SAINI SUNPURA, India (JeR) — On March 11th, sources informed the Jose el Retardo International Desk that an infant with two adorable faces was born to a dirt-poor family on a northern India farm 25 miles east of New Delhi. Apparently, this development has raised many eyebrows—as well as hopes—in the halls of the United States’ legislative branches, spawning many rumors of a dawning golden age in American politics.
The father of this tiny miracle, 23 year old Vinod Singh, has said that he believes this precious angel, named Lali, is the reincarnation of the Hindu goddess of valor, Durga, reportedly a rather bitchy divine spirit with lots of arms and a trio of peepers. As it happens, doctors believe differently, and say little Lali is suffering from an extraordinarily rare deformity known as craniofacial duplication. However, the town remains adamant, and throngs of visitors keep pouring in, hoping to lay eyes on the deity incarnate. The father remains fantastically upbeat, stating, “”My daughter is fine—like any other child.”
Back in WashingtonDC, members of both houses of Congress are looking at the matter from a slightly different angle, albeit just as optimistically. “Hey, this fucking kid’s got one head and two fucking faces,” raves representative Todd Akin of Missouri, “From a politician’s standpoint, you can’t beat it with a stick!”
Speaking strictly under the conditions of confidentiality, Representative Chip Pickering of Mississippi’s view was more illuminating, and brings into sharp relief an idea commonly shared here in the capital: “Think about it. Most politicians spend their entire lives practicing the art of merely speaking out of both sides of their mouths. Very few ever get around to truly perfecting being two-faced. If this child could be brought over here and taught our ways…I mean, could you imagine what might have happened if a true patriot like Strom Thurmond or Trent Lott had been given such a gift from God?” When asked what he thought of the reports from Saini Hospital’s director, Sabir Ali, claiming that dear Lali “…drinks milk from her two mouths and opens and shuts all the four eyes at one time,” Pickering grabbed his head with both hands and exclaimed, “Oh my Christ, we’ve got to get this girl over here. Whatever the cost.”
Chuck Schumer, the New York Senator, was demure regarding the prospects of bringing the bi-facial child to the states, however he did surmise, “I wouldn’t doubt if the White House is already way ahead of all of us on this one. I mean, just recently my office was asked to reach out to Madonna’s handlers regarding her ability to take on more mothering duties—and let me be clear that I’m only speculating here—but it doesn’t take a genius to do the math.” When asked what he thought it might mean to Lali’s parents to have the girl stripped from their modest shack so that she could be bathed in the glow of celebrity and raised under the strict conventions of American public service, Schumer was apathetic. “Eh, you know, what can you do?” he shrugged, “The good of the many, right? I mean, you have to admit, she’d make a hell of a cabinet member.”
Back in India, the politicians there had more immediate concerns. Saini village Chief Daulat Ram is working to convince the Indian Government to provide funds to build a Durga temple in the town, and is asking for assistance to be given to the Singh’s for the care of their little sensation.
When told of the plans for the shrine, a source close to President Bush scoffed. “A temple to WHO? Look, I’m sure if we tell President Patil over there that we’ve got a whole slew of phone jockey jobs to send her way, you know, she’s gonna give us the kid. Please. They’d trade their own mothers over there for a pint of clean water.” When pressed to say whether this was an admission on the part of the White House to attempt to claim the girl, the source ruffled. “Look, we’re just talking here, right? Don’t go walking around saying shit like that, okay, cause you’re just gonna cause problems for everyone. People get hurt over crap like this. Nice people. Nice people like you, and your very nice family.”
Rep Pickering seemed less secretive, possibly because he was speaking anonymously. “Hey, America’s in need. Look at our political landscape. It’s a mess. It’s like you can’t tell a decent lie anymore without everybody getting all pissy and bent out of shape about it. We need a true two-faced ringer. We need a hero. America needs Lali Singh.” Then Pickering sighed, and opening a Fresca, he ruminated, “She’d have to change her name, though. ‘Lali.’ It’s silly. Maybe something like Susan Reed, or Barbara Lewis, or Amanda Hugginkis—something solid like that.”
Mr. Singh presumably does not have a phone, and therefore could not be reached by the offices of Jose el Retardo for a statement.
