Thursday, December 2, 2010

Taylor Momsen

“To be honest, I don’t fucking care. I didn’t get into this to be a role model. So I’m sorry if I’m influencing your kids in a way that you don’t like, but I can’t be responsible for their actions. I don’t care.”

As they say in show biz, you haven’t arrived until Tim Gunn says something really gay and snotty about you: "What a diva! She was pathetic, she couldn't remember her lines, and she didn't even have that many. I thought to myself 'why are we all being held hostage by this brat?'” Not that Taylor Momsen could hear what he was saying – she was  in her gothic trailer of despair, painting on eyeliner, listening to her favorite band, The Pretty Reckless, which is famous because she is their lead singer – not that anyone noticed what she's singing, they’re just taking in her glorious jailbaitness and devil-may-care, Lindsay Lohan will look like a Carmelite Sister when I’m done killin’ it attitude.

"If it's a good sex tape, I'll watch it. I like some adult stars. I have a couple favorites. But I will say this: That Tommy Lee/Pamela Anderson video wasn't very good. I wouldn't fuck Tommy Lee."

Momsen got her start in the game when her parents realized that raising a kid doesn’t have to be expensive if you make them work for their Pampers. Young Taylor soon became notorious for her on-set antics, reportedly partying late into the night on the set of her first movie, The Prophet’s Game, when she was seven. Her parents, increasingly anxious about being able to live the high life on the pitiful royalties from some commercials, initially tried to conceive another meal ticket, but instead found that they could reign in the tyrannical child with a mix of Valium, Quaaludes, and letting her play dress up with the jewelry she essentially bought her mother.

"I'm not some cute girl that's been stamped out of a Disney studio and I'm proud of that. Some people like me for it, others hate it. I'm used to that."

Some may ask themselves, “What the hell does a pseudo-goth born in 1993 know about killin’ it?” Well, some may be dumb as shit, because being seventeen and rich and dumb is basically the primordial ooze of killin’ it – all you need is one spark and BOOM! – a star is born. If she isn’t busy doing four times the coke the Olsen twins were doing at her age – which is eight times the coke of a normal actress, or one eighth the level of Charlie Sheen and Mick Fleetwood, she is probably cornering the industrial eyeliner market, pioneering her new look (industrial-gothic-hooker chic), or sending sex threats to Johnny Depp, Joan Jett, and Alexander McQueen, who no one told her was dead, but whose response she awaits the most.

"Everyone compares me to Courtney Love. Courtney Love is great, sure, but in all honesty, I'm not trying to be Courtney Love. I would rather be Kurt Cobain - killin’ it so hard you have to kill yourself.”

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

Jerry Lee Lewis

“Stone cold sober? I don't believe in that.”

Jerry Lee Lewis may be most famous for lighting innumerable pianos on fire, leaving a suspiciously long trail of dead bodies in his wake, a botched attempt to assassinate Elvis and almost always being the first person found at the scene of a crime, but these antics don’t even scratch the surface of his amphetamine laced, killin’-it life.  By the age of fourteen Lewis was a married man but naturally unfulfilled, so he married another woman and was a bigamist by the age of sixteen. His cousin, Jimmy Swaggart, the scandal-prone televangelist as well known for his whoring as for his religious lessons, probably blessed both unions. As Nick Tosches put it, “Jerry Lee can out-drink, out-dope, out-fight, out-cuss, out-shoot and out-fuck any man alive.

“I was born feet first; I’ve been rocking ever since.”

Whether he was doing kick-flips in his Rolls Royce on a back country turn after killing a couple fifths of Jack and then passing the sobriety test with flying colors, or smuggling illegal drugs in one of his private planes, Jerry Lee always made sure he rolled with the most disreputable entourage and that his vast collection of handguns and automatic rifles were well primed and loaded.  For Lewis, tearing apart a hotel room didn’t simply mean breaking some mirrors and spilling red wine on the carpet, it meant unloading the entire clip of a Thompson machine gun while slamming half a fifth of whiskey and then shoving his ascot in the bottle, lighting it in on fire, throwing it against the wall and then walking up to the front desk to complain about the people across the hall.

“Just give me my money and show me where the piano is.

