In Which JaytheJoke Commits Murder-Suicide

It was a semi-sad event over at JaytheJoke.com yesterday. Everyone close to the gay couple knew that all was not well. There had been rumors the last month or so that trouble was brewing in Paradise. After the shocking development yesterday, I was able to investigate further and found out the gist of what happened:
Apparently, MattyChiTown, the bitch in the relationship, had agreed to go into an internet venture with her/his lover in order to expose Jay Mariotti for the disgusting incompetent writer he was. This seemed honorable enough at first. But as time went on, JaytheJoke began to develop another homosexual relationship with a man whom we shall call Fuckhead Joe. Others may know him as the Tow Truck Pedophile. You all know who he is. Anyway, it all began innocently enough. Fuckhead started out antagonizing the other members of the forum, and JaytheJoke apparently kept him on in order to keep the entertainment value alive.

However, as time progressed, reports starting coming in to MattyChiTown that Fuckhead and JaytheJoke would meet discreetly at a nearby motel and not come out of the room for hours. (This explains the sometimes long delay in new posts. JaytheJoke was busy getting his knob polished by the aforementioned tow truck driver.) MattyChiTown, enflamed with jealous passion, started to sign in under JaytheJoke’s screen name and delete all of Fuckhead’s comments, sowing discord among the two lovers, JaytheJoke and Fuckhead. Fuckhead thought JaytheJoke was the one deleting all of his comments, so one night he went to his house and broke all of JaytheJoke’s windows. JaytheJoke apparently came out of the house in his midriff-baring tanktop screaming at the top of his lungs, curlers falling out of his hair, and that is all I will say on the argument, except to say that it ended in JaytheJoke’s bed, making mad make-up love.

However, the neighbors called the police, who came and promptly arrested Fuckhead for disorderly conduct. He was sentenced to a month in jail and was not heard from again at JaytheJoke.com for that length of time.

So, time went on, but JaytheJoke’s site was severely monitored by MattyChiTown and uber-censored, to keep his/her lover on a short leash. However, upon hearing that Fuckhead Joe was out of jail, JaytheJoke turned off the censoring on his site and sent Fuckhead a text message: “Lover, come on over.” So that is what Fuckhead did. He stopped by and said hello, saying that he had enjoyed his “vacation”.

At this, MattyChiTown grew enraged and disconnected the computer from the Gay Duo’s house. JaytheJoke, knowing that his romance was doomed, decided to take the cowardly way out. He viciously stabbed MattyChiTown with a butcher knife, and, knowing what he did and that he would go to jail and never see Fuckhead again, he slashed his own throat and bled to death in 4 minutes.

I know it was 4 minutes because I timed it as I watched the entire episode through their kitchen window, slowly shaking my head and tsk-tsking at what had become of the famous JaytheJoke.

I would say Rest In Peace, my friends, Rest in Peace. But I won’t, because they were nothing more than putrid hog vaginas excised from the fat bloody carcasses of diseased pigs.



Yes, I have finally come to the Dark Side of the Force. Jay Mariotti is a pigheaded cum sucking stupid fuckhead.

Why do I say this?

I gave him a chance for too long to prove his detractors wrong, that he is in actuality a very good columnist who tells it like it is. And I still think he used to be. But today, it was too much. It really all came down to the final things he said today.

I quote: "Please resist the temptation to multiply this victory by 16 and start the playoffs. But do view it as a springboard for optimism.......Until then, you may hope for the best. Permission is hereby granted."

Permission is hereby granted? Mariotti, who the fuck do you think you are? You are some asshole who couldn't get a job anywhere else, and you came to Chicago and decided to try and take over the Chicago Bears fanbase as if they were all your minions and acted and thought only as you saw fit. You are so fucking full of yourself.

And the Chicago Sun-Times has proved itself a very fucking low-class paper for even employing such a fuckbrain as yourself. The Sun-Times uses cheap paper, cheap ink, and cheap whores like you. ROT IN HELL MARIOTTI. THE DAY YOU FUCKING LEAVE THIS CITY IS THE DAY I COME BACK TO LIVE THERE.

And when the idiots who keep buying your stupid shit and read it every day finally wise up and kick your ass to the curb like you deserve, don't let the door hit you on your ass on the way out. You are a sorry, pathetic excuse for a human being.

