I have been playing GTA IV for a couple of weeks now, and I must concur with most of the critics: not only is it the best of the Grand Theft Auto franchise, but it could possibly be the best game of all time. Only continued playing will decide for me whether or not it is better than the excellent Tom Clancy Splinter Cell series, all of which are very near and dear to my heart.

I’m not going to bore the shit out of all of you with a review. If you want to know more about the intricacies of the game, there are a ton of websites out there that can help you, written by people who are vastly more knowledgeable on the subject than I. The voice acting is terrific, the motion capture and physics engine are sublime, the sandbox is vast, the game itself has been refined and perfected over the past versions, and the satirical social commentary is dead on. Enough said.

However, as good as it is, many rail against GTA IV and its maker Rockstar Games for the blatant violence and sexuality that has always been associated with the title. But I say take your Puritan values and shove them deep into your anal cavity. The world needs GTA IV, if only to keep the tempers of people such as myself at bay. Where else can you purposely chase down a person who has bumped into you on the street and put a bullet in his head? And, after having gained the attention of the local authorities, highjack a candy apple red convertible and go screaming down the streets until you lose control and smash into a hot dog stand, watching as you fly through the windshield as the proprietor and his cart explode in a huge ball of fire. As you skid across the concrete, your own blood spraying, you see the cops encroaching, so you pick yourself up and open fire, taking down like three of the fat little fuckers as you race to a nearby cab, punch the cabbie right in his glass fucking chin and haul his dumb ass out, screaming at him to stay the fuck down, and you screech off with the passenger still inside; she’s some uptight bitch just wailing and wailing like a nutty banshee and you don’t know what’s driving you crazier, her big mouth or the cop sirens and the helicopter chopping overhead, so you stop the car only for a moment to give her the chance to escape, and then, as she frees herself and runs down the street with her waving arms in the air and crying for help, you back the cab over her just for the fuck of it. Of course, this little pleasure only gives the pigs a chance to catch up with you, and they smash their cruisers right into the cab without a second thought, making demands over loudspeakers for you to get the fuck out of the car NOW NOW NOW, and you’re all like, yeah, right, asshole. Not in this life! You’re gonna have to KILL ME YOU FUCKING PIGS! So you put the cab in gear and crash your way out of the poor-ass excuse for a blockade that the police made around you and quickly as you can program the GPS to get you to an auto-shop, and quick. The traffic is heavy, but seeing as the coppers are much less willing than you are to drive at top speed down the sidewalk while helpless, innocent victims fly like squashed melons in your wake, you can kind of be thankful for it. You reach the body shop, the garage door comes down, you pull out a moment later with a gleaming, new, blue sedan, and the sun is shining, and the world is normal, and the cops are gone, and the only sign of your rampage is the distant sirens of the ambulance dealing with the bodies you left in your wake.

All of that action, without even starting a mission. Now tell me honestly that the thought of getting away with something like this has never occurred to you.

I can’t wait to beat a hooker to death with my bare hands. Eh, maybe tomorrow, after I take my girlfriend out for a round of darts at one of the local bars.

So, yes, it’s a pretty cool game. I’m enjoying it.

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.

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.

Hey Deborah, I found your homework on the street the other day. If you want it, claim it. Everyone else, let’s run down the list of what we love about this page of bare-bones composition. Click the image to enlarge for easier reading.

I think my favorite feature of this little report is how far down the page the actual information begins. The title is on the second line, really, and then the report is another four lines below that! A classic dodge that has been in use for generations—akin to pushing your food around the plate in order to trick your parents into thinking you’ve eaten more than you actually have—and I’m so happy to see it’s still part of the ducker’s repertoire. On the other hand, I wish students would try to be cleverer, and keep the teachers guessing. Stay ahead of the rule makers, rule breakers. Come up with the new tricks so as to avoid the bricks and sticks. Get it, chicks?

There is an absolute minimalism to this girl’s style of writing that you have to admire. It goes beyond the “just the facts” mentality and strays more into “even less than the basic stats” territory. Deborah is writing about Tasha. We know where she lives, we know who is in her family, we know there is some kind of vague trouble with “some other guy”; there is the alluring threat of death (always important), a time of day is mentioned for some reason, and two hours later they are on their way to America. Oh, and there’s a president mentioned. I guess Tasha’s old man has some powerful friends.

You have to love how the person checking Deborah’s work seemed to give up after only the first two comments. I can’t blame this mystery editor one bit; I imagine this practical person exasperatedly handed the paper back with instructions to simply copy someone else’s work from the internet.

I think I’ve already said more regarding this paper than Deborah wrote about the trials of poor Tasha, so I’ll let it be. What do YOU love about this theme, fair reader? How can Deborah improve upon her terse style?

Ahhh, the state of education in America.

Once again, I’d like to thank all of you for hanging in there. We at Jose el Retardo know how difficult it can be to consistently soak our uncompromising view of the world into your psyches. For us, it’s just something we have learned to live with. For you, the faithful reader, it is a choice, and it’s a choice we’re all so happy you’ve made.