Lewis was never really bothered by laws, which never applied to him anyways.  Despite shooting his bass player in the chest, trying to break into Graceland with a loaded .38, marrying his thirteen year old cousin, and being caught several times with copious amounts of illegal drugs, Lewis never found himself in serious legal trouble.  His methods of dealing with the law primarily centered around claiming that he was framed and when that didn’t work he would simply not show up to court, and because the Judge was often his kid sister’s third fiancĂ©e’s second cousin once removed, he would usually get off anyways.

“You know, there’s nothing like tearing up a club now and then.”

Jerry Lee Lewis killed it so hard that his nickname was actually the killer and like his father, Elmo Lewis, who probably would have made killin' it in the bathtub if the Feds ever banned it, he didn’t let old age get him down, but continued to mow through women, band mates and trumped up drug charges like shots of Old Crow.  Whether he’s having Kris Kristofferson write singles for him, marrying another close relative or lunging across a table while brandishing a half broken bottle of Rye Whiskey with the intent of stabbing an interviewer that asked him the wrong question, Jerry Lee certainly remains on the war path.

Jerry’s friend and no stranger to killin’ it, Waylon Jennings, really sums Lewis up best; “Just don’t get too close to him and you won’t get hurt.”

Monday, November 15, 2010


"When I want to hear good music, I write it myself.”

What do you get the man who has everything? That is the trivial question the hoi polloi ponder as they move ignorantly through life without realizing that only one man truly has it all:  The finest velvet suits. A harem of women so enamored with you that they literally let you change their names because you can't be bothered to remember them otherwise. Multiple Grammys, tons of platinum albums, and an Oscar. The genius to play literally any instrument. The ability to communicate with angels. A guitar that is modeled after your dick.  Prince truly has the killin'-it trade on lockdown.

“I've got more hits than Madonna's got kids.”

Born in Minneapolis, it is rumored that Prince came out of the womb with a full head of Jheri curled hair, the ability to ride motorcycles, and a guitar which he played as he seduced a nurse. It appeared to be a pattern: When he was sixteen, Prince's father caught him messing around with some hot Midwestern babe and kicked him out of the house. Which didn't really matter because his demo was already garnering a ton of buzz and record labels were fighting to sign the young prodigy. When you're sixteen and killin' it, record executives get on your casting couch, not the other way around.  

With a hugely talented backing band (including the notoriously pimping Morris Day) and a bordello of groupies consisting of the choicest young suburban high school dropouts looking to make their fathers have heart attacks, Prince headed to the Record Plant in Sausalito – where Fleetwood Mac recorded, and where artists were still finding 8-balls and pairs of Stevie Nicks’ underwear from the Rumours sessions hidden in Mick Fleetwood’s bass drums – and made his debut. He played every instrument on the album, which included a song called “Soft & Wet,” which is what every woman on earth was after they listened to the album. Besides hitting the charts, there was a lost generation of mysteriously tan and sexy children born in Marin County around 1977.

“It took five women to getcha off of my mind…”

Prince has slept with Kim Basinger, Madonna, Carmen Electra, Anna Fantastic, Apollonia, every woman born in Minnesota before 1993, a large percentage of Eastern Europe, and your mom. In a move that can only be described as saucy, Prince gave Electra, Fantastic, and Apollonia their names because he hadn't yet slept with anyone named Carmen Electra, Anna Fantastic, or Apollonia, although he had slept with Anna Electra, Carmen Fantastic, and twins named Saturnalia & Plutonium.  During a concert in 1984 every woman in attendance along with a handful of men were impregnated after Prince played Purple Rain.

“People say I'm wearing heels because I'm short. I wear heels because the women like 'em.”

Prince changed his name to an unpronounceable symbol and played a guitar fashioned after it that looked like a huge cock at the Super Bowl – after Janet Jackson had caused a furor by showing her nipples. And in a killer move that deserves much praise, he caused Tipper Gore, who is a boring prude and famous for being married to a robot that gives PowerPoint presentations, to start her tyrannical effort to censor music after she caught her daughter listening to "Darling Nikki," a poetic ode to the legions of women named Nikki that he slept with.

If you ever want to try and swim in Prince’s wake, just follow the trail of discarded panties and men's size eight high-heeled boot prints to the velvet mansion on the mystical shores of Lake Minnetonka.

