which would come with free high-5's. They'd call me Papa Jacobeo. And I'd grow a big, majestic mustache just like Jason Schwartzman's in the Darjeeling Limited. And then I'd figure out a way to put it on a stick, the salsa, not the stache, because everybody's always getting super stoked on stuff that comes on sticks. It wouldn't be long before I had the entire salsa market cornered. And I'd have like 7 or 8 salsa trucks or something. And even Pace Picante Sauce wouldn't know what hit 'em, and they'd be all like, "Mother fucker!" 'Cause my sauce was sooo much better than theirs. And then with my profits I would build a super bitchin' tree house, and live in it for the rest of my days with my wife, Zooey Deschanel, whom I would seduce with my super awesome sauce and mustache. Duh. And then we would have bunches of babies to help make the salsas and drive the trucks, and stuff. Unless, of course, they wanted to pursue their own dreams, like being professional Marine Biologists, or something - because in that case Zooey and I would be mad supportive 'cause we're just pretty cool like that. And we'd just be as happy as clams for 4-eva and eva. Or something like that. And I might just do that anyways, if this whole copywriting thing doesn't pan out. I love you.

Don't go chasing waterfalls...

Or, do go chasing waterfalls. See if I care. I'm sorry. I take it back. I love you. Marry me? No? Uhhhh! French kiss? In my dreams??? Jeez laweez.

It's been awhile, kids. I'm a busy boy. Tryin' to get that scrilla. Chedda. Gouda. And stuff. I'm an idiot. Forgive me. I like yer butts.

Ookie dookie. Push play on the vid. Enjoy the beautiful and melodious melodies. Play with yer gens if ya wanna. And just scroll, kiddos. Scroll that stuff hard, or soft. Scroll at whatevers tempo you're comfortable with, actually. Today is your day. Yeah.

This is what I looks like when I'm camping at Diamond Lake.


This is what I look like when I'm all totally stoked that I found my bobber.


Told you I'd find it, jerksticks.


This is what I look like when I'm being really tough, yet contemplative. With a dash of constipation. I don't quite recall, but I believe that slight glimmer in my eyeballs may be a clue as to the state of my weiner, which I'm guessing was probably somewhere between semi and full-blown erection at the time this pic was taken. Prolly. I ferget. (Yer lucky that isn't my good side 'cause you'd probably have a totally huge boner/girl boner too! Prolly.)


This is what I look like when I'm fishing for Rainbow Trouts at Diamond Lake.


This is what I look like when I'm all at Crater Lake with my big bro and little sister.


This is what I look like when I'm at a waterfall with my favorite puppy dog in the whole wide world.


This is what I look like when I'm at the biggest waterfall any man ever seen!


This is what I look like when I'm at a waterfall and I have to poop really bad. Poop!


RIP Left Eye, 4eva. Pour out some liquor.

I love you.

GAY PRIDE!

It's gay pride week or month or something here in LA, and more specifically here in W. Hollywood - which is the mecca for hot guy on guy action. It's insane down here. Try and imagine the gayest thing you can think of and then multiply that by 47, carry the 1 and then square it. Yeah, man. Ish is off the hinges. You've never seen so many pink polos with the collars popped in your entire life than right here and right now. As I sit here and write this little ditty hot techno beats are blowing in my window with the cool Santa Ana winds from the huge celebration going down just up the street. If it's not hitting at at least 150 bpm, forget about it. I'm not sure I'm going to ever be able to sleep again without techno bumpin' and police sirens in the background after laying my head here in W. Holly for the last few months. I figured since this weekend is the Pride Celebration I would share my gayest story from my time here so far. Here goes...

If you're not down with the get down let me get you up to speed. I am currently renting a living room from a bi dude named JC. He's kind of a weird cat, but a good dude nonetheless. We share the apartment with another dude, Christopher, who also loves the cock. He's a cool cat too actually. Funny dude - always calling his boyfriend and JC fags. It's pretty hilarious, trust. So here I am in the heart of the gay capital of the world living with 2 gay guys - it's been different, but not in a bad way mind you. Not at all. Just different from what I've experienced in my life till now. I know people like to pretend that Eugene is some thriving cultural melting pot, and teeming with diversity, but come on, look around - It's white people on top of white people. There's not a place in the World where you will see more "Love Sees No Color" tee shirts, and yet where you can go days without seeing a single black man. Eugene is a hot spot for hippies and that's it, but I digress. Back to the story, my story, my gay, gay story.