Stumbling across bizarre web sites is one of the most sublime moments one can have while surfing the intertubes, and today, while on my 15 minute lunch break here at Jose el Retardo (which I have been sternly warned against taking on several occasions…dear reader, shhhh), this joy has revisited me. You know how it goes: you see blue words (or red, or green, or whatever), you click, you see, you click, you see, you click—and before you know it, you find yourself on a site like The Diary of a Retired Rear Admiral.
This site tracks the daily observations of one retired Rear Admiral Richard Butler, 94 years of age. The great thing is the memories that seem to be triggered by these observations. I will leave it to you, avid readers, to discover; let me only say that I always assumed (as have we all) that the Navy is a very gay place indeed, and it appears that I am justified in my suspicions. Let me give you a sample of the Admiral’s (alleged) past:
I awoke to two pigeons mating on the faux banister outside the south-facing window of my retirement community condominium. The larger male pigeon had taken the smaller female pigeon from the back and was defecating while making intercourse with her. It was a sight to see. Primitive. Joyous. Carnal.
See for yourself what it leads to. I suggest you all keep your eye on this site. If it becomes viral and ruins this old man’s life, you can tell all your friends you were one of the first to pass it on. Just remember who tipped you off, ass-wipe.
Lorraine P, a long time, loyal supporter of the dreadfully necessary mission we are so committed to here at Jose el Retardo, informed us of a website where you—the loyal reader—have the ability to create your OWN Jackson Pollock style painting. Is that CRAZY, or what? It seems that the interesting people over at jacksonpollock.org (where you go to make your drunken splatter-fest, btw) have the same feeling as we do here in the editorial offices of Retardo about Pollock’s work—that is to say, he kinda sucked and just about anybody can do it. You can find the original post by clicking here.
And above, you will find my Pollock painting. One staff member here at Jose el Retardo has said he likes my work better than any of Pollock’s. Take that, you stupid art snob jerk ass knee-biter fool head shit-pants.
I applaud the staff of jacksonpollock.org for coming out against the talentless raging alcoholic that is Jackson Pollock. Thanks guys. Keep fighting the good fight.
Jerry Kern, a New York City filmmaker and friend to Jose el Retardo, made a film a few years back starring a young acting dynamo by the name of Christian Johnstone. I’d like to end this week of editorial excellence with this extraordinary piece of cinematic brilliance.
Also starring in this production is the adorable Zoe, a good friend of mine who is, sadly, no longer with us. She was a sweet little fireball, and is very much missed.
Like most people, I’ve always been easily affected by music. Songs that drive me in sorrowful, fiery, or bittersweet directions mean the most to me, and even as a child, songs with a world-weary overtone would weigh heavy on my heart; but I was—and am—drawn to them like a magnet.
Today in the offices of Jose el Retardo, a fellow staff member caught my attention by singing Jackson Browne’sDoctor My Eyes, and it immediately made me stop whatever useless task I was up to and wax horribly nostalgic. It’s dogged my steps all day, and I’ve gotten relatively little accomplished. Upon hearing this song on the radio, even when I was very young, a shadow has always been cast over my mind. Obviously I had no clue what Browne was talking about, but my kid-brain was nevertheless troubled by the notion that this man singing was up against the wall somehow, and getting no relief.
Don’t get me wrong, agents of cool. I am NOT a Jackson Browne fan by any stretch of the imagination—Lawyers in Love could be in the top twenty of all time bad songs; oh how I hate it—so don’t get yourself all in a tizzy over my nerdish admission. But come on, you have to give it up for Doctor My Eyes. It’s just so damn sad. Maybe it’s because his vocals on the song are the most vulnerable of any of his recordings that I can remember—indeed, when Browne practically yelps out the line, “You must help me, if you can”, he truly seems at the end of his rope. Or maybe it’s the plaintive lyrics. I don’t know, but as I get older, this song only gets more and more haunting in a bizarrely pleasant way.