Friday, November 12, 2010

This month in the world of killin’ it: James Hunt

While, we’ve had to sit a few rounds out, there was one news piece that especially stood out over the last month, which we’d like to bring to everyone’s attention.  It’s a Daily Mail piece on Formula One race car driver, James Hunt, that truly reestablishes the boundaries of killin’ it.  We feel this piece deserves a post of its own and accordingly, we’ve pulled some of the best nuggets from the article.

The James Hunt guide to preparing for the most important race in your life:

James Hunt was not known for behaving appropriately. But never was he more outrageous than in the last two weeks of October 1976, when he was in Tokyo battling Niki Lauda for the title of Formula One world motor racing champion.

His preparations were unconventional, to say the least. He had spent the two weeks leading up to the race on a round-the-clock alcohol, cannabis and cocaine binge with his friend Barry Sheene, who was world motorcycle champion that year.

While Jackie Stewart famously abstained from sex a week before a motor race, Hunt would often have sex minutes before climbing into the cockpit…

In Japan, his playground of choice was the Tokyo Hilton, where every morning British Airways stewardesses were dropped off at reception for a 24-hour stopover.

Hunt unfailingly met them as they checked in and invited them to his suite for a party — they always said yes.

It wasn’t unusual for him and Sheene to have sex with all of the women, often together…

No one watching Hunt that week in 1976 would have believed he was preparing for the race of his life.

At the circuit, he had been behaving bizarrely — at one point dropping his overalls and urinating in full view of the crowds in the grandstand.

The spectators, many of whom had powerful binoculars trained on him, applauded once he had finished.

In the end, all the sex and drugs paid off for Hunt, as he went on to win the world title and celebrated in truly excessive but entirely appropriate killin’ it fashion:

At a British Embassy reception in his honour, Hunt was so drunk that the ambassador hesitated to let him in.

The return flight on Japan Airlines had been block-booked by F1 boss Bernie Ecclestone’s travel company and was the scene for a riotous 12-hour party that drained the plane of alcohol.

When Hunt arrived back at Heathrow airport, 2,000 fans were waiting to greet him. He staggered down the steps of the aircraft, drunk, into the arms of his mother Sue and his beautiful, long- suffering girlfriend Jane Birbeck. 

Clearly Hunt wasn’t just a winner on the race course, he was also a winner with the ladies.  Over the course of his 43 year long life it’s reported that he bedded roughly 5,000 women.  

Assuming he started in his mid teens, that comes out to a new woman every other day for the remainder of his life.  When he decided to get married, he tied the knot with British model Suzy Miller:

The day of the wedding was a farce. At six o’clock that morning, Hunt poured himself the first of many beers. Before leaving for the church, he knocked back a couple of Bloody Marys. By the time he walked up the aisle, he was hopelessly intoxicated…

The following day, they left for their honeymoon in Antigua and, once more, the occasion proved to be anything but straightforward.

He had invited his newly- married best friend, the Hesketh Formula One team manager Anthony ‘Bubbles’ Horsley, to come along with his new bride.

While Suzy Miller and Bubbles’ wife had undoubtedly envisaged honeymooning alone with their husbands, the two men clearly preferred each other’s company.

‘I just couldn’t handle the whole scene, so I went out and got blind, roaring drunk.’

But when married life got a little too real for Hunt, he set his wife up with British actor Richard Burton who offered to take Suzy off his hands for the hefty sum of one million pounds.  As the article explains:

Hunt was delighted his wife had found Richard Burton. The two men immediately spoke on the telephone to arrange what they called the ‘transfer’ of Suzy.

Burton offered to pay Hunt’s divorce settlement to Suzy: $1 million. Burton couldn’t believe that Hunt was so casual about letting go of his beautiful wife.

Hunt simply said: ‘Relax, Richard. You’ve done me a wonderful turn by taking on the most alarming expense account in the country.’

Miller, effectively, had been sold to Burton by Hunt for $1 million and both were satisfied with the transaction.

For Hunt, it couldn’t have worked out better; he had got rid of the wife he never wanted and saved himself the divorce costs.

Take away: If you see someone in a three piece suit, chain smoking and cruising down the Las Vegas strip in a European sports car with a rakish glint his eye, it’s probably one of thousands of illegitimate children Hunt fathered over the course of his killin’ it filled life.