Thanks for coming back again and again. Here is one of the strangest videos I’ve ever seen. Enjoy, and keep reading.

I have been perusing a crazy blog lately that most of you have probably seen and spent a large amount of time reading (http://stuffwhitepeoplelike.wordpress.com), and through it I stumbled upon an article from the New York Times website about young, affluent urbanites going out to farms and getting elbow deep in pig shit in order to show the rest of us how we might make a better world. Here is the link to the Times article: http://www.nytimes.com/2008/03/16/fashion/16farmer.html?scp=1&sq=Trucker+Hat&st=nyt

I suppose I should give credit to people who put their money where their mouths are and do the dirty work they always felt was so noble—but I just can’t seem to rise above. When I hear about Williamsburg hipsters, who were raised on the east side of Manhattan, heading upstate to start their own organic produce farms, it makes my eye twitch. Have they any idea how badly the kids who were raised on small, struggling farms throughout the country want to get out? I know, I know, it’s their prerogative to choose such a difficult life, and their reasons for doing so are none of my business—but every single one of these crunchy ass-breaths in this article struck out to raise “organic” produce and livestock, which they will in turn sell back to the wealthy people in the urban centers they just left behind. Lower income households certainly can’t afford the kinds of prices necessary for the ex-cool kids to live in adequate quarters while “living off the land”—and here is where the whole idea of nobility starts to fall apart.

These people have the skills that so many others desire in order to live a more promising life. But they would rather move to the sticks and take jobs away from others that lack the ability or the means to find better. It is all enough to drive me freaking bugshit, and then I read a quote like this, and my blood boils in my veins:

The Billyburg scene has changed, said Annaliese Griffin, who contributes to a blog called Grocery Guy. “Having a cool cheese in your fridge has taken the place of knowing what the cool band is, or even of playing in that band,” she said. “Our rock stars are ricotta makers.”

Holy crap. Well, Annaliese, let me guarantee you this: somewhere out there a poor farmer’s son could care less about fucking goat cheese and would so love to go see a rock star one day. Can he have your old record collection, Annaliese? You PIG.

Soon enough all these new hippies will get tired of getting up at 5 AM every day, working their asses off until they feel like dropping in their well-heeled tracks, and then they will head back to the city to start up research firms, just like the old hippies did.

The United States can be an okay place to live sometimes—desk jobs are plentiful for anybody ambivalent enough to want them, internet service doesn’t even come close to matching Taiwan’s but at least we have it, no one likes us but we don’t really have a need to go anywhere either. That being said, it’s no walk in the park, brother. America is built on the philosophy of the wild, wild west, my friends, no matter on which coast you choose to live. All you have to do is walk out your front door and you could be hit on the head with a brick; or, more probably, struck by a car. Nor will getting back indoors help you. Once you get off the brutal boulevards and enter the cool comfort of your American Dream job at the aforementioned desk, your chances of getting into even more hot water are grimly high.

Yet, the nightmarish streets built by our founding capitalists need not frighten you into a lifetime of crippling agoraphobia. In times of catastrophic peril when all other avenues of reason cannot provide Americans with a livable solution, fashion always finds a way. Behold, the Urban Walking Helmet.

Okay, so it isn’t a national trend yet, but think of all of the nasty side effects of living being solved with one handsome solution. These helmets go with almost any style of apparel you could imagine, are relatively inexpensive and simple to produce, are wrinkle free, and—with the addition of a thin, lightweight layer of Kevlar—bulletproof.

How would you pimp your UWH? Download the image below, design it to your liking using the photo editing software of your choice, and then send it back to our creative offices by clicking here. Your design could be seen in the upcoming pages of Jose el Retardo!

Even after many swore they witnessed his death, Jabba the Hutt has recently resurfaced on popular New York City local news station NY1. What is even more shocking than this nearly Christ-like resurrection is the connection Mr. Hutt—last seen being blown to bits aboard his own private hover-barge on desert planet Tatooine—apparently holds to presidential hopeful Hillary Clinton’s campaign staff. It is unclear if, or by how much, this information will hinder Clinton’s aspirations to the nation’s highest office.

Staff artists here at Jose el Retardo have created a depiction of what Jabba might look like without his ill-fitting suit, seen left. Authorities are urging witnesses to report any sightings immediately, as Mr. Hutt is an alleged felon with allegations of racketeering that spread across several decades as well as galaxies, and is suspected of maintaining many of his old crime syndicate connections.

The New York City Police Department are also on the look out for the annoying, little, cackling thing that always hung around Jabba’s tail—whom many have claimed to have spotted frequenting the Clinton’s Chappaqua, NY home in recent months.

The interviewer Wilford Brimley has been released from police custody, but has been ordered to remain within New York City limits pending more questioning.