And Ozzie was right. You are a dumb fucking fag. Today was the last time I read your column. I will never again buy the Sun-Times. I don't read dirty blood-stained tampons like your paper.



Peter King Can Burn in Hell

Well, I'm back at home after a nice mini-vacation.

Took the family and some friends white-water rafting (the rapids at this time of year are pretty tame, which I thought was good since the girls have never been), and I come back home, fire up the computer, see that Matt and Pat's blog is stupid and boring as usual, check out the status on the shipment of some nice racing pipes I ordered for my bike, head over to SI.com and read up on Peter King's predictions for the NFL season this year and I practically splurt my coffee all over the monitor as I see that he has picked the LIONS above the Bears in the division.

He's got the Lions at 10-6 and the Bears at 9-7, without a playoff spot. What the hell? His reasoning is that although they have the best defense in the NFL, the offense is a little questionable and shaky and he doesn't know if it will be a threat or not.

WHAT THE HELL??? Did he miss all of last season when they went on an 8-game winning streak and made the playoffs on the shoulders of a bearded woman named Kyle Orton and no backup quarterback???

This year we have a kid with a cannon for an arm and a proven starter-caliber backup and a two-punch running scheme. What the hell is Peter King smoking? We are about 75% improved from last year from the quarterback position alone. I would have a lot less confidence going into the season if we still had Orton under center, even though he did contribute to an excellent season.

Sure, some the defensive guys are a little banged up to begin with, but when aren't they? In the preseason, guys will NEVER play hurt. Why the hell should they? So, if they feel a little tightness under their knee, they're out with a "strained hamstring". If their testicles are a little sore from all the sugar they got from their wives/girlfriends/whores the night before, they're out with a "pulled groin". Who the hell cares.

This is a 13-3 team at best, an 11-5 team at worst. I see a Number 1 or 2 seed playoff spot, first round bye, home field advantage once the Seahawks lose to the Panthers in the playoffs. And then it's on against New England in the Super Bowl for a 1986 rematch (Yes, I'm probably dreaming, but I still think Peter King should shove his head up a horse's ass and then someone should shove a grenade up his and pull the pin, that stupid whore).


Grossman? Really?

Okay, I'm starting to have doubts about our WonderBoy Rex. Yes, the first 5 passes were completed. Big deal. There was one pass I saw that sailed 20 yards past the intended receiver. We got a break on that one, with a pass interference being called against Arizona, but that was a shit play.

Grossman, I feel, is also too much of a gunslinger. That's fine, if you are accurate and your receivers are good. But him throwing it two or three times into double and triple coverage to the tight end is beyond stupid.

On the other side of the coin, Brian Griese looks fucking awesome everytime he comes on the field. But is it actual talent, or is it just a case of a veteran, starting-caliber quarterback mixing it up against a second team defense filled with college-level assholes who don't know how to play with the big boys?

What I'd like to see is Griese start next week with the first offense, play a quarter, and then put Grossman in with the first offense and play the second quarter. Orton can play with the girls in the second half. What do you guys think?

And is it me, or is the defense not exactly up to par with last year? Since when did they give up 20+ points to the Cardinals? At the beginning, they were awesome, stuffing every run, burying Kurt Warner and making him cry. But then they kind of faded. Although it might be that my memory is shit and the second team defense was on the field when Arizona started putting up all those points??

Anyway, I'm slightly worried.



Last night, while I watched Preseason Game 2 unfold, I had one main thought:
This defense is fucking awesome.
I think they are even better than last year. Urlacher's interception return for a touchdown in the first quarter kind of made me think that it set the tone not just for the night, but for the upcoming season. They are young, ferocious, flying around the ball.
I just hope they don't have to carry the whole damn team like last year. Which brings me to my second main thought:
Grossman will be fine.
Yeah, he had a couple of miscues early, but come on, let's be realistic. Muhammad isn't out there. I counted at least two relatively deep and definitely hard-thrown passes that hit these guys in the numbers and they couldn't hold onto the ball.
And yes, his quarterback rating was disgusting. It was worse than last week. But I thought he had a lot more poise and I was pretty forgiving when he threw that interception in the endzone. At least he had the guts to try and thread the needle. Should he have done it in the first place? No. But hopefully he learns from his mistakes so that it doesn't happen too often in a real game. But let's face it, even in his prime Brett Favre was guaranteed to throw at least one or two picks a game.
Also, without Thomas Jones and Cedric Benson, the Chargers didn't really buy the running game as a decoy against the pass. They didn't really play that much against the run, because it was foolish not to constantly attack the passing game. The Chargers coaching staff knew as well as we all did that Grossman was going to have a TON of opportunities to win the game in the air, because Lovie Smith wants to see what he has. The Chargers would have been totally stupid to fall for the Bears running game.
Yes, Griese again proved he is a good quarterback. A good quarterback against a second-string defense with a kid who couldn't stop committing penalties to save his damn life.
But at least we know we have an excellent backup. And Griese might even take over the starting position if Grossman completely tanks weeks 1 and 2. But I doubt that will happen.
So, while I was comfortable in watching the first half of the game with what we have now, I'll be much more keen to see what this team is like with Muhammad, Jones, and Benson in the lineup.
This division is ours for the taking.