Thursday, November 11, 2010

Charlie Sheen

"I've got volumes on how not to behave. I've got more information now than a guy should have at my age."

What is killing it? When you write off the cost of trashing a hotel room, lose a $150,000 watch, and forget to pay the hooker you were just blowing more coke than Mick Fleetwood ever did in the 70’s with as just another night. Because it is: For Charlie Sheen. Charlie was such a prolific user of Heidi Fleiss' services that he had every single speed dial button on every phone in his house programmed to her number. McKinsey once used a night in the life of Charlie Sheen in order to research a study on the social benefits of legalizing hard drugs and prostitution. The McKinsey consultants were never seen again.

"The way I look at it, if you have expensive tastes, you gotta be prepared for expensive losses. If a guy has one bad night everybody goes insane and panics... I'm not panicking."

Charlie Sheen probably knew he was killin’ it when he’d wake up looking like Ronnie Wood after a two week bender circa Tattoo You, but when you're the one thing that cocaine, high class prostitutes and the best movie of all time (Hot Shots Part Deux) has in common, it's what you come to expect.  And such is the case for America’s favorite bon vivant, a man for whom Kobe beef doesn’t refer to an Asian delicacy, but slamming Kobe Bryant’s wife while he’s out of town playing the Chicago Bulls. Charlie Sheen's killin'-it lifestyle casts such a broad shadow, his brother was forced to change his name in an ill-conceived attempt to get out from under it only to find himself thrown aside by the booze and cocaine fueled train-wreck that is Charlie Sheen.

"Sure, I did a lot of things in excess. But if you look at the core, the foundation of what I pursued, what red-blooded young American male in my position wouldn't?" 

To prepare for Wall Street in true Brando fashion, Sheen researched his role by taking a high level position at Goldman Sachs, eventually taking over their Trading & Principal Investments unit, where if he wasn’t giving Jon Corzine a mind-blowingly massive wedgie he was probably cornering the pork bellies market in a way that would have made Sir John Templeton go into retirement at the height of his career. When Shia Labeouf was given Sheen's role in Wall Street II, Oliver Stone was forced to make Shia look like less of a bitch. One method? Put Shia on a strict regimen of indulgence, luxury and immoderation.

"I loved you in Wall Street!" 

If you ever find yourself in a town that looks like the Russian Army circa 1944 just passed through, chances are Charlie Sheen had probably been there within the last five years. Robert Downey Jr. tried to hang with Sheen in the mid nineties, a period of his life that nearly ended his career and left him addicted to hard drugs, eventually leading to his arrest for possession of heroin, cocaine and an unregistered .357 while hurtling down Sunset Blvd at a 120 per in a desperate attempt to abscond from Charlie’s realm of debauchery and over the top profligacy.  In the end Charlie got Robert's girlfriend and Robert got three years.

 "Slash sat me down at his house and said, ‘You've got to clean up your act.’ You know you've gone too far when Slash is saying, ‘Look, you've got to get into rehab.’"

Friday, October 15, 2010

Andreas Baader

"I'm such a sociopath they named a psychiatric disorder after me." 

If you're a high school dropout with a badass streak and some time to burn, what the fuck else is there to do but kill it? That's what Andreas Baader probably asked himself as he roared down a backcountry road in a stolen Porsche with a handful of some beer frau's hair in his fist and a glint of a crazy in his eye.  When Jean-Paul Sartre went to visit him in Stammheim prison he summed up this would be revolutionary leader in two words: “Quel con.”

“What a fucking bourgeois question! We’ll just do it, or we’ll die trying.”

Andreas Baader was born bad, but a botched brain operation probably helped, too. With a propensity for stealing cars, unloading guns, and a magnetism that 1971 Mick Jagger would be awed by, Baader literally tore apart German society, leaving a string of bowlegged and jaded activist chicks and dead bodies in his wake. He bombed a department store just to make statement, then in an audacious act of killin' it got a bunch of groupies to break him out of prison shortly after.

Baader brought his clique to Jordan to kick it with some Arab militants and shoot guns in the desert, but was so busy cavorting with his numerous sycophantic acolytes and expelling half-baked political maxims that the Arabs kicked him out. Not to be crossed, a few years later Baader got some of his more extreme comrades from Palestine to hijack a jet – a stunt that got them all killed. Lesson: When Andreas Baader is balls deep in the desert, you can either put out or shut up.

