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."



Thursday, October 7, 2010

Scott Disick

“I didn’t invent killin’ it – I’ve just had a monopoly on it for the last three years.”


Scott Disick really jumped into the killin’ it game when his girlfriend’s sister was given top-billing in an unintentional but totally intentional skin flick.  Accordingly, she was rewarded with a reality show.  However it quickly became clear who the real star of the show was: older sister Kourtney’s awesome boyfriend Scott. Whether it was sending flirtatious texts to other women while he sat at the dinner table with his girlfriend's half-witted nuclear family, dressing in the most shameless suits, or partying for three weeks straight while she stayed home with their bastard child, Disick always aimed to kill. Even Vishnu would be hard-pressed to juggle all those broads, bottles, and babies at the same time.


Scott jumps from one business venture to another faster than he goes through women, but if you were Eskimo brothers with Harry Morton, Jim Morrison, and Morris Day you'd be distracted, too.  Despite being the patron of his fame, Scott doesn’t hesitate from publicly accusing his girlfriend's sister, Kim, of sleeping with the pool boy and being homeless and then spending her family’s money like a more profligate version Toni Braxton.  Scott also holds it down as lord of the manor.  When Kim tried to get Kourtney to give Scott the girlfriend experience about his nonstop-killin’-it lifestyle, Scott’s response was direct and to the point in a way that only Patrick Bateman could be; "If I'm a fucking murderer, wouldn't I be the wrong person to fuck with?"

You got that right: Scott is one eloquent man.  


"Hater's gonna hate."

Scott was clearly born to kill, and the Kardashians obviously need to get out of the way unless they’re ready to be swimming in his wake of decadence, debauchery and illegitimate offspring they’ll have to raise.  His approach to love and life truly reveals an inherent dichotomy within the nature of killin’ it: that the worse you treat a woman the more they love you.    But who can blame Kourtney?  Her husband kills it so hard that his lifestyle made Bacchus quit drinking, Eros give himself a penectomy, and Charles Bukowski blush in shame.






"That dichotomy between the public consumption of the work and my intent and practice in making it is an uneasy one for me, on occasion.  Otherwise, I just totally kill it.”


Wednesday, October 6, 2010

Lindsay Lohan

“I am a work in progress…”




Lindsay Lohan has been killin’ it so hard that it might as well be the last days of Rome.  Whether it’s getting high with your mom, going out to the finest clubs in LA with her entourage, slamming Jager bombs and then railing lines of coke off whichever cocktail waitress has the privilege to serve her VIP table, it’s hard to believe she finds time between getting awesome and getting totally fucking awesome to maintain some semblance of a career.  Lohan’s basically a less hairy, more slutty version of Janis Joplin that just does covers of Stevie Nicks, circa Bella Donna, and has been killin’ it ever since she was cast in the remake of the Parent Trap.


“I'm not going to deny the fact that I've tried pot. I hated it.”

Life for Lindsay is strictly above the law and her killin’ it game is so transcendent that it made Andrew W.K. go on the straight and narrow.  When it comes to throwing three sheets to the wind Lohan’s got it covered: Judge bans you from all drug and alcohol use? Makes you wear an ankle bracelet that detects drugs in your system?  No problem.  Lindsay didn't just do coke with the bracelet on – she made the bracelet do it with her. Too strung out to formulate a press response after your tenth relapse? Make your assistants tweet it for you while you come down on Jack & Cokes spiked with rufilin. Who gives a fuck about jail when Herbie: Fully Loaded is the only movie they let prisoners watch? 


“Where the fuck is my drink?”

If you can't find Lindsay in the county jail or in the smoking lounge of the classiest co-ed, sex positive rehab clinics, you'll probably find her behind the wheel of a stolen car, chasing some former assistant who probably tried to take an eight ball from her. She hangs out with the sluttiest D-listers and the gayest stylists Hollywood has to offer, all of whom throw rocks (of cocaine) at her in homage to her lifestyle, which is a female tableau vivant of Axl Rose's career circa Use Your Illusion II. 