Listen for yourself, and then tell the Jose community what songs weigh heavily on you:
I bumped into our favorite asshole, Steve Jobs, on the streets of Manhattan the other day, and to be honest with you, loyal readers, I kept my head down. No, I’m not one hundred percent proud of my cowardice, but I’m also known around the Retardo offices for not being anyone’s fool. I know Jobs, and I know he’ll go to any length necessary to protect the precious image of himself as “the guru to the creative promise in us all” that he has so carefully manufactured over the years—or so I assumed…
I thought I had slunk well past the Mussolini of Mac, and had raised my head to proceed quickly to my destination (never mind where, ever-meddlesome reader), when I felt a hand, icy cold, land suddenly upon my shoulder. Startled, I spun to face my assailant—all the while distinctly aware of the air growing close and still around me, of sound suddenly muffled from my ears, of the light in the sky abruptly becoming too bright, as if overexposed, washing out the city landscape—it was Steve. Jobs. He had spotted my face in the crowd despite my spineless attempt to dodge him, and now he was going to kill me in front of the whole world…and there was nothing I could do. And he would probably get away with it, too! The goddamned world had always let this fucking shit head get away with anything he ever wanted, and now he was going to tear my head from my shoulders and suck the…
But surprisingly, no.
I won’t lie to you, friends. We argued. So much that we decided to take it off the streets and back to my artfully decorated cubical at Jose Headquarters, so as to not draw any more attention to his neatly trimmed beard (it looks just as nice in person!). Turns out that his people keep close tabs on this site, and bring to him the truth we’ve told, and he is pretty fucking pissed about it.
We talked all through the long night, and though we agreed on nothing, we did reach an easy rapport with each other, as generals often do while their respective soldiers’ slug it out in the bloody valleys below. We drank wine, we listened to Manford Mann, and soon I had him relaxed enough—and myself confident enough—to ask the question I pose to every visitor of my office.
He beamed, and immediately said yes, then disrobed so I could draw his portrait. The results are above and to the left, people. Click on it to view the full version. I found him to be a surprisingly soft and vulnerable subject. Tell me what you think. It’s wonderful, isn’t it?
I will never forget the moment I saw it: I was wandering the top floor of the Museum of Modern Art somewhat aimlessly. I could sense the encroaching, restless feeling one gets after spending enough time in a museum to become bored—but not long enough for others to proclaim it an “enriching experience”—creeping in around the corners of my brain as I gazed at a life-size installation of a dishwasher interior stacked with brightly colored plastic dishes and plaster crumbs affixed; a penis replica constructed from broken egg shells and dyed with bald eagle sperm; a canvas depicting four large dots, all black, but with varying shades of gray for their backgrounds. I was finding it all rather underwhelming, but had not yet become outraged at any particular pretense…and then…there it was, lurking in prominence. Red Square, Slightly Rounded. I don’t remember the name of the (and I use this term VERY loosely) artist, nor can I locate it on the internet, but the painting has burned itself into an unflattering subdivision of my memory, and I have placed an approximation of the painting (which took me all of about four minutes to make, btw) to the left of this article. Look at its sad retardedness. How I hate it.
I was incensed to find such useless trickery in one of the world’s most established and respected museums. Just what the hell was MoMA playing at, anyway? Were they TRYING to make me feel stupid? Was it purposeful resentment of the normal man that made them hang in a position of high repute a painting that has no relative merit to the untrained eye? Of course, several friends who think themselves very erudite tried to repeatedly explain to me how, even though I might not see the genius, it is extraordinarily important that someone had painted this painting, even if its actual artistic merit is meager. In other words, to be clever enough to point out that this can be art is more important than it being “good” art. I guess then that we could say, by comparison, that although we might hate discovering the nutritionally-impaired Hot Pocket in our grocer’s freezer, it is nonetheless important to our society that somebody somewhere decided to manufacture it, and then market these pastry-covered floor sweepings into our mouths. Well, god bless you, Nestlé! Thank the heavens for you!
I think it’s all a scam, and the artist in this instance scoffed all the way to the bank as he cashed the check given to him by the MoMA man in the hounds tooth-jacket, with his hand on his chin, stroking his moustache, squinting his eyes, and saying over and over, “Hmmmm…” and “Ahhhh…” and “Oh, yes, yes, of course, of course”!