Whether it was robbing banks, or convincing some chick to rob a bank for him, Baader was distilling political theory to its purest form that can basically be summed up with: "Man was made to kill it and this thing isn’t gonna suck itself."  When German authorities threw him in the slammer his group of coddled, idiot upper-middle-class-suburban-punks-turned-RAF-urban-guerilla-devotees immediately went on a streak of high level political assassinations culminating in the storming of the German embassy in Stockholm.

"Okay, write some bullshit like that. The radical left-wing jerk-offs love that shit."

Baader eventually was forced into runnin' things behind bars, during which time he got lawyers to smuggle in weapons and got other floozies to do crime for him - just by calling them. He also got his bighouse women to turn on another woman until she killed herself, basically inventing Facebook bullying but way more audaciously. All the while he made a complete mockery of the German justice system, reading some crazy diatribes while pissing in the middle of the court and turning in circles.

In the end Andreas Baader went out by his own hand, his last words being: "Isolation is torture; especially when you’ve spent the last twenty years totally killin' it.

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

Bruce Springsteen

"He was the Boss then, and he's the Boss now."

They call Bruce Springsteen the Boss because he’s been running the killin’ it game for the last four decades.  In fact, he killed it so hard that Bob Dylan never actually got into a horrific motorcycle accident in 1966 - he just heard Springsteen play a set at a coffee shop in Asbury Park and realized it was his time to retire from public life for the next eight years and try to recreate himself.  If Bruce isn’t doing a fundraiser for the most liberal of politicians, he and the Big Man are probably slamming shots of Hypnotiq with Miami Steve and then hitting up the best clubs in New York where the booze, drugs, and women all come free.

“Poor men wanna be rich, rich men wanna be kings, and a king ain’t satisfied till he's killin' it harder than Bruce fuckin' Springsteen.”

The boss keeps it real on a huge farm in New Jersey. Far from the prying eyes of the paparazzi, he hosts parties that make Eyes Wide Shut look like Dora The Explorer. He married a groupie who obviously knows the score: Bruce does what he wants. If it's not a dinner party with the leading minds of the day, it's sending Billy Joel pictures of what Bruce did to Billy Joel's girlfriend last weekend.  

Bruce Springsteen's music videos are the equivalent of wild game trophies hunters mount in their study, but for Bruce they commemorate the hot babes he slammed on his long run down the road of his wildly successful career.  Young Courtney Cox? Check.  Princess Charlotte of Monaco? Check.  And the videos of what the he and the E Street Band Did after the video shoots? Well, that's just what we call killin' it.

People often forget Springsteen’s exploits outside of his luminary songwriting abilities; he’s slept with more women than Paul Stanley, he tea bagged the entire country during his Super Bowl set, and he actually has more money than Carlos Slim.  But Bruce also has a soft spot. He's been known to adopt abandoned tigers and impart on them the skills to survive in the wild. Bruce learned these traits when he commanded a vast pride and ran the Serengeti in the late 80s. Throughout his career, Springsteen killed it so hard he doesn’t even remember making the 1995 album The Ghost of Tom Joad and while he may have been born to run, these days he's killin' it so hard he gets around in a '71 Cutlass Supreme or his Gulf Stream 4.

"Fuck you, Paul Stanley - I'm the star child.

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

Jimmy McNulty

"He was the black sheep, a permanent pariah. He asked no quarter of the bosses and none was given. He learned no lessons; he acknowledged no mistakes; he was as stubborn a Mick as ever stumbled out of the Northeast parish just to take up a patrolman's shield. He brooked no authority. He did what he wanted to do and he said what he wanted to say…”

If Detective Jimmy McNulty isn’t getting too drunk to put together a child’s bed frame from Ikea or weaving an elaborate plot to deceive the entire city of Baltimore into thinking there is a serial killer on the loose in order to get more public funds for the police department, he’s probably banging a state’s attorney or driving his car into pylon and then going home with a waitress from some local dive just like Warren Zevon taught him to do.  For Jimmy, hair of the dog has no meaning because he hit the dog backing out from the bar and taught Shane MacGowan everything he knows about drinking. Accordingly the FBI labeled him as “a high functioning alcoholic” in their profile of him. High functioning is right - it takes gallons to give him whiskey dick.