Two weekends ago I was chillin' on my bed reading when JC was like, "Hey Jake! We're having a little pool party! You should totally come down!"

I wasn't too stoked on the idea because, why would I be? Way too many dudes in really small shorts. I'm just not trying to kick it with hella dudes in Speedos, ever - regardless of race, religion or creed and etc. It's just not my idea of a good time, so I politely declined, and continued to dig into my book. However, JC would not take no for an answer and continued to encourage me to come down, and finally I agreed. I had $1.18 in my checking account at the time and figured, fuck it, at least I can get my grub on, so I headed down to the pool. Upon arrival I was met with just about exactly what I had expected - about 15 dudes huddled in and around the pool and all in Speedos or something very similar. The stuff dreams are made of, that is, if you happen to be Ricky Martin. So I roll up in there and am immediately eye fucked by at least half of these dudes like, "Who's this fresh piece of man meat." Ha. For real though, not a minute after walking up this guy says to me, "Heeeeey! Who are you???"

Before I could even say a word JC blurts out, "He's straight. Don't bother."

So instead of shaking his fist at the heavens for making this fine piece of A a fan of the ladies he says, "Oh. I don't mind. I don't mind at all! You're cute!"

"Uh, thanks," I responded.

"What are you up to tonight? Wanna come over?"

"No thanks. I think I'm gonna chill."

"Okay, well you can come over anytime. I'll leave my door open for you!"

"Uh, okay. I wouldn't hold your breath."

So that was a little uncomfortable, but he was a funny dude and was mostly just messing around, as was I. So I went ahead and hooked up a fat plate of bbq and a tall glass of Kool-Aid. Believe it or not shit was delicious. Smoked ribs, burgers, sausages (obviously), lobster mac and cheese, chips, salsa, Kool-Aid, and that fucking Kool-Aid was the finest god damn glass of purple I've had this side of Papa's Soul Food Kitchen. Shit was that ill man. Word bond to my mother, man. So as I finished my food and tasty cup of purple, and was about to leave when the gentleman with the man crush continued, "But seriously, you should totally come over sometime. I know you said you don't want to, but I'm going to leave my door open just in case you change your mind."

I just laughed. "It's nothing against you, it's just that I love the titties and vagina. I just do. I'm sorry."

What happened next I will never forget for as long as I live, but first a commercial break... This dude then brought his hand up to his man boob, his moob and gave it a little flick and said, "I got titties!" He then looked up into my eyes, right into my eyes, and with no hesitation says, "And I PROMISE you that my hole is WAY tighter!"

I shit you not. Word for fucking word. I can only imagine the look on my face at that moment in time. Shock. Disbelief. Wow. Is this what it's like to be a mama? Vulgar come-ons and the like? Personally I'm not that forward with the ladies, but I'm thinking there are probably a lot of dudes that are. If so, I'm thoroughly sorry because that shit was traumatic. Makes for a good story though I guess.

Love you.

Hey! Errbody! This is really super duper importante! Hecka!

Dear good folks of the Emerald City (Eugene, not Seattle because fuck Seattle! JK, JK, Love you Seattle),

I will be hopping on a jet plane this Sunday the 13th in the two-thousand and tenth year of our good Lord, and headed your way. Ahhh yeah! Barring any potential flight complications such as terrorism, mechanical issues, pilot error or an act of God I should be landing all up in the 5 fo’ whizzle—as they say in the Yay, okay, they don’t say that, I say that, but I bet they would say that if they were half as cool as me, which they aren’t and never will be, duh, what was I saying? Oh yeah, comin’ in hot at 18 hundred hours—that’s military time in case you didn’t know it. If you’re not hella down with the super top-secret time format that’s 6 PM, dummy, if you are—congratulations, you’re probably pretty radical. I know that there are a great deal of you that want to hang-out with me hella effin’ bad because duh, why wouldn’t you? Other than the fact that I tend to get a little touchy feely sometimes. Sorry. Grab somebody in the fun bags one time and all of a sudden you’re Mr. Creeper-McWeird-Pants and you have to tell all your neighbors about it. Whatevs. She totally liked it - loved it prolly. Prolly.

