Los Angeles, CA (JeR)—As horrified fans and well-wishers looked on, an exhausted and distraught Paula Abdul made her way from Fox LA Headquarters to an idling limousine early this morning with what looked to be multiple injuries to her face and extremities. She was escorted by several armed Fox Security personnel, the very same who ushered her from Fox studios on Tuesday after Abdul had made her supposed leap forward in time to witness American Idol contestant Jason Castro’s abominable interpretation of megastar Neil Diamond’s 1980 hit, September Morn.

“We’re all so shocked,” said one fan, as tears coursed down her stout cheeks. “She’s always been there for ALL of us, but who will rescue her?” The flustered devotee then turned to a friend and exclaimed, “I just want to die.”

Sentiments appeared to be uniform in the crowd of onlookers, and as Abdul’s car sped away, many milled about aimlessly for well over an hour, wondering how they would piece together their desperate lives; lives now placed in jeopardy by a callous media corporation and a world unconcerned with the fate of one frail, petite celebrity burdened with the proof of one of Albert Einstein’s greatest puzzles.

Some were angry, and they demanded satisfaction for the scientific community who apparently has been robbed of their chance to observe one of the most historical and mysterious phenomena of the millennium—perhaps of all time: that of Abdul’s evident ability to time travel.

Said one: “Look, it’s obvious what happened. Fox was terrified that Abdul would eventually spill the beans about all the future American Idols to come and they decided to shut her up! They beat the shit out of her! And of ALL the reasons they could have picked to beat the shit out of her, they choose the most despicable!”

Another chimed in, “The fact that Jason Castro is still in the competition after last night’s laughable vote-off is proof enough. We’re not stupid. We know when we’re being led off the scent. We can’t let this happen!”

“Kill Castro!” was the chant that later rent the air of Century City, and by noon, effigies of Castro burned in the streets. They were soon met with strong opposition from pro-Cuba factions, and soon all of Los Angeles was ablaze.

Jose el Retardo now believes that our inside source to Fox, who informed us of Abdul’s location yesterday, is now missing and presumed dead by the Los Angeles Police Department, who declined comment. When pressed, a fatigued desk officer only said, “Well, when a man’s head is sent to the station without the rest of his body attached, we generally operate under the assumption that the man is dead.”

Abdul was not available for comment. Jason Castro was also missing, but only presumed stoned.

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.

You’ve certainly seen the video footage of Tom Cruise being interviewed for his cute little award ceremony honoring him as the most famous and bizarre of all the famous and bizarre Scientologists. Well, here it is again, just in case you missed it. (more below)

The first thing that strikes me is Tom’s blatant lack of modesty. This man loves himself like no other human has ever loved anything. His arrogance is a living, breathing animal sitting on his shoulder like a gargoyle. Nothing can kill this little monster perched so obstinately there. You can not quiet it—my friends, it is too late.

The second thing that intrigues me is, ironically, the lack of any real content in anything Tom Cruise says in this relentlessly proud assertion of the power of all Scientologists. He says they (or, more correctly, he) have the power to change the world, but he never says how. He says they are the only ones who can help the rest of us poor slobs, but he never says in what way. He talks about Scientologists being the only ones that can help at the scene of a car wreck, but he gives zero specifics. What would he do? Are all Scientologists trained medical professionals? Do they have healing hands? Are they some kind of new faith healers for the age of Xenu? My god, the man can’t even bring himself to finish a sentence! And this says one thing loud and clear to me: there is absolutely nothing of any real substance to Scientology aside from all the crazy damn nonsense found in L. Ron Hubbard’s silly Dianetics books.

This is a direct quote from the Scientology website:

“Man is an immortal, spiritual being. His experience extends well beyond a single lifetime. His capabilities are unlimited, even if not presently realized — and those capabilities can be realized. He is able to not only solve his own problems, accomplish his goals and gain lasting happiness, but also achieve new, higher states of awareness and ability.”

Sound familiar? Maybe like EVERY OTHER FREAKING RELIGION? Take away the volcanoes and thetans, replace them with a parting sea and a holy ghost, and POW baby! You got yourself some good old, down home Christianity, just like mom used to make. It’s all the same chicken feed, people. Yet another way to keep the ducks in line.

But back to Tom. He’s batshit crazy, and you knew that, and he laughs at strange things with lunacy in his eyes. Katie Holms is a beaten down slave. Body Thetans strive to escape the meat body. The world keeps spinning. Next.

Once again, Jose el Retardo is doing what he can to bring you the facts. In a world full of weird bodily fluids and strange toxic babies, a voice of truth. Reason. Tell the world, people, that Heath Ledger was not in Mary-Kate Olson’s apartment! Once again, from the NY Times:

“At first, Paul J. Browne, the Police Department’s deputy commissioner for public information, said that the apartment was owned by the actress Mary-Kate Olsen, but later reversed himself and said that was not the case. In a phone interview, Annette Wolf, a representative of Ms. Olsen, said, “It is not her apartment,” adding, “She does not own the apartment. She has never owned the apartment. She and her sister have an apartment in New York City but they are not in this building.” An earlier version of this article reported the erroneous detail from the police.”

So I guess he wasn’t banging the crazy stick girl. Cross out the first reason on my list for suicide.

So, hey, it was also reported that this guy was found dead and naked at the foot of his bed by the housekeeper and the masseuse, and then later, they said he was merely unconscious ON the bed but could not be revived-with a bunch of sleeping pills by his bed (the article I read said “both prescription medication and nonprescription”; something about that is also strange to me). Where do the reporters get these initial reports? WAS he naked at the foot of the bed, and the family was like, “Hey, WTF you assholes, can you afford this guy some dignity?” Or did a bunch of overly-eager, grade-grubbing reporters latch on with ferocious tenacity to the first bone they were thrown without bothering to check on the veracity of such tawdry, back-alley banter? Either way, the world is a pretty crazy place.

One last question, and then let’s get to drying our eyes and searching for the next big mess: If in fact this man committed suicide, with a name like Ledger, why didn’t he choose to jump off a building?

You heard it here third. From the freaking New York Times, so it must be true:

Actor Heath Ledger Is Found Dead

By Sewell Chan

The actor Heath Ledger was found dead this afternoon in an apartment building at 421 Broome Street in SoHo, according to the New York City police. Mr. Ledger was 28.

At 3:31 p.m., a masseuse arrived at Apartment 5A in the building for an appointment with Mr. Ledger, the police said. The masseuse was let in to the home by a housekeeper, who then knocked on the door of Mr. Ledger’s bedroom. When no one answered, the housekeeper and the masseuse opened the bedroom and found Mr. Ledger unconscious. They shook him, but he did not respond. They immediately called the authorities. The police said they did not suspect foul play and said they found pills near body.

Mr. Ledger, a native of Perth, Australia, won acclaim for his role as a co-star in “Brokeback Mountain”, a 2005 film. The film, based on a short story by Annie Proulx about two cowboys who fall in love, won critical acclaim. Reviewing the film in The New York Times, the critic Stephen Holden wrote, “Mr. Ledger magically and mysteriously disappears beneath the skin of his lean, sinewy character. It is a great screen performance, as good as the best of Marlon Brando and Sean Penn.”

Calls by The New York Times to Mara Buxbaum, a publicist for Mr. Ledger, and Steve Alexander, the actor’s agent, were not immediately returned this afternoon.