“It’s like I'm just a breathing machine for my fucking dick.”

When McNulty takes a woman in, he is like a hurricane hitting a trailer park: He tears it up, he flings it wherever he wants, and then he puts it down miles from where he found it, in a state of utter chaos. With two kids and a vengeful ex-wife, it’s no surprise that McNulty has to throw down Trump change on alimony and child support. He slams women faster than shots of Jameson and if he isn’t doing it in his car, he is doing it with a married woman on his car, because it’s his night with the kids and he doesn’t want to wake them up. His method is simple and predictable, yet entirely irresistible: A) Find woman. B) Pretend that he is cleaning up his life. C) Get woman to take him in. D) Revert to doing exactly what he was doing before he met the woman, but way, way harder. E) Find another woman.

“You don't look at what you did before, you do the same shit all over.”

Soaked in Jameson and cloaked in defiance, Detective Jimmy McNulty clearly doesn't care what anybody thinks. He alone looms larger than either the George Washington Monument or the one-eyed Natty Bo sign that glows eerily through the crime-filled Baltimore night, alternately scowling with disdain at any and all authority figures, or grinning in delight as he staggers from the ruins of another woman’s life. He is a hell of a cop, a renowned hellion, and he is killin’ it night and day. 

“You play in dirt, you get dirty.”

Monday, October 11, 2010

This week in the world of killin’ it.

A 21-hundred gun salute for Bill Norton: William Norton, Writer Wilder Than His Movies, Is Dead at 85New York Times
The killin’ it world lost an important player this week with the passing of William Norton, a screenplay writer most famous for his 1968 masterpiece ‘The Scalphunters,’ and gun runner for only the most leftist, cocaine-fueled Central American communist revolutionary groups. Whether it was fathering children while he was still in high school and then enlisting in the army when that got a little too real and fighting in Europe during WWII or running guns in Central America for revolutionary groups on his spare time and then coming home to pen the script for another cinematic masterpiece starring Burt Reynolds, Norton always stayed on top of his killin’ it game.  And Norton didn’t stop killin’ it when he got out of the movie business, he just upgraded by moving to Europe and running guns for the IRA until he was eventually arrested by French authorities for being such a boss – he was in possession of two submachine guns, 12 rifles, 23 revolvers and more than 2,000 rounds of ammunition at the time.  Not to be deterred, Norton made it back over to the Western Hemisphere via the labyrinth of Central American communist revolutionary groups he had cultivated relations with earlier in his life and settled  himself in Managua until he killed a thief that had broken into his house at which point he decided to smuggle himself back into the States, which is just a day in the life – if you piss excellence and spend your time totally killin' it.

“I don’t think your I.Q. is low enough for you to be familiar with my work.”

In the race to fill the rather large boots left behind by the longest serving U.S. Senator as well as former KKK member and Civil War veteran, Robert Byrd, West Virginia Gov. Joe Manchin is coming out swinging – not at his opponent, Republican John Raese, but fellow democrat, President Obama.  After accusing the commander in chief of being “dead wrong,” on his cap and trade climate legislation, the mountain state governor is backing up the claim with an ad that features him loading a rifle and then shooting a bullet  right through the cap and trade bill passed by the House last summer.

“I’ll take on Washington and this administration… I sued the E.P.A.”

If Manchin wins I imagine his term will be something like Mr. Smith Goes to Washington only completely different, because instead of a well meaning boy-scout troop leader, it stars a veteran killer most known for shutting down the Greenbrier for three weeks straight every time he feels like having a party.

Twitter promotes Dick Costolo to CEOSan Francisco Chronicle
Former stand-up comic and Chief Operating Officer for Twitter, Dick Costollo, will be sitting down at the captain’s seat for the micro-blogging site from now on, but what makes this move a real killer is that one year ago, when Costollo joined the company, he tweeted the following, "First full day as Twitter COO tomorrow. Task #1: undermine CEO, consolidate power." Apparently, Twitter founder Evan Williams didn’t know that’s what happens when you bring someone on board that spends their entire shore leave killin’ it at the most debauched and lascivious Shanghai massage parlors.

People that aren’t killin it.

