It was December 31, 1967. As an insane publicity stunt, Evel Knievel had the gall and balls to attempt to jump a heavy Harley over the expanse Caesar’s Palace fountains. After losing a $100 roulette bet and downing a shot of whiskey, Evel Knievel got on his motorcycle, ran a few laps around the large ramps and packed audience until finally revving up and taking off.
His slow-motion crash landing is stuff of legend. Flipping backwards over the handlebars, he smacked the pavement so hard, it split his pelvis in pieces. Like a rag doll, Knievel rolled over and over; his jumpsuit becoming a bag of bones and twisted organs. He only came to rest when finally impacting the cement wall that circled the parking lot.
He was in a coma for a month. When he woke up, he was an American hero. He went on to sell millions of stunt cycle toys and he was a huge hit on ABCs Wide World of Sports. Evel was an outspoken critic about recreational drugs, yet behind the scenes he was a raging alcoholic and infamous womanizer. Still, he was fair—even if he knew he wasn’t going to make a jump, he was going to damn well try anyway because folks spent their hard-earned money to see him risk death.
You wouldn’t see riders flipping light dirt bikes on Extreme Games if not for Robert Craig ‘Evel’ Knievel. My heart goes out to the Knievel family. Imagine the immense escalating tension that family must’ve felt before each gut-wrenching jump year after year. Did I mention Knievel wrote gold-plated checks? That way, no one would cash them. They’d be souvenirs. Which doubled in value today.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Posted by Feo Mateo at 8:32 PM
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
The following handwritten letter was discovered this evening crumpled up on the windswept grounds of McKinley Hall:
I had a big problem doing laundry after eating a greasy, but delicious family bucket of KFC. Who knew it’s a bad idea to replace fabric softener with a powerful stool softener? Real shame too because when I decided to wash your favorite goose down comforter I apparently mixed up the directions. On the bright side, my colon is doing just fantastic. And wouldn’t you know it, but when I washed your sheets the same thing happened again. Sorry. Gotta say my ass feels so great, that when I walk it feels like I’m totally sitting on a couch. Did I mention I’ve got a good read on catching some hot black market Tom Brady sperm? I’m freezing those puppies until I’m ready for my patriot act.
I’m also redecorating my vag with shorter meat curtains,
Song of the Day:
Pittsburgh Slim, “Girls Kiss Girls”
Posted by Feo Mateo at 9:52 PM
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Friday, November 09, 2007
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
He’s a jet setting fashion photographer that gets paid a ludicrous amount of money to travel the world taking pictures of the hottest chicks in the latest designer outfits. Maybe because he wears fitted denim, the Paco Camino Man has an endless stream of horny models begging to crash with him after the shoot. Perhaps it’s the intriguing designer knit ascot, wide-collared psychedelic print rayon shirt, or the wild stallion belt buckle, but the Paco Camino man always seems to capture the all-important money shot under deadline. Totally in danger of spontaneously combusting from a Spinal Tap-type coolness, legend would have it that he’s obviously hung like his estranged uncle who still travels the country in the sweetest custom van ever. “Ass, grass, or gas, no one rides for free.” Words to live by indeed, Paco Camino Man.
Posted by Feo Mateo at 10:22 PM
Monday, November 05, 2007
The following handwritten letter was recently discovered on the leaf-strewn marble steps of McKinley Hall:
Is it possible to walk, chew gum, burp, fart and sneeze at the same time? How about taking out sticky contact lenses after a week of binge drinking while sitting on the john trying in vain to squelch a case of uncontrollable taco bell shits all the while hiccupping every sixteen seconds? Hey, I suppose since you installed motion detectors in your room and unpickable locks on your dresser, that you probably don’t want me rifling through your underwear drawer anymore high on PCP. I get it. That’s cool. I’m voting for Hillary next year—how awesome would first husband George be throwing late-night P-Funk parties at the White House?
Is there any way to tell if you’ve accidentally peeled off your corneas?
Song of the Day:
Peanut Butter Wolf, “Umbrellas”
Posted by Feo Mateo at 11:20 PM