“You know Paris, if I had been around when Aristotle was penning the Metaphysics, entelecheia would be defined as being-at-work-totally-killin’-it.  Wait, Britney, did you just finish all the blow?”




Tuesday, October 5, 2010

Warren Buffett


Killin’ it is like lead pipes: It is the rare soul who drinks deep from the reservoir of wisdom, accumulating the trophies but avoiding the degeneracy that follows. Warren Buffett is that rare soul – probably because he only drinks Coke poured from platinum fountains.

“I always knew I was going to be rich. I don't think I ever doubted it for a minute.”





When Warren Buffett jumped onto the killin’ scene, he did it by driving himself there in a sumptuous but understated Cadillac. Perplexed by the modesty, many didn’t notice the millions of dollars that flew into the streets as he drove by. That’s because Warren slams Cadillac doors at only the most private of airports, hopping on his jet, The Indefensible, to play some bridge with his main man Bill Gates.  Known to pound a Cherry Coke and eat a box of See’s while lounging on his NetJet- he is the largest investor in one, and the owner of the others – Warren kills it in such a rarified way he makes Larry Ellison feel poor and gives wedgies to Mike Bloomberg if he even tries to hang.  He’s called the Oracle of Omaha, and that’s fitting because he bought Berkshire Hathaway in the sixties portending the time he slammed Anne Hathaway at a retreat in the Berkshires in 2006

As he said then: “A girl in a convertible is worth five in the phonebook.”


“Now you’re my prisoner of love, Susan Lucci.”



“I buy expensive suits. They just look cheap on me.” Warren isn’t just about his money. He is about keeping it real, which means running Omaha in a major way. If he isn’t personally checking the 85,000 carats worth of diamonds at his jewelry shop, Borsheim’s, he is probably disowning some recalcitrant family member who insults his intelligence by offering anything other than billion-dollar ideas. He’s devoted a huge chunk of his fortune to helping others because he knows what happens when you hand down money along with killer genes: Justin Murdock. As he said, “Someone's sitting in the shade today because someone planted a tree a long time ago.” Translation: Suck it, kids – old people are fucking killin’ it. 

In his younger days he kept a harem befitting a man of such refinement: His wife hooked him up with his girlfriend, but he kept his wife on board just for decorum’s sake. With Buffett killin’ it is so sophisticated, it’s little wonder mere millionaires make him feel like he just stumbled into a bazaar in Kampala.


“You know, Ludacris, I really didn’t ‘get’ Crash.”

“Risk comes from not knowing what you're doing.” Warren Buffett speaks killin’ it, and he tries to convey his skills to the thousands of mortals who gather at his shareholders conference every year to hear him drop wisdom. His game is so deep you have to own a Class A share (current value: $123,186) to even begin to comprehend it, but he’ll let peons give it a try at $82 a pop for some Class B action. Either way, science has proven just one trip to Omaha imparts as much game as four Pete Doherty shows. His number one trait: Be competent. Number two: Have pockets so heavy you risk breaking your foot every time you drop your pants. Number three: When you wave your dick at Carlos Slim, remember that chupar means blow me, in Spanish.


“I found the women in South Beach to be rather distasteful, LeBron.”


Monday, October 4, 2010

Mike Tyson

“My style is impetuous. My defense is impregnable, and I'm just ferocious. I want your heart. I want to eat his children. Praise be to Allah!”



Mike Tyson: Undisputed heavy weight champion of the world and warrior poet for all times. His golden tongue and anvil like fists indiscriminately devastated men, women, and animals alike. He once sparred with a silverback gorilla just to prove evolution was moving forward. He had to pay $4,000 a month in tiger support – he never missed a payment. Iron Mike is a man of contradictions, controversy, and killin' it.  In just one decade he unified the belts and expanded his rap sheet from petty theft to a full-on rape conviction.  And for all would be pretenders to his title he brought one simple message; “You aint man enough… I’ll fuck you till you love me, faggot.”