The Strange Death of Joseph Egan
by William Anderson
As you are probably aware, Joseph Egan of Franklin Park died recently.
It is not truthful to say that he will be missed, but his death does give us a reason to reflect on our own lives, and to question ourselves what we are doing with the days we have left. In examining the peculiar circumstances of his rather timely demise, we can draw lessons from it and enrich our own existence.
So, to further that cause, I have taken it upon myself to use my investigative powers and resources in order to present you, dear reader, with a factual and hopefully thought-inspiring account of Joseph Egan’s murder. Now, the superficial particulars are well known by now. Surely you have seen it on the news; it has made national headlines as of late, and while the murderer has not been apprehended yet, authorities report several promising leads. Now, in case you have been living under a rock for the last week, I will describe to you the well known facts as they are presently known by the general public. Subsequent to this, I will report the finer, more horrible details as I have come to know them through various interviews and eavesdropping that I have conducted lately.
The particulars are as follows: Joseph Egan was found dead in a hotel in Schaumburg, Illinois that morning at roughly 3am. He had numerous stab wounds over his entire body, but judging from the lack of bloodflow from many of the wounds, it was estimated that he was stabbed over 70 times after he was already dead, leading some to believe that it was done by a person that Egan knew, a person who hated him intensely. His throat was slashed, his eyes were cut out, and the fingers on his right hand were severed. It was a very gruesome scene, discovered by an unfortunate woman by the name of Mary Brown. Although she was interviewed extensively by the police, her testimony has not yet been made public. At this time, it has been rumored that she worked at the hotel as a cleaning person. However, no one has bothered to ask why a cleaning lady would be opening the door to a room at 3am. The body was autopsied and the findings were conclusive: Egan had been stabbed 86 times by an unknown sharp instrument, and then was mutilated further, using other devices. But there exists one piece of evidence that has made this even more sensationalistic, that has conspired to make this into a national, perhaps even an international story: on the wall directly above the bed he was found in were scrawled the words CPK, YOU ARE NEXT. I AM COMING, SAYETH THE ASS PICKER. This message apparently written in Egan’s blood by his killer has shocked the nation.
Much effort has been made to find out who or what the initials C.P.K. refer to. The leading theory at this time is that it refers to the California Pizza Kitchen, but no one can figure out why this fine establishment should come under the murderous rage of this lunatic. Other efforts have been made, especially by counter-terrorist units and international assassin profilers in the CIA and FBI, to find out who this Ass Picker is. Of course, the results of that inquiry have not yet been made public. However, using my resources and tapping several contacts within the Department of Homeland Security, I have ascertained that the Ass Picker is unknown by his real name, but he has signed his name to several very high profile assassinations in the last ten years. He has scrawled his name in blood on the body of several high ranking officials in the nations of Burma, Zambia, and Italy. He is thought to be one of the most elusive assassins at the present time, deadlier than the dreaded Carlos.
Additionally, it is thought that he is an American citizen. The reason for this is because certain underground reports have described a meeting between the Ass Picker and members of Al-Qaeda. The muslim extremists have reportedly tried to hire him to commit assassinations in the United States and Britain, and during that meeting, the Ass Picker killed three of the terrorists and told the other one to run “your ass back to Bin Ladin and tell him I don’t work for evil shit like you.”
Some reports have the Ass Picker as a black man, about 6 foot 3 or 4, weighing about 210 lbs, and rather muscular. And always carrying an ice pick in a sheath at this belt. This was all that the informant could tell me.