Such is the struggle that the average person has with Modern Art. Shame on you, average person! Don’t you realize how much of an asshole Jackson Pollock was? That means he was good! Artist + Asshole = Oh, yes, yes, of course, of course! Get it straight, you lousy world full of simpletons.
Jackson Pollock. Are you as confused about this cat as me? Look, I get what all of you knowledgeable bad asses are saying. I’m not completely daft. The guy did his dribbling shits thing all over the canvas with some vague shapes occasionally barfed out for the sporadic “wow!” factor, and it’s all about the textures, and it was oh so stream-of-consciousness, and sure, it might look great above your couch as long as the colors don’t clash abhorrently, but why are we giving such a small achievement any more than footnote status in the world of American art? And the critics will of course drag the Norman Rockwell’s down off the wall, snap them in two, pull down their critic drawers and basically crap all over them—and what do I know except that my Grandma freaking LOVED Norman’s work—but hey, at least he was DOING something, right? He could create something that we cannot perform ourselves—and a lot of it was cheesy, but much of it was not, and at least it varied, and had content, and could make me think—even if the thought was simply, “wow, boy scouts are fucking DUMB”.
But as far as I can tell, much of Jackson Pollock’s work is merely a lot of drunken repetition. There is more to the world than simply colors and shapes. There is also love, hate, pain, hope, and ideas—and Pollock seems to come up short in all that kind of crap. With this in mind, doesn’t his jazzy dribble seem overly cynical? This much I do know: the world has always loved a guy that drinks too much, smokes too much, and fucks too much.
PS and BTW—Saw this quote in the Times today, and it made me wants ta’ barf. It’s the whole reason behind today’s topic, as a matter of fact:
He flashed a slide of Ellsworth Kelly’s “Study for Colors for a Large Wall” on the screen, and the audience couldn’t help but perk to attention. The checkerboard painting of 64 black, white and colored squares was so whimsically subtle, so poised and propulsive. We drank it in greedily, we scanned every part of it, we loved it, we owned it…
Gross. Read the whole article by clicking here. It’s about something.
Once again, the influence of Jose el Retardo flexes its muscle, and giants fall: first we took the military to task and triumphed magnificently (click here to read up), and now we reap the benefits of coming out from behind an iron curtain of fear when we snatched (sexy word alert) the magnanimous mask from Steve Jobs smarmy, lying face (read the original article here).
What’s happening, you ask? This morning our editorial staff was tipped off by our good friends over at the Medium Happiness headquarters about an article coming out in none other than WIRED magazine decrying Steve Jobs as an evil genius, and shedding even more light on his less-than-revolutionary business practices. Check out some of this goodness by clicking here.
You have to wonder if someone over at Wired is a loyal follower of Jose el Retardo. If so, fantastic; the more, the merrier on this crazy roller-coaster ride we like to call THE TRUTH.
Just to give you a tidbit of what was uncovered by Wired Magazine when Job’s veil of bullshit was torn:
Everybody is familiar with Google’s famous catchphrase, “Don’t be evil.” It has become a shorthand mission statement for Silicon Valley, encompassing a variety of ideals that — proponents say — are good for business and good for the world: Embrace open platforms. Trust decisions to the wisdom of crowds. Treat your employees like gods.
It’s ironic, then, that one of the Valley’s most successful companies ignored all of these tenets. Google and Apple may have a friendly relationship — Google CEO Eric Schmidt sits on Apple’s board, after all — but by Google’s definition, Apple is irredeemably evil, behaving more like an old-fashioned industrial titan than a different-thinking business of the future. Apple operates with a level of secrecy that makes Thomas Pynchon look like Paris Hilton. It locks consumers into a proprietary ecosystem. And as for treating employees like gods? Yeah, Apple doesn’t do that either.
Looks like another untouchable is beginning to crumble under the weight of the entire Retardo staff’s mighty disdain.
Rarely do we here in the editorial bunkers of Jose el Retardo beat a dead horse, but in the case of Stephen the Demon Dubner, we are making an exception. So today, we are mining the customer reviews of Amazon.com in search of people’s real feelings about this behemoth of American literature.