“One day I'm in a dope house robbing somebody. The next thing I know, ‘You're the heavyweight champion of the world.’”

He once knocked out an opponent in eight seconds.  He truly was a god in the ring – as he explains in his own words; “My power is discombobulatingly devastating… It's ludicrous these mortals even attempt to enter my realm.”  His days were comprised of sleeping on a pile of money with the most beautiful women, training by cage fighting with a Siberian tiger, eating the hearts of his enemies, hanging out with his brother in law, Michael Steele, and then standing in front of his bathroom mirror trying on his various title belts while blasting Glenn Fry’s “You Belong to the City” as loud as his $135,000 stereo system could play it.


“I'm the biggest fighter in the history of the sport. If you don't believe it, check the cash register.”

But to simply cover Mike’s prowess in the world of boxing would be to deprive the annals of killin’ it from some of its finest material. Tyson was not merely dynamite in the ring; he was also a dynamo in the sack.  A ladies man through and through, his dedication to killin’ it with the fairer sex was a defining aspect of his character; “I think it's un-American not to go out with a woman, not to be with a beautiful woman, not to get my dick sucked.”  Yet, in the pursuit of such pleasures Mike never seemed to lose his sense of propriety.  Take for example his exchange with a female reporter: “I normally don't do interviews with women unless I fornicate with them. So you shouldn't talk anymore... Unless you want to, you know.”


“I can sell out Madison Square Garden masturbating.”

In the end, Tyson is a man that has lived, loved, and lost.  Despite having been worth $400 million at times and fathering at least seven children, Mike often finds himself alone and in debt, but he doesn’t let that get him down and is still totally killin’ it.  Whether it’s cruising around in one of his Rolls Royces, wining and dining the most beautiful and intelligent women, or taking out multi-million dollar lines of credit for the construction of another sumptuous and tastefully furnished pleasure palace fitted with hot tub waterfalls, heated extra-large circular waterbeds, bathrooms entirely incased in gold, or cages for the most exotic animals, Mike Tyson is still clearly on top of his killin’ it game.


“I sacrificed so much of my life, can I at least get laid? I mean, I been robbed of my most of my money, can I at least get a blow job?”

Kill it on twitter: http://twitter.com/PeopleKillinIt

Sunday, October 3, 2010

This week in the world of killin’ it.

Justin Murdoch, heir to the Dole pineapple empire, is back again after a stint spent slamming Avril Lavigne.  Murdoch first cut his teeth in the killin’ game by getting into a bar room brawl with oil heir Brandon “Greasy Bear” Davis a few years ago, and has really stepped it up since.  A suit filled by Carissa Schumacher, a former employee of Murdoch, alleges that among other things the pineapple heir, “Forced her to open a Facebook account for him under the name ‘Cobra McJingleballs’ …  Demanded she buy flights and hotel rooms for young ‘interns’ he planned to feature in ads for NovaRx… [and] Defined her job as being ‘under my desk sucking my dick.’” We’re guessing she’s probably just upset he stopped sleeping with her.  For us the verdict is clear: definitely guilty of killin’ it.


"Guilty to all charges, your honor."

The title of this article pretty much says it all.  But the details are that Goldman Sachs Director, Rick Kimball – basically a real life Patrick Bateman on PCP, is being kicked out of his apartment building after hosting a series of nude parties and “Numerous video tapes of him getting it on in the elevators and countless all night raves with flowing champagne and scantily clad nymphs, often on work nights.”  Killers have no time for contrition, so Kimball is accordingly planning a blowout naked Halloween party. They don’t know it yet, but his neighbors are definitely going to miss him when he’s gone.


“You'll have to excuse me, I have a lunch meeting with Cliff Huxtable at the Four Seasons in 20 minutes.”