However, I was able to track down the woman who discovered the body, Mary Brown. I went to her home and was immediately invited in. Basically, what she told me was that she had known of Egan under a screen name that he used, “Kibuttfucker” on a certain website devoted to bashing and smearing a local Chicago columnist. She had posted quite a few times to this blog, and was generally well-received and respected by most of the male community that regularly visited the site. However, she had had great trouble over Egan. He had posted under various aliases and expressed a desire to rape another poster’s 7 year old triplets, had said that he liked the way certain parts of Mary’s body looked when she played golf (this suggested that Egan had probably stalked her), and shortly before his death, he had gotten the nasty habit of being racially offensive to some of the other regulars.
When I asked her how she had come upon his body, this is what she told me. “It was the weirdest thing,” she said, looking at me with wide eyes. “I got a phone call from a guy, a really deep voice, at about 2am that morning, saying he had kidnapped my dog!”
“Your dog,” I said.
“Yes,” she replied, nodding ferociously. “And so I immediately got up and looked around for Smuckers, but he was gone! It was the strangest thing!”
I asked her what she did next. “Well, I got back on the phone and just asked them, ‘what do you want?’. "
They told me to go to the Hampton Inn in Schaumburg, and to open room 115 with a key that was in my mailbox, and that Smuckers would be there. So I hurriedly pulled on my clothes to cover up my incredibly hot body and rushed over there.”
At this, I would have though her rather vain, but she did have a rather hot body indeed. So, she rushes over to the hotel and finds Egan’s body. And her dog? The poor thing had been drugged and was sleeping contentedly in her attic. The next morning he went nuts barking and was let out. However, it is not known how or why someone broke into her home in the middle of the night and went through this whole production to get her to find the body at that particular time. One would assume that it would eventually be found anyway.
One official believes that the Ass Picker is a very meticulous man, a perfectionist, and he wanted the words in blood fresh and red when they were found. Had they been left for days, it would have been rather brown and rusty-colored, and not the vibrant red that would photograph better. This seems reasonable. When I asked Mary Brown if she suspected any particular individual on the phone, she said she didn’t know. But that the man used a certain familiar word, but she couldn’t place it. I asked her what the word was, and she said with a puzzled look, “Well, he called me a douchebag.” Wondering aloud, she added, “Now, where have I heard that before, recently?” In speaking with other various witnesses, I didn’t gather much more than what I have told you.
But one name that kept coming up was one T. Briggs. I didn’t know who it was until I got a call from him one evening, while I was eating dinner with my wife. It was a heavy, strong voice. And he said something that made chills run up my spine.
He said, “Mr. Anderson, this is Tyrone Briggs. I hope that lasagna you’re eating is tasty.” I turned my head to look out the window, but saw nothing in the shadows. “Who is this,” I demanded.
All he said was, “Leave it alone, Mr. Anderson. If you don’t, he will have the Ass Picker come for you next.”
I was dumbfounded.
“Who is ‘he’? Who are we talking about?”
He laughed and said, “He is the one who has come from the light to the dark. He is one who has finally let the hate envelope him.” And then he hung up.
I must admit that freaked me out. I officially got off the story. The thought of someone named the Ass Picker, sent by some powerful person with unlimited reach, coming after my family, is enough to scare me straight.
But I have this one nagging thought: After reviewing all the facts that I have, there are two possibilities for the identity of the one who sent the Ass Picker. One clue is the use of the word “Douchebag.” That was really only used by the one of the creators of the blog that Egan frequented. The other, the description of someone going to the dark side. I don’t know who that could possibly be, but I’m not going to find out any further. I’m done. And I knew I said that there were lessons to be learned from this, but there really aren’t any. I just said that to hook you into reading this whole thing.
But one lesson that I have learned is this: Stay away from the Ass Picker.
And CPK, whoever you are, be afraid. Be very afraid.