There are a couple of things I would like provided upon my arrival and those things include: a single, cold Ninkasi Total Domination brew in a frosty 22 oz bottle, a bowl of Runts but none of the stupid banana ones because the banana ones are hecka lame and a waste of time, hecka, a box of bendy straws, an assortment of groovy chicks, a blow dryer, two boxes of condoms: one XXL Magnums (for me) and something with the de-sensitizer for my entourage (they’re pre-ejaculators, poor guys), I would like the climate control in my ride to be set at a comfortable 68.4 degrees—any other temperature makes my roids flair up something fierce and you do not want to be around for that business—I get a little crabby, one copy of John Tesh’s self-titled album "John Tesh," a jar of Clausen dill pickles, a 12’ boa constrictor, and finally a toothless hooker—preferably female or of mixed-gender (weiner on top 'cause otherwise stuff gets hecka weird). Now that we have that business out of the way—bring on the good times, brahs! Totally!

I wouldn’t say I have an itinerary for the week but there are a few things that I would like to do while back in the ol’ Track Town City USA, and those things include but are not limited to the following: hand holding, skipping, pillow fighting, french kissing—hard, Twister, Jenga!, blanket fort construction, cuddling, taco eating, freeze tag, double dutch, high fives, low fives, pretty much any kind of fives, catfish noodling, dance party—preferably of the pajami-jami-jam variety, spit dope rhymes, play video games, read High Times, give each other a makeover, holler at some hotties, get our titties out, climb some trees, and prolly some other stuff too! I’m open to suggestions—as long as you don’t suggest anything stupid, mom! No, I don’t want to go get hot apple sauce enemas together. Gross! For reallyz though, I’m pretty much down for whatevs. Maybe we can just get mad faded on some High Lifes and talk about back in the days when we were young and ish, and that time you pooped in yer Spidy undies, so funny! Whatever we do it’s gonna be mad stupid dope, yo. Radical. Well, that’s settled. I’ll see you when I get there, if I ever get there. . . I like your butts, wimps.

Love always,

Jacob Kjaorn Gunderson, Esquire

THE EASY RIDER

Ol' Dennis Hopper kicked the bucket this morn. Pour out a 40 for him - Pabst Blue Ribbon, preferably, and make sure it's cold because warm beer makes him puke. Dude was one of my favs. Check out some of Mr. Hopper at his finest:

Fan of David Lynch or not, there is no denying that Mr. Hopper's performance in Blue Velvet was beyond fucking epic. For my money there is no better bad guy in the history of cinema than Frank Booth - such a sick, vile and deranged fuck. Beautiful.

And of course, one of my favorite scenes of all-time, from my favorite movie of all-time: True Romance. So good.

Your Extraordinary Mind...

Stumbled on this yesterday and thought it was just so damn darling. Not sure what romantic comedy this asshole is living in, but it's a sweet sentiment anyways. Maybe I've just been hardened on these filthy LA streets and aves. It's hard out here for a pimp, mang. Also, I would argue it's missing a crucial caveat.

 

*Does NOT apply to Los Angeles, CA and surrounding areas

Hey! Give me my privacy back, bro...

I'm about to fuck you up with some truth. Nobody gives a shit about you. Sorry, it's sad but true. Nobody cares that your favorite quote is some dumb shit from Anchorman. Guess what else? Nobody cares that you thought Tropic Thunder was effin' hillarious. P.S. That movie is not funny. It's fucking stupid. I know what you're thinking, but Tom Cruise was like all fat and dancing and stuff. Nope. Still dumb. Guess what else? Nobody gives a shit that you totally adore scrap booking. You listen to The Novemberists. Sweet. Nobody cares. You went to Cancun for Spring break and did some beer bongs? Awesome. You just became a fan of Goose Shits? Uh, ok. Titties. You found an abandoned penguin? Fuck yer face. Nobody cares.