Sometimes there’s a price that comes with killin’ it and it looks like New York property developer, Tevfik Arif, is going to have to pay that price.  The international killin’ it superstar had his mega-yacht raided by local authorities with helicopters in the Med off the coast of Turkey on the grounds that Arif was running a $10,000 a night prostitution ring off of his boat.  His guests/clients were caught en flagrante delicto,which is about right when you’re killin’ it on the high seas. 


“Haters gonna hate.”


When killin’ it kills you.

I don’t think this needs much explanation, but Jimi Heselden – coal-miner-turned-inventor-turned-owner-of-Segway and basically the apotheosis of the coolest grandfather some little shit with zits could ever have, was obviously out on his off-road segway, probably working on some new awesome tricks that we’ll never get to know about, died when he tried to jump his segway across a gorge.  R.I.P. killer.


Jure Robic is essentially the Mike Tyson of endurance bicycling.  He rode across the entire United States, approximately 3,000 miles, in nine days, all the while attacking mailboxes along the way or fleeing form hordes of mujahedeen riding black horses – depending on how badly he was hallucinating due to exhaustion.  Unfortunately, Jure’s killin’ it lifestyle came to an abrupt stop this week when plowed head-on into an ’83 Peugeot while bombing down a mountain road in Slovenia.  Hopefully Jure’s now killin’ it from the sky.


Killin' it.

Friday, October 1, 2010

King Henry VIII

“It’s good to be king.”


Henry VIII has, for good reason, often been called the grandfather of killin’ it.  He measured his dick in cubits and his women by the score.  His excesses made King Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette cry in shame until the entire French monarchy was overthrown by a rabble of common peasants.  With more than fifty palaces adorned with over 2,000 tapestries, Henry burned through money faster than Dirk Diggler on crack and the only thing rising higher than inflation during his reign was his level on the killin’ it scale.


The term primae noctis was Henry’s modus operandi. His dedication to killing it was so strong he literally converted an entire nation just so he could bang out some provincial tease. He tilted his mighty lance at commoners and courtesans alike, spilling wine from his jeweled chalice all the while. He would have felt right at home in the bacchanals of ancient Rome or the best clubs in LA.  A prolific writer and composer, he was known to drop a poem on a wench as quick as he was to drop a wench from his fur-lined harem. His shit was the best and he didn’t have time to waste it on some comely lass trying to give him the girlfriend experience. His blood oath to killin' it was so paramount that he sent two non-consecutive wives to the executioner’s block.


Saying something trite like "a normal day for Henry VIII" would belie how much this luminary iconoclast advanced killin' it from its dark ages conception. With the blood (usually of a close adviser or papal envoy) covering him from head to toe you might wonder how he slept: he didn’t. Wading nude into a room balls deep in nubile young ladies-in-waiting and then rolling around with them in a sea of plush silk and velvet bedding while servants dressed as Egyptian eunuchs sprinkled rose petals on them and minstrels laid down the latest hit by Palestrina was about par for the course on an average morning.


After the nocturnal sating of his passions, he would don the finest mantle and cover himself in jewels so glimmering they would make Liberace feel like a square. After an invigorating game of tennis or penning a bellicose missive to one of his many haters, he would give thought to contemporary political philosophy while visiting the apartments of one of the finer ladies of England, accompanied by a lutist plucking a lusty soundtrack. After venting his rage at the lady for failing to provide him with a male heir in front her cuckold husband he would go off to joust and then hunt boar with the Duke of Suffolk and after that party for two fortnights straight.


Royal families have a way of making either pedigreed killers or bona fide half-wits who wouldn't know killin' it if it was the only thing at the banquet table. While the Monegasque lay claim to an unbroken line, Henry VIII's descendants have the highest standard of killin' being held over their head. This weighs heavy, like a full suit of crotchless armor. But Henry VIII knew that the weightiest crown is nothing to the bon vivant who kills it the hardest.


“You have sent me a Flanders mare!”