Hopefully she was hot, but either way this guy is totally whipped and definitely not killin’ it.HopeH

Friday, October 8, 2010

Vladimir Putin

"Russia's modern foreign policy is based on the principles of pragmatism, predictability and the supremacy of killin' it harder than a horny Don Cossack."

When Vladimir Putin pulls his dick out to take a piss it casts a shadow over all of Eastern Europe.  His license to kill it doesn’t expire until 2061 and when he’s not telling the entire Russian Duma what to do, he’s probably out at the most exclusive nightclubs in Moscow or St. Petersburg slamming shots of the finest Russian Vodka spiked with the best Caspian beluga caviar in a way that makes Boris Yeltsin look like he spent his entire term in an AA meeting.  He derives his name from his illustrious ancestor, Vlad the Impaler, who was responsible for tastefully decorating a field with over 30,000 soldiers impaled on pikes and was also the origin of the Count Dracula myth.

"I have given all I could to this work. I am happy with the results."

You could say Putin’s ability to consolidate power domestically is comparable to Stalin’s – if Stalin had spent his 12 year reign railing adderall and working 32 hours a day.  His tactics range from ensnaring political rivals in elaborate honey traps using a string of Ukrainian-models-turned-FSB-agents - all of whom he dated in early nineties, then blackmailing them into subservience with the evidence of their sexual perversions, assassinating journalists that write about him with anything other than beaming accolades and then blaming their deaths on a group of right-wing-neo-nazi-ultra-nationalists, or framing powerful oligarchs for various financial crimes and then sending them to the gulags in Eastern Siberia while he siphons their entire business empire’s assets into his own personal Swiss bank account and slams their wife.  

"We shall fight against them, throw them in prisons and destroy them."

When the KGB posted him to Dresden, young Vlad had but one mission: Kill it so hard that the bombings that still scarred the city looked humane. If he wasn't smuggling spies in the trunk of his pimped-out Trabant (License Plate Number: KLLRVLD) he was enjoying a bracing judo match with Marcus Wolf. Putin put two things first: Killin' it, and the Motherland. He didn't need to spill Kirschwasser to make some East German strumpet give up her body and her secrets – his icy stare was so intense a chick didn't know if she just pissed herself or came, but either way she was telling him where the illegal printing press was.  After rising to the top of the FSB (the new KGB), Putin exploited the conflict in the Caucuses to launch his wildly successful political career and doesn’t seem to mind that his throne is literally doused in blood.

"You must obey the law, always, not only when they grab you by your special place."

Putin’s version of crony capitalism would have made Lenin immediately go out and buy the finest Armani suit he could find and then start day trading in commodity futures and foreign currencies.  Despite having women thrown at him literally everywhere he goes, being such a boss leaves little time for chasing skirt, so when Putin needs to bust a nut he usually has his placeholder, President Dmitry Medvedev, give him a blowie.  Otherwise he’s sitting in on a private performance by Russia’s most beautiful, nubile, and rhythmic gymnast, Alina Kabaeva – a la JFK and Marilyn Monroe, but rumor has it he may actually dump his wife and make this one official.  

“I’m Russia’s answer to James Bond.”

Vladimir parties with the cream of the dictator crop, who – when they aren’t carrying out his will, are busy shopping the illegal exotic animals markets for a suitable gift to present him. Tigers are his favorite. And if he isn't invading a satellite state or signing off on some light genocide from his self-appointed strong arm governor of Chechnya, he is chopping it up with Hugo Chavez. From inking contracts for nuclear enrichment tools for Iran to selling advanced weapons systems to Syria, Putin insists on staying true to the Motherland, which is as good as staying true to his killin'-it self, because "L'etat, c'est moi" isn't just his motto; it's his moral code. You can feel the power of the state emanating from just about everything he's touched. 

"I don't read books by people who have betrayed the Motherland."

Putin’s life is like a Russian novel, except instead of a thousand pages of excruciatingly drawn out character development that inevitably results in a disappointing and depressing denouement, it’s like Tolstoy wrote a novel just about Levin and Stiva going to all night raves at St. Basil’s and then slamming the hottest babes at a private gentleman's club, surrounded by cage dancers and tigers that can do ballet.

Putin’s water bed is filled with the blood of Siberian tigers.

“Fuck you, Peter Fonda - I'm killin' it."