You know who really doesn't care? Mark Zuckerberg. You know why? Because he's a 25 year-old bro that is worth 4 billion dollars. You know what Mark Zuckerberg is doing right now? A line of coke off of some super hot stripper's labia. You know what he's going to do after that? He's going to take a huge bong ripper out of his diamond encrusted golden bong. Know what he's gonna do after that? He's going to invite over some supermodels for a gang bang, and Hot Carl 'em when they crash out on his Siberian Tiger skin rug just 'cause he fuckin' can and he thinks that shit is hilarious. He's worth 4 fucking billion dollars. He can do whatever he wants, and I can assure you he's not creeping on your stupid Facebook messages about the frat party you got drunk at and blew 4 bros. Don't worry - nobody's ever going to know. Well, except Jesus. Well, and maybe Santa Clause. He knows fucking everything. Fat prick. Matter of fact, that's who we need to be worrying about. Fucking creeper Clause. He's probably sitting on the toilet right now rubbing one out while he's watching you sitting on the toilet rubbing one out while you're reading my dumb blog. Sick, sick fucks. Both of you.

What's the big conspiracy theory anyways? Facebook is going to sell everybody's super interesting profile info to marketers/advertisers. Guess what? I'm an advertiser guy, and I don't give a shit that you heart Glee and have yer girlfriends over every Tuesday and pop popcorn in yer p.j.'s and giggle yer titties off 'cause it's like the hottest shit on television.

It's all entirely laughable, and you know what? What if Facebook does give up everybody's info to some 3rd Party shitbirds? What can they do with this garbage? There are 500 million people on Facebook. 500 fucking million. You couldn't possibly be more anonymous than 1 in 500,000,000. 8 zeros kids. Fuckin' 8 of 'em.

Don't be a dumb shit. Don't put yer Social Security number on your Facebook and you'll be straight. I promise you. Hope you can sleep at night now. If not, come on over and we can build a blanket fort and have a tickle fight. Maybe mom will make us some hot chocolates. The kind with the darling little marshmallows. Mmmm. Tasty. Mallows.

Peace. Love. And Seahorses 4 mutha lickin' eva!!!

Sorry for all the eff bombs, ma.

Love you.

DID YOU USE MY LOOFAH?

Living in a new place can be scary. New people. A new environment, and etc, but that stuff doesn't freak me out too much. I fancy myself pretty versatile in being able to adapt to many kinds of people, environments and situations.

The truth is, the most frightening part of my day is when I step into the shower and look down at my loofah. Yeah, I use a loofah and I dig it, so up yours. My skin is silky as fuck.

A loofah isn't inherently scary. They don't have teeth, or a meth habit and a six-shooter, or beady little eyes and a pencil mustache. What scares me, terrifies me about my loofah is the thought of my roommate lathering up with it. You see, my roommate doesn't have a loofah. Fuck, maybe he's never even experienced the joy of scrubbing up with one. Seems like something you'd want to try at least once, right? But you don't want to buy one without testing the waters - you want to take that spongey little morsel for a test drive first. Every morning I'm rattled with this thought. I examine my loofah thoroughly for stray hairs and the like, and give it a quick sniff to make sure it still smells of my essence. I always end up using it anyways because it's hard to imagine anybody would have the audacity to use another mans loofah, but you never know. My roommate is a strange cat.

And what do you say if you do suspect someone has used your loofah? Hey, so I was wondering if you've, uh, used my loofah because I gave it a sniff this morning and something wasn't quite right? Or do you just lose your shit and be all like, Hey homes, if you touch my god damn loofah again I'm gonna kick you in your fuckin' tits you fuckin' shit bird! Do you simply place the suspect loofah in the middle of their bedroom floor and drop an accompanying duece next to it for good measure? I really don't know? Enlighten me friends.

Don't even get me started on my tooth brush. Fuck. The horror.

I love you.

Christopher Holloran

Stumbled on this fine fellow's stuff and I'm efffin' diggin' it, like a lot, and stuff. Check out more HERE, or I'll kick you right square in the tits. Yeah.

I love you.

IT'S THE CITY I LIVE IN, THE CITY OF ANGELS...

Hey Mom,

LA is great! I'm having the bestest time ever and the truth is there's no place I'd rather be. The sun is always a shinin' and there are bunches of pretty girls as far as the eye can see. I'm thinking I'll start working on getting you some grand kids real soon. Well, I'd actually like to practice making 'em a little more to make sure I can make you a really, really good one, so don't get too excited just yet.

Work is great. The people are totally tubular (I'm trying to pick up on the local lingo). They're all very creative, smart and super nice folks. On Friday I got to experience my very first FREE FOOD FRIDAY and it was great! There were hamburgers and hot dogs and chips and dips and beers (don't worry I only had 3). It was all very tasty. We all sat out in the sun and ate and drank and talked and had a very swell time. I pitched some ideas the other day too, and my boss really seemed to like one of 'em. I'm hoping to do some really great stuff here, mom. It's really very exciting.