After my horrendous encounter with CPK’s mother that resulted in her death, I decided to track down Joe Egan, Leslie Monteiro’s lover. Since Richard Shy, known simply as “Dick” had revealed Joe’s address and phone number on jaythejoke, it was quite simple to go to his address in Lincoln Park and knock on the door. To my surprise, he opened it at once, as if he had been expecting me. He was not at all what I pictured he’d be: He was a short man, and pudgy. Not fat like CPK, but he had a soft roundness to him, sort of like the Pillsbury Doughboy. He had a rather unremarkable face. What stood out the most was the man’s hair. It was long and straight, but stiff. As if he’d sprayed a few cans of hairspray into it. But upon closer observation I realized it was painted. Not dyed. Painted, with house paint. The hair was obviously naturally blonde, but he had painted it black. However, it was not expertly done. Blonde streaks were visible under the heavy tar-like coating of black paint. “Leslie likes it black,” he said nervously, smoothing it out against the sides of his head. “I’d have it dyed, but I haven’t got the money,” he continued, blabbering as if I cared what his lover wanted or not.
“I don’t need to know about your hair or what you boys do in your spare time,” I said. “I’m here to talk about Leslie’s character. Why he is such a freak show.” These words seemed to sting. He grimaced a little, and stepped back. “Well, then, inspector. Come in.”
Stepping through the doorway, I said, “I’m not a policeman.” His eyes went wide. “No? Then who are you?”
“My name is of no importance. You may know me as Ny-Ex Chicagoan online.”
“Oh no!” He screamed like a girl and attempted to run away.
I smiled cruelly and grabbed him by the collar. (You see, this man, this Joe Egan, had once threatened to have sex with my triplet daughters. I swore that if I ever saw him in person I would kill him.) “Listen to me, you son of a bitch,” I said. “I’m not going to kill you. All I want is information.” At this point he was sobbing like a little child, and when I let go of his collar, he slumped down to the floor, a blubbery mess.
I hauled him up and threw him on his sofa. His apartment was actually very well decorated. Very modern. “Do you have a girlfriend, a wife?” I asked. He shook his head no, whimpering and heaving, not able to utter a word. “No woman, well decorated apartment, so are you gay?” I asked him. He didn’t say anything, just looked at the floor. “Well,” I said. “Are you?”
“Not exactly,” he finally said. “I don’t like grown women.”
I felt rage bubble up in me, and viciously kicked him in the head. “You sick bastard,” I said. I grabbed his black painted hair and jerked his head up against the headrest of the couch. “Now, we’re going to talk, or I will cut off your damn penis, understand?” “Yes, yes!” he whimpered.
I sat down on the other couch, and began to interview him regarding CPK. This is what I got out of him:
Leslie Monteiro was born 36 years ago in Worthington, Minnesota. What is known at this time is that his father left the family when Leslie was 6 years old. Something pretty bad happened, but Joe Egan didn’t know exactly what it was. Leslie wouldn’t talk about it. Leslie and his mother were left to fend for themselves, and were soon homeless and begging on the streets. One summer, about six years after Leslie’s father left, a traveling circus came through town. Leslie’s mother, aka Horny Witch, was immediately cast as a bearded woman. Leslie was interested in being a trapeze artist, but was too fat to swing very far, so he wound up being a bicycling monkey. In any case, Horny Witch and CPK apparently were a hit! They were fed well and not treated so badly as long as they performed 5 evenings a week. The rest of the circus performers hated them for some reason, and so CPK and Horny Witch were left to their own devices. Joe Egan thinks this is the time that a budding romance commenced between HW and her son. By the time the circus reached New Jersey, Horny Witch was pregnant. No one asked who the father was, but it wasn’t very difficult to guess that the twelve year old monkey-boy was responsible. They were quietly asked to stay in New Jersey and not continue with the circus. Joe Egan doesn’t know what ever became of the demon child. He doesn’t even know if it was born alive or not. At least as far as CPK has told him. But Joe Egan told me that there were rumors that CPK and his mother had a son. A son who later would become a professional baseball player. I eagerly asked Joe as to the identity of this son, but he didn’t know. After I threatened bashing his testicles in with a hammer, he still didn’t say, so I believe that Joe Egan didn’t know. But have no fear, I will not rest until I find out the identity, if this rumor can be believed. Regardless, they soon found that old dilapidated shack in the middle of nowhere, left to be forgotten by the world (and possibly raise a demonic love child?). Years later, CPK grew up and for some reason became wildly fanatical about the Minnesota Twins. He contemplated moving back to Minnesota, but his mother forbade him.
Now, there are two theories about his fanaticism. One is that his love child who his mother birthed did indeed become a professional baseball player, and currently plays for the Minnesota Twins. The other has something to do with is father, but I can’t begin to imagine what that could be.
Anyway, CPK devised a plan. He would begin to write sports columns about the Minnesota Twins in the hopes that one day he would be asked by some Minnesota newspaper to move to that god-forsaken state and work for them. This would force Horny Witch’s approval, and the door would be open to reunite with either his son, or his father. However, internet blog after internet blog banned him for his poor writing skills. And one day he suddenly became obsessed with one call jaythejoke.com. He would rant about how his idol was a certain columnist named Mariotti. He had never expressed this idolatry before, so that is a little puzzling….and there is where he met Joe Egan, aka Chicago Sports Kibbutzer, or something like that. After finding so much in common, Joe Egan convinced CPK to meet him in New Jersey for a rendezvous. Joe Egan was under the erroneous impression that CPK was a 10 year old girl. When he saw a 36 year old she-male, he was at first shocked, but quickly adapted to his newfound relationship…….and that is where the interview ended.
By this time, Joe Egan was calm, no longer afraid, talking non-stop with a cheerful sense of gossip, munching on chocolate-chip cookies that he himself had made, with his legs crossed like a woman. I got up from the couch and made my way to a fireplace that he has in his living room. I grabbed the poker and turned around, the poker behind my back.
“Well, thank you, Joe Egan,” I said. “I think that is enough information. But tell me, do you know where I might find Leslie Monteiro’s father?” He threw back his head and laughed. At that moment, when his head was thrown back in hysterical laughter, I took my opportunity. With lightning quickness I smashed the poker into his groin, beating it over and over into his crotch. I ignored his howls of pain and anguish, and kept beating it until a bloody, thick mass slid out of his shorts, down his legs, and onto the carpet. I left him there, screaming in pain, agonizing over the fact that he will never be a danger to any little girls again.
I probably should have waited for the answer to the question on the whereabouts of CPK’s father.
But I already have a good idea.