It’s no surprise to find that a lot of people aren’t at all interested in the blather contained betwixt the pages of Freakonomics (I refer to the crappy book, not the stupid site that I’m not even going to include a link to). Says cavywrangler of California:
This is the most over-hyped book I can remember reading…[it tries] to make some point that is beaten to death…snore.
Goosecat of Portland, OR, in his review titled Correlation doesn’t mean causation, reports:
I was expecting this book to be completely different. It has nothing to do with economics at all…many of these correlations could lead to dangerous misinterpretation…simply not all that interesting.
Theodore O’Neill of New York, NY laments:
If you wish to remain illiterate about statistics, but gain trivial information for your next cocktail party, go ahead and buy the book.
George Mitchell of Oakland, CA bemoans:
I’m baffled at how this book is a bestseller. I’m embarrassed my boss gave it to me.
M.L. Coffina of Brooklyn, NY cries aghast:
I find the inclusion of the NY Times Magazine quotes that begin each chapter with praise for the author to be both annoying and pretentious.
But the most enlightening review comes from a customer ironically named CoolerHeads, who, in the review entitled Hype-onomics, sputters incredulously:
this has got to be the most self-congratulatory book ever. It’s about a brilliant “noetic butterfly” (really, that’s the smooch the author gives the economist) who shocks the establlishment, and the brilliant journalist who gains his trust and respect, and then the brilliant journalist quotes his own brilliant articles about the brilliant economist and calls that a book. It’s a little insulting how we’re supposed to be blown away by these mavericks.
What is there to be learned by all of this? Nothing, really—except that books about economics can be dull, and, in the wrong hands (hint hint, DOUCHE DUBNER), devilishly dangerous.
PS, dear readers, do you like my portrait of this fool? Click it to enlarge and see all the watery/vinegary details. Do you have a drawing you’ve made of the Demon Stephen Dubner? Click here and send it in!
Today, dear readers, the entire staff here at Jose el Retardo have suffered a bitter slap to the face: after many months of faithful attention to the blog Freakonomics.com, I have been told by one of the authors of the site to DROP DEAD.
It begins simply. Morning. Travel. Coffee. A day unusually unfettered with the many trivial bondages (sexy word alert) that usually exert themselves upon me in the early hours of the day. My feet propped on my desk nonchalantly, I breathe in the rich aroma of my French Roast—just a touch of skim added, which is something new for this man of black coffee—and I contemplate my life through a lens less tainted from the haze of frantic cacophony. Maybe I’ll get things right this time, I tell myself. Today feels like the kind of day that a man can turn to his favor; can take the spare moment to find the bit of enrichment that tips the scale, finally. Yes. Why not me?
So I pop open my internet browser, and I check the ole’ Google Reader, just to see if any of my regular iHaunts (I am coining a phrase as we speak, people) have anything new to spout. As usual, there are about 50 new posts on Freakonomics, so I begin to sift through it all, looking for anything interesting. Finding nothing truly fantastic, I settled for the mildly appealing. I read. I was not moved, per se, but I was engaged, and so decided to leave some comments behind. I often participate in the comment side of the blog world when I have the time, because hey, that’s one of the perks that make it more interesting than standard print—not to mention that I like to speak my opinion regardless of whether or not anyone is actually listening to what I have to say. I guess the fact that I slave my days away in a cubicle at the offices of Jose el Retardo is proof enough of that.
Great. I learn a few things, I speak my mind a touch, and now time to work. My comments haven’t appeared on the Freakonomics site yet, but I’m sure it will only take time. I know that the guys over there must have a rod shoved pretty fucking far up their tight, over-educated ASSES, because they reserve the right to approve EVERY GODDAMNED COMMENT that passes through their precious opinion page. Whatever, it’s their prerogative, they can do what they want to do, cause what they’re doing, they do for you. Sing.
HOWEVER, soon enough I receive in my inbox an email from none other than the so very important and so deeply intellectual Stephen J. Dubner, co-author of Freakonomics. Hey, wow, I think. Maybe he saw my url in my comments and wants to congratulate me on my hard work, and to let me know that if I just hang in there, I’m gonna break through, that I’ll see the dollars and cents eventually because my kind of writing is BOUND to find an audience. Maybe he’ll even get some of his own friends to see and love my site! Maybe this is the breakthrough I needed! Holy shit.