I found a place to live too! It's in West Hollywood and it's pretty nice actually. I haven't even got shanked once, and as a matter of fact all the guys around here are exceptionally kind. There's this club right down the road and it's always jam packed full of guys just having the best time ever. Every time I walk by it seems someone always says, hey handsome, wanna party? I normally just tell them that I appreciate the kind offer, but I'm trying to be frugal. One time a guy even complimented me on my behind, which was very nice since I've been feeling awful self-conscious with all the super skinny and tanned folks around here. It was a pleasant surprise to learn that people in West Hollywood have an accent too. I had no idea! They all sound very enthusiastic all the time - kinda like Richard Simmons, and they call everybody girlfriend and think everything is just fabulous. It's all very good fun.

The apartment is nice. We have a deck out back with a BBQ and a hammock and the time just flies when I'm back there reading and getting some sun on my titties. It's really great. It's all so very exciting.

Well, I think that's about all for now, but I'll be sure to write again soon and often. I hope life is treating you handsomely as well, mom. Take care.

Love always. Your son,

Jake

Sorry hipsters...

But you've lost your favorite mode of transport/favorite fashion accessory to the masses.

That's right. Your favorite big box stores have started slangin' fixies. And you hoped the bleeding would stop with the hijack of the keffiyeh and Kayne shades. Sorry, kids. And all up in Walmart. Cold. Urban Outfitters is getting into the fixie game too. Haha.

I don't know? Maybe you can bring back the PogoBall or something? That seems pretty alt? Just bounce around bumpin' Animal Collective and ish.

I've never been a fan of fixies. Not only because of their lack of functionality, but because of the assholes who ride them. Don't get me wrong, I have a couple friends who role fixies and those kids are cool, but for the most part when I think fixed gear I in turn think of this guy:

Guaranteed this shit bird rolls a fixie. Guaran-fuckin'-teed. Fuck it, Rob Heppler said it better. Peep the vid:

If we raise our pants, we raise our image...

A wise man once said, "Pants on the ground. Pants on the ground. Lookin' like a fool with yer pants on the ground." NY State Senator Eric Adams agrees, and has launched a campaign to bring an end to this appalling societal ill.

Senator Eric Adams is a fucking dumb shit. Yeah. I don't want to know how much this campaign cost Mr. Adams, but I would argue that every penny has been money spent that would have been better spent elsewhere - Like I don't know? Shelters, food for hungry folks, medical assistance, scholarships, etc, etc...

Does he honestly think that kids are going to see these messages, and be like, hmmm, maybe he's right? Yeah, I think I will pull my pants up. I do want to raise my image. I don't know why, but I don't see it happening. Rather, I can picture kids seeing this and saying, stupid Uncle Tom mother fucker. I don't need a God damn belt. I need a fucking inhaler for my asthma, diapers for my baby and a sammich. I'm fucking starving right now. Dumb shit.

OR, are sagging pants indeed bringing the black man down?

I don't know? I would argue that there are bigger problems like the fact that black men are jailed at overwhelmingly disproportionate rates, which may point to something like wide spread institutional racism in our Justice System for example, but I'm no expert.

Get it together Senator Adams.

Jean-Michel Basquiat

I'm hardly an art expert. Far from it, but I can appreciate it and I know what I like. I dig this dude's style. Pretty fascinating fellow, really.

Fighting back...

And my response:

Dear Mary,

I'm responding to an email I received from your husband about your apartment for rent. He said you would be able to attend to me better. I would love to see some pictures of the place if at all possible. I'd also like to see a picture or two of you if at all possible, Mary (So I know who I'm dealing with, of course. I won't pleasure myself to it. You see, I'm a kind and honest man and wouldn't even think of such things)?

The other thing I was curious about was the price. You see, $500 seems a little steep. Is there any way we can work something else out. I consider myself a master in the art of sensual message, and none of that crap you find on craigslist. Those people are fucking amateurs compared to me. This is something I take very seriously, and if you do not achieve "release" I am not satisfied. As a matter of fact, I even have this saying, a credo if you will: If you don't cum, you can kick me in the bum. Get it? Get it? That's a god damned guarantee! Admittedly it could use a little work, but I'm no wordsmith. My rates are $200/session, and with 1 session per week you would owe me a modest $300/month.