Continued from yesterday:

So I closed the door on the Patch Shack, stepped over the old witch, and looked around to see if anyone was there. The witch was snoring peacefully on the floor, and so I stepped into the only bedroom the house had. There were garbage bags piled against the wall, full of empty beer cans and what looked like small cardboard boxes. I couldn’t tell what the labels on the boxes said because the white plastic of the bags obscured the writing. But they were only a little bigger than cigarette boxes. I stepped over to the nightstand, and saw burned-out candles everywhere. They covered the stand and surrounded the bed, all burned low, the wax in melted puddles all over the red shag carpet. It stunk of what I now believe to be CPK spunk, but at the time I thought it was diarrhea, with a hint of armpit stench.

There was a letter on the night stand, with a broken seal on the flap. I picked it up, glanced behind me to make sure the witch was still out, and opened it. I stole it from the house, so I can quote it verbatim here:

“My dearest Leslie Monteiro,
Last night was so special. When I came in and saw that your mother was not here, my heart leapt for joy. And so did my penis. And when you took me in your arms and held my head tightly against your flabby man-tits, I was in pure ecstasy, Leslie my boy. Thank you also for showing me the many tricks that you can do with your penis and vagina. Watching you have sex with yourself was very off-putting at first, a little scary, but I grew to like it. And then that bitch of your mother had to come home and I had to jump out the window so she wouldn’t see me. But I watched through the window, Leslie. I watched how you did with her the same thing you did with me. How you stuck your penis in her butthole. I was so angry, Leslie! Why would you do that? Anyway, call me later lovebird.
Joe Egan from Franklin Park.”

I was so disgusted, but I knew I had to keep the letter as proof of this sick homosexual relationship. So I put the letter in my pocket and looked around some more. I decided to look in the garbage bags and see what the boxes were. What I saw made me recoil in shock and disgust. They were boxes and boxes of condoms. Imagining what they were used for would have been terrible enough, but the label said, “Deer Lovers: Ribbed and Nubbed for Deer Vaginas”. Why they would make such a product I don’t know. But it was obvious that CPK was engaging in bestiality as well. At this I looked up sharply, to the walls. When I had walked in, I thought I’d seen deer heads mounted on the walls, a product of an avid hunter. But looking closer I now realized that it wasn’t the heads that were there. I was staring at about a dozen deer asses, the hind legs hanging below them. Upon closer inspection I noticed the ass holes were big and flabby. Those poor animals. I still tear up when I think of it.

At this point, CPK’s witch started coughing. I ran to her body and saw her struggle to sit up. I almost helped her, but imagining those hands of hers feeling CPK’s flabby man-tits made me shudder. Instead, I waited for her to get to her feet and sit in one of the kitchen chairs.

