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You know Ghostface Killer is my dad, right? I mean he's going to be my dad. Some day. All I need is five minutes of his time to work it out and I'm sure I could convince him to be my big poppa.
Κείμενο Chris Nieratko

Strictly BusniASS



Dir: Seymore Butts

Rating: 10

You know Ghostface Killer is my dad, right? I mean he's going to be my dad. Some day. All I need is five minutes of his time to work it out and I'm sure I could convince him to be my big poppa. I'm not looking for a handout or anything, I just never had a dada and I want to be able to tell people, like I am now, that I'm Killer's kid. I say "Killer" and not "Killah" because I'm white, but that's fine. Ghost isn't into semantics. He's about love. I just read this article that said he plans on opening a school in South Africa. His reason was, he went over there and saw all the kids that lost their parents because of AIDS/HIV and he wants to give back. Isn't that great? I mean, sure it would make sense to build a hospital, but fuck it. A school is cool, too. Kids can, you know, learn about shit, like how to spell A-I-D-S. And spelling is half the battle. Did I ever tell you about the time I thought I had AIDS? That was fucked up. I'm not going to get into it, because if my dad is reading this he might get pissed and take away my car. Do you think Ghost would let me drive one of his cars if I were his son? Like on a date, not on some "drive me to the store, white devil" shit. I hope so, because I don't have a car and I could really use one. There are a few other things that I don't have that I'd like to mention, since my birthday is coming up and Ghost/dad may be wondering what to get me. First, a bulletproof wallet. I have no money, nor do I get shot at frequently, but at the moment I'm using a rubber band to hold my cash together, so I think a wallet of this nature would be both an affordable and useful gift. Also, at last glance, I don't have any fur coats in my closet. No pink chinchilla, no powder-blue fox, no mustard rabbit. So, dad, if you're thinking fur, I'd be happy with anything, even one of your old coats. I wouldn't even care if there were blunt burnholes or Hennessey stains on it. I mean, it's the thought that counts. And if you're thinking Wallabies, I'm a size nine. I like the purple ones you dyed with Raekwon, but I don't know if we're the same size. But, oh my god! Can you imagine if we are the same size? Like in everything––pants, tops, shoes, hats, the whole kit. How cute would it be if we had matching father-and-son outfits and we went to the park and you pushed me on the swing? If I fell, would you kiss my Betty Boo bump? This is the type of stuff I daydream about––you and me going to the circus, feeding the orangutans at the zoo. Does your driver's license say Ghostface Killer? I want mine to say Chrisface Killer. How does it work? Would Method Man be my uncle? Some people do that, you know, call people who aren't even related to them their uncle. Isn't that the stupidest thing you ever heard, dad?


Eye of Desire

Dir: Nic Cramer

Rating: 9

My princess, Christina Aguilera look-alike, and cover girl Krystal Steal is "shy, prissy, and inexperienced. On a dare she visits an eccentric and weird hypnotist in a seedy back-alley parlor where she falls under his power. She then begins a journey of sexual discovery where she explores her darkest and most erotic sex fantasies…" That's what the box cover says. Doesn't that sound delightful? And box covers don't lie; people lie. I lie perhaps more than anyone on this planet. See, right there, that was a lie. My lies are small potatoes. Do people still say "small potatoes"? I hope not. I don't think I like that term. Actually, with the new Anti-Carbohydrate Movement on the rise, I don't think I'm allowed to like potatoes, period—literally, metaphorically, or otherwise––for fear of being thrown into glutton's prison. The problem with that, and I'm nervous saying this, is I truly enjoy potatoes: mashed, candied, smashed, boiled, baked, fried…I harbor no ill will towards any of them. Yet in these crazy days of health awareness, potatoes are suddenly the new Nazis and we are told we must fight them on all fronts. Do you remember when eggs were evil? Then someone came out and said, on the contrary, they are actually good for you. Then it was, the egg whites are good for you but don't, for the love of god and all things holy, eat those delicious yellow yolks. Oh no! Unless you want to die instantly––then by all means, eat all the egg yolks you like. So I'm taking a stand with this whole potato thing, and I hope that you join me. I'm not going to turn my back on potatoes the way I did eggs, the way I did Helene, the girl everyone said gave herself an abortion in high school with a hanger, and the way I shunned creative facial hair. Instead, I'm going to eat more potatoes than ever. From here on out, I vow to eat no less than one dozen potatoes a day. Do you think that's too much? How much are potatoes? I'm out of work right now and can't really afford to shell out too much, so I'd hate to make a bold statement and then run into you on the street and have you ask me how many potatoes I ate that day and have me have to tell you, "None. I can't afford it." Or worse, have to put my comic book and porn collection into hock just to stick to my guns and eat potatoes. I think in this case, it's best if I don't go out on a limb and give any specific number of how many potatoes I'm going to eat, and just leave it at "a lot." I'll be eating a lot of potatoes from now on. There. And when all you little faggots realize that Helene is actually a nice girl and that no one could give herself an abortion with a hanger between classes and not be late for Bio, you'll come crawling back like you always do like, "What's up, Chris? How's it going, potatoes? You guys wanna go smoke a joint behind the cafeteria?" And maybe I'll tell you to fuck off. After we smoke your weed first, punk. Hey, potato! High five.