I was also curious if you would mind me conducting my business from the residence? I am extremely discreet and would only ask that I could hang my 60" x 60" neon "Pleasure Paradise" business sign from the front of the house. I can assure that it is extremely classy and would not be a distraction to the neighbors.

You got something I want, and I got something you want. Let's talk shop. Can't wait to hear from you.

Thanks bunches,

Jake

I smell a...

Scam. Yesterday I sent a response to an ad posting for an apartment. This is the response I received:

Thanks for your email and it is my gladness to hear from you.I am Alan Johnson,the owner of the Apartment you are making inquiry on.Actually I resided in the apartment with my family,presently we moved away due to my transfer from my working place, my apartment is still available for rent for $500 per month including the utilities like hydro,washer and security,it is furnished.More so Now, I went for a Crusade in the West Africa and i will like you to get in touch with my wife in the states for more discussion as She is with the keys and the documents to the Apartment.Pls i want you to note that,i am a kind and honest man and also i spent a lot on my property that i want to give you for rent,so i will solicit for your absolute maintenance of this apartment and want you to treat it as your own,is that taken,I want you to keep it tidy all the time so that i will be glad  to see it neat when i come for a check up.I do that once in a while.I want have trust in you as i always stand by my words.Where are you located? let us know how soon you are willing to move in.Email my wife Mary, on (mm1aptrental@gmail.com) and she will attend to you better.

ADDRESS TO THE APARTMENT : 2422 34th St Santa Monica, CA 90405
 
Thanks for your interest.

Alan Johnson

Is it a scam? A furnished apartment in Santa Barbra for $500? Seems a little too good to be true. I like the part where he says he is a "kind and honest man." Who says that unless they are trying to sell you something? Not this time pal. You can't hustle a hustler.

In other news, I need to find an effin' spot pronto, and d-bags like this are not helping. Dear Alan Johnson, fuck yo' face.

People are morans...

Not you kids. You kids are smart. And handsome/pretty. I like you guys and gals. I also like your butts, wimps. Call me sometime? Please? Puh-leeze?

I'm not a political blogger, and actually have little interest in politics in general, so I try and stay away. I'm much more interested in stuff like pretty girls, chugging hella Dews and getting totally extreme, tacos and the like. The truth is, I blog for the kids, man. The kids. Yeah. But sometimes I gotta vent a bit. Ya know? Get some stuff off of my hairy man tits, well hairless man tits in my case, unfortunately.

About half, if not more of the population is tripping out on the new Health Care Bill (especially here in ol' Utah), and I'm not going to open up that can of worms; Although, I do wish people would actually read the bill before they started spouting off about it. Rather, Imma take it back to the basics. Yeah, the fundamentals, if you will. 1+1=2 kinda ish.

Folks from sea to shinin' sea are gettin' all fired up and are all like, "Hey! I didn't vote fer no gosh darned frickin' health care reforms. It's Un-American! Un-American, I tell ya! God damned pinko, commie, Fascist liberal punks!" Well, kids, it's not, Un-American that is, so take your medicine and shut your fat corn-fed pie holes, or at the very least, get a book, learn about it and then spout your silliness. This is America at it's finest. This is why we voted in Mr. Obama. Change, and stuff.

America is in fact a Democracy, of sorts, but don't get it twisted - it is NOT a Direct or Pure Democracy, but rather a Representative Democracy, and even more accurately - a Constitutional Republic. You should know this. Learn about it.

While we're at it, we might as well learn about the inherent differences in the ideologies of Communism and Socialism.

Now when mommy asks you what you learned today, you can dazzle the bejesus outta her. You might even get an Otter Pop after dinner.

Go USA. Love you.

LIFE

Can't wait till these drop on DVD. So rad.

Today Only on The Kjaorn Supremacy

You can bedazzle the ish out my site. Get this mutha shinin' like a cot damn Ed Hardy tee. Unicorns fuckin' galore! Pretty colors, rainbows, glitter and the like. If it doesn't look like a My Little Pony skeet, skeet, skeeted all over this mutha licka - you ain't doin it right.

Hit the button below to cornify it. More like Kjaornify. ZING! I love you. Bye-bye.

No way, crack is awesome for you!

Nate Bloch is funny.