“So,” she said, her eyes twinkling and her smile revealing a mouth full of gaps and rotted teeth, “what brings a stud like you to my place, huh, lover?” I vomited a little bit, I felt it come into my mouth a little, but I swallowed it back and grimaced. “Look,” I said, “I’m not here to screw you or do anything like that. I’m conducting an investigation into the life of Leslie Monteiro, to see why he/she/it is so different from the rest of humankind.”

At this, she threw back her head and laughed. It was a disgusting sound, like rats fighting over a piece of meat, squeaking and screaming horribly. I shuddered a little. “You will never understand my hermy, my Leslie,” she said. I suspected that she was telling the truth. “He was the most precious child, he was,” she said. “But then he grew up into a man. And what a man! Oh how hard his abs are underneath that walrus flesh!” At this, she started to open and close her skinny, knobby legs. I got up.

“Look,” I said. “I think I made a mistake in coming here.” I started backing towards the door, and she got up with lightning fast fury and knocked me backwards against the door, struggling for my zipper. “No!” I screamed, wanting nothing more than to get away from this horribly horny witch, tearing at my pants zipper and making hungry noises.

“Oh, please,” she said, “Leslie is so small! I haven’t seen a big penis in so long, please!” “No!” I yelled, turning towards the door knob. “My penis is gigantic, yes,” I said, “But I’m married! And even if I weren’t, I’d rather have sex with a dead gorilla, a dead female gorilla, than with you, you fucking old ugly bitch!”

At this I turned around and kicked the door out and ran. I ran as fast as my legs could carry me, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flash in the trees, a huge mass of walrus flesh, quivering with each step, man-tits bouncing, and I knew CPK was on my trail. I figured he saw me take the love letter and didn’t want me to post it so that people at jaythejoke.com could see. This made me run ever faster, and finally I got to my car, fumbled with the keys in the ignition, and put the car in reverse, turning it around towards the gravel road so I could get the hell out of there.

And in the rear-view mirror, when I’d pointed the car in the direction I wanted to go, I saw the bitch! She was racing at an uncanny speed towards my car, her shirt half off and her ratty old panties in her hand, swinging it around like an Indian with a tomahawk, rushing towards the back of my car!

I had put the gear in drive, but thought better of it, and put it into reverse and slammed on the gas, rushing to meet her. She was screaming something that sounded like “Meeeeeeeeeee soooooooooooo hoooooornnny!” but it was cut off with a sickening thud as my car smashed into her at a frightening speed, and I felt her decaying, ugly body slide under my wheels. I stopped the car and drove over her body, and then reversed over it again. I repeated this about nine times until she was buried in the mud, dead. As I tore off towards the city, I heard a terrible howl in the distance. It sounded like “Maaaaammmmmmaaaaaaaa!” It was CPK.

Later: My quest to track down Joe Egan and get more dirt on CPK, aka Leslie Monteiro.

The Investigation into the Cabbage Patch Kid Deepens

On July 24 I acted on a suggestion from a member of The Three, High-Fiving MF, to try and secure an exclusive interview with Leslie Monteiro, the Cabbage Patch Kid (so called because of the remarkable resemblance of its face with the Cabbage Patch Kids of old). I bought a plane ticket to New Jersey and decided to travel to the house of the beast. The Cabbage Patch lies about 60 miles off the highway (I will not disclose the actual location, due to the fear that I have that CPK would actually be harmed or killed by readers of this blog). The road that leads to the Patch is not an easy one; it started off as gravel, but about 50 miles in it became dirt and deep mud, with strange, animal-like tracks embedded into the muck. I followed these animal tracks and that is how I came upon an old, dilapidated shack. It was made of rotting wood painted white, painted probably more than a hundred years ago. It rotted through in spots, leaving ragged holes through which I could see a figure move within the house. The roof had holes in it, patched up with dry twigs and dead leaves. The stench was overwhelming. It smelled like shit mixed with the vomit of a drunk whore. I put my sleeve over my mouth and approached the broken door, swatting flies out of my way. As I reached out to knock, the door flew open suddenly, and the ugliest, scariest witch appeared, screaming and spitting at me, saying “What do you want?! No trespassers!” I help up a hand and stumbled backwards, almost falling over my own feet, scared out of my mind. I quickly glanced around for a weapon of some kind, and found a wet rock covered in moss. The old woman approached me, hobbling on skinny, brittle legs, and she reached into her apron and pulled out an old, worn Cabbage Patch doll. I threw the rock, aiming for her head, but it was so wet it slipped out of my hand and hit her on one of her long, saggy breasts. She fell backwards and knocked her head on the door jamb and passed out! After I regained my balance, I walked over to her and thought of picking her up and putting her in the house, but the stench was just too bad, so I pushed her with my foot until she was through the door, walked in after her, and closed the door.
But here’s the spookiest part, the part that even now makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Right before I closed the door, I looked out towards the trees surrounding the house, and what I saw made my blood run cold. It was a fat mass among the trees. The face was unmistakable. I looked down at the Cabbage Patch doll on the ground that the old witch had carried, and back at the trees, but it was gone. But I swear the faces were the same. And the huge Cabbage Patch doll in the trees had looked at me with such anger, such rage, that I could not understand the evil behind those eyes. But I knew I had seen CPK. Tomorrow: my interview with the mother of CPK.