I tremble slightly as I open the email.
Stephen J. Dubner has written to me:
why are you spamming freakonomics.com? i sure would like it if you stopped
Huh. Even though I am alone at my desk, I feel slightly awkward, as if I just insulted half the table at a dinner party but I’m not sure what it was I said to cause the hurt. And then, as I usually do, I become immediately indignant. What the fuck? What did I do wrong? Nothing! Well, hell. I don’t have to take that from him. I write back:
I was simply reading your site and leaving comments. I don’t usually have the time in the morning to leave the comments, but today I did. I have enjoyed your blog in the past, sent my own readers your way when something really caught my eye, and have a subscription to your feed. I’m not sure how any of this amounts to spamming, but rest assured, it will all cease today.
I waited for his reply, knowing that this alone would surely cause him to apologize and approve my comments and let us all get on with being humans on this god-forsaken earth.
And reply Stephen J. Dubner, friend to the literate, does:
if i am mistaken, forgive me. but if you don’t know the difference between a comment and spam, then it’s on you. but, back to no. 1, if i am mistaken, forgive me.
best, sjd
Oh dear Lord. No. Come ON. Are you KIDDING me, dude?!? Is that the best you can come up with? Dear reader, I implore you, have you ever heard such a back-handed apology in your life? Basically, the guy said this: “Hey, sorry about that—unless I’m right, which I am, so fuck you, you fucking dickweed. Otherwise, sorry, and fuck off”.
I mean, who IS this rat bastard Stephen J. Dubner from Freakonmics anyway? He writes a couple of books that I am willing to bet a thousand of my hard-earned dollars that less than one-sixteenth of you have read, writes some articles here and there, has a blog—and like, really, who DOESN’T have a fucking blog these days—and he’s so good he can just shit on a regular reader like this? Well, so freaking SORRY, Lord Stephen. Forgive me for wasting your precious time. I responded:
The only thing I can think of is that I used my url as my signature (a very common practice, as I’m sure you know), which, in all actuality, makes me far more answerable for my comments than the people who simply sign off with an anonymous handle. It allowed you to reach me and question my actions, no? Aside from this far-from-abnormal behavior, I cannot see how my four comments to your site were any more or less useless than any of the countless others.
The blogging community depends on us reading each other’s work. If you feel you are above this ethic, then maybe you should stick to “straight” journalism and leave the blogging to those of us who have an interest in each other.
As of this moment I’ve heard nothing back, but either way I’m done reading Freakonomics.com. The rest of you can return, if you feel like shitting on me even more than Lord Stephen the Demon has already done. Whatever. Fuck you, Stephen J. Dubner, the consummate douche.
SAINI SUNPURA, India (JeR) — On March 11th, sources informed the Jose el Retardo International Desk that an infant with two adorable faces was born to a dirt-poor family on a northern India farm 25 miles east of New Delhi. Apparently, this development has raised many eyebrows—as well as hopes—in the halls of the 
Stumbling across bizarre web sites is one of the most sublime moments one can have while surfing the 
Like most people, I’ve always been easily affected by music. Songs that drive me in sorrowful, fiery, or bittersweet directions mean the most to me, and even as a child, songs with a world-weary overtone would weigh heavy on my heart; but I was—and am—drawn to them like a magnet.
I will never forget the moment I saw it: I was wandering the top floor of the 
Jackson Pollock. Are you as confused about this cat as me? Look, I get what all of you knowledgeable bad asses are saying. I’m not completely daft. The guy did his dribbling shits thing all over the canvas with some vague shapes occasionally barfed out for the sporadic “wow!” factor, and it’s all about the textures, and it was oh so stream-of-consciousness, and sure, it might look great above your couch as long as the colors don’t clash abhorrently, but why are we giving such a small achievement any more than footnote status in the world of American art? And the critics will of course drag the 
Once again, the influence of Jose el Retardo flexes its muscle, and giants fall: first we took the military to task and triumphed magnificently (
Today, dear readers, 
Entries (RSS)