People are going to think I’m crazy, and that’s fine—I’ve come to terms with the reality that one defining characteristic of a test of faith is that you are the only person aware of the test. To be sure, greater people than humble me have lived with this affliction. Joan of Arc dealt with criticism, as did Abraham, Noah, and Ollie North.

There is little doubt that this chalice of abuse will now be passed to me. I will drink from it greedily, for underneath it all it means that the green tinges of envy have risen from below the collars of the naysayers and has clouded their vision—they wish that divinity had chosen them to bestow the gifts of the Lord upon.

Behold my pretzel. I’ve been holding onto it for a couple of years now, ever since I rescued it from a dear friend who had, in a rare moment of weakness, separated it out from her bag of Pennysticks and was nearly about to dispose of it (by eating it). I have no anger towards her, however. The Lord works in mysterious ways, and giving her the gift of careless hunger was His way of getting this precious snack into my hands. Now, after having kept it safe past the point of it being appetizing, I think I am going to sell it on eBay. Seeing, though, how I care for my readers above almost all else (besides the good Lord, bearer of the gift of divine salted bread sticks through which all high-quality things flow), I’ve decided to give you all first dibs at bidding. I’ve set the minimum for $650 big ones. Best of luck to you all. Bid through the comments, please, or feel free to send a private bid through the contact page.

PS—This prick thinks he’s got something over me. Do God’s work and please destroy his rating.

The world sucks. You know it and I know it, and there’s no use denying it with any namby-pamby “check out the flowers” and “just wait for the sunrise” horseshit. Plenty of baby deer have bitten the bullet (literally) while gazing at a beautiful prairie sunset. They were then field dressed and eaten by fat people. From the very beginning of a human being’s existence—when some grotesque cosmic fool tosses a grimy set of dice down the board in order to decide when, how, and where you’ll start your reality—to the wretched end (you spend a lifetime accumulating some kind of record for yourself, a pocket full of memories, only to have them all slip away in life’s final, frail moments) the constant, grinding challenges set before the individual can wear a soul down to its very nub.

For the love of Christ, isn’t there anything on this god-forsaken rock that can make it all worth while—or, at the very least, slightly tolerable? Yes, of course there is. And that is what this post is all about: the first of many suggestions from your mentor and closest advisor, Jose. Together, they can be used as a guide to the small gratuities that light the dark corners of life.

CHICKEN IN A BISKIT
From Nabisco

Me and Chicken in a Biskit go WAAAAAY back, brother. I remember, as a young boy developing his taste buds in the breadbasket of America, the first time this delectable little crisp of artificial flavor passed my lips. A gathering of sorts was taking place at my home, and a parental unit, in preparation, had placed a wide assortment of salty/sweet snacks upon the kitchen table…and to a child, the array was breathtaking. I paced to-and-fro, up and down the entire length of the table several times, trying to process the overload of bliss: mints, bowls of dip, candied almonds, endless variations of potato chips, cold cuts, cheeses, and…wait a minute…what are these? Something unknown, yet alluring. A tempting, dimple-edged cracker, light and crispy looking, with miniscule granules of flavor you could SEE coating the entire flatbread from end to end—and a scent…indefinable but palpable…mouth watering. The effect was powerful.

Did I dare try one even before the first guest had arrived? Hadn’t I been told REPEATEDLY not to touch the table until the party started? Surely I had never given a damn for the random commands barked at me by the powers that be in the past, so why start now? What could they do to me, right? Oh lord, that cracker looked GOOD.

Using the back of my hand, I wiped my mouth nervously and looked around, checking all angles and shadows for any sign of prying eyes, or, in the case of my sister, flapping jaws (this is, of course, complete conjecture on my part—I don’t actually remember wiping my mouth or looking around).

I snatched it from the bowl and popped it quickly into my mouth. Wow. It was truly a taste explosion. Salty yet somehow smooth, and so crispy it seemed nearly frozen. Several more followed the first, each one more savory than the last. Getting braver by the second, I grabbed a can of easy cheese (cheddar, and yes, I DO remember that) and sprayed the SHIT out of one of those fucking biskits. Chew, chew, chew, gulp. OH MY GOD. Dear Jesus, come and save me. The room began to swim and spin and I nearly fell backwards.

By the time it was over, I felt giddy and dirty all at once. But I knew I wasn’t done with Chicken in a Biskit. Not by a long shot.

And so the years passed, and so many things have happened to your guide Jose that there was barely any room in his life for Chicken in a Biskit. But recently we danced again, this snack cracker and I, and I was delighted to find we still make such a happy pair—which I suppose is fairly a common occurrence in the romances we share with our favorite snack foods…and still…and still…

Is there any real chicken in them? Well, you know, a little. Do they taste like chicken? Come on, does CHICKEN taste like chicken? Isn’t that the weird and wonderful thing about chicken? That it doesn’t seem to have a specific taste?

Anyway, that’s it. Chicken in a Biskit makes this shitty world a little better. Try them. For a different opinion, check out what this asshole has to say.