Trump apparently told Mike North this morning that he’d be very interested in buying the Cubs. And the Trib is reportedly mulling the idea of unloading the team, although it is admittedly not likely seeing as how all the morons who do not work flock to Wrigley every day to sell the place out. But anyway, Trump said, “"I would be interested, yeah. I think the Cubs are a great franchise, a storied franchise, an amazing franchise…..It's sad to see what's happened to the Cubs, but management hasn't really done a good job over the years…..I would certainly be interested in the Cubs." Think of it: If Donald Trump bought the team, he could do a tie-in with The Apprentice, maybe call back that hot chick from Chicago who lost in the final two a couple of seasons back. Man, she was hot. You know, the chick that broke her ankle? Anyway, this would propel the Cubs into an even higher plane of stardom. Yes, they are already world-renown, Wrigley is a shrine, etc. But they are not on the same level of consciousness as the Yankees or even the Red Sox, in a lot of areas of the world. So this would help out in the PR issue at the very least. Also, Trump is a shrewd businessman. He’d drag Baker into the boardroom, say “You’re fired, you filthy bastard!” and pick someone else to helm the team. I actually think Steve Stone might make a good manager. But that’s another topic. He could unload Kerry DriftWood and Prior, or turn them into relievers. He’d have money to splash around like the Yankees, and then maybe he could lure A-Rod to Chicago. Who knows? The possibilities are endless. Trump, your biscuits await you. Go to Chicago, you bastard. Go to Chicago.



From Leslie's site:

"Anyways, I am a huge sports nut but I never was good at playing sports. You could say I'm kind of an armchair athlete. I was kind of a fat kid growing up and kids would never pick me for team sports. My mama told be to use my brain instead and read books so that's what i did. Now I work as a librarian clerk and get to read all the books i like. The problem is I still need to lose some of the baby fat I have from a kid.My favorite baseball team is the Twins but they aren't having such a good year. I have another blog on the worst team in baseball, the Chicago White Sox. Or as I like to call them, the She-ca-go Whiney Sux. You can visit my blog on them at (I don't want to include his website because it's stupid trash)The Sux will fail just like they do every year to the Twins. The Whiney Sux and Sux fans just make me sick. I want to punch Sux fans in the face because they are so stupid and dumb.Anywho, I live in Fort Lee, New Jersey with my mama. I help her pay the rent for our apartment we live in. I don't have a dad. He left us when I was 15 to live with another woman. I don't care because me and my mama love each other and that's all we need. I help her pay the rent and the bills and help with cleaning the apartment and litter box but she does all the cooking. We have 3 cats. Torri, Gardy and Twinks. I love my cats and I let them sleep with me in my bed. My mama is calling me so I have to go for now.Leslie
posted by Leslie Monteiro at 5:30 AM "

I just thought I'd throw that in there so that you can all see what a diseased, incestuous bastard CPK is.

I was able to investigate further on this Cabbage Patch Kid, and was able to interview several people that know him.

Andrea, from the public library that he works at, tells this tidbit:
"Well, Leslie usually just sits behind the desk until the library closes at nine. And then he goes down to the basement where the Sports Illustrated for Kids section is. I think he jerks off to them, but I can't be sure. But he stinks and never takes a shower. Once his mom came to the library to bring him lunch, and then went up to the storage attic for like an hour and when she came downstairs, she had her shirt on backwards, so I don't know...."

Sick, huh?