Patrick Swayze loved horses. I mean REALLY loved horses.

He was many people. Johnny Castle. Darrel Curtis. Ore Maine. Truman Gates. He was Dalton. He was Bodhi, too. And he was even that dude who came back from the dead in the middle of a pottery class to rape that other dude who looked like Demi Moore.

Patrick Swayze taught us a lot of things. He taught us how to kill gooks in Uncommon Valor and he taught us how to do a proper Hokey-Pokey in Skatetown U.S.A. and he taught us how to haze a new teammate by shaving his balls (wait – what?) in Youngblood.

Patrick Swayze taught us to love.

But most importantly, he taught us that when you’re in a fistfight and your opponent chides, “I used to rape guys like you in prison,” the only acceptable comeback is to rip out his throat and reverse roundhouse kick his still-standing corpse into the river.

Thank you Patrick Swayze, for teaching us the simple things.

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A lot of you sodomites out in Hollywood probably don’t know it, but I’m kind of a big deal. I’m the Reverend Jesse Custer, and my true life story’s so bad ass that a couple’a nancy Irishmen turned it into a comic called PREACHER. Just a few of the awesome things I’ve done:

• Lived in Texas
• Killed God
• Carved a man’s head into the shape of a penis
• Beaten a vampire half to death outside of the Alamo
• Had conversations with John Wayne even though he’s dead
• Made a sheriff fuck his own ass with his own penis
• Been the sex slave of a big-tittied Nazi dominatrix
• Drank a beer with Bill Hicks
• Murdered my grandmother by setting her oxygen tank on fire
• Lost an eyeball and grown a new one
• Stole Ferraris
• Survived a nuclear blast (and not by hiding in some pussy fridge, either)
• Made love to a woman

I’m a fairly interesting fella. So I had a pretty big crisis of faith when Garth Ennis and Steve Dillon (the nancy Irishmen I was just talking about) told me they’d sold the rights of my story to Mark Steven Johnson, the same ass-master who wrecked Daredevil and Ghost Rider. MSJ doesn’t know whether he’s shitting or riding horseback. What kinda dipshit casts a frat boy date rapist like Ben Affleck and thinks, “Yeah, that’s the star who’s gonna take this character to the next level.” When I watch that movie, every time Daredevil’s alone with Elektra I’m scared he’ll rape her. You just know Affleck’s hiding roofies in Daredevil’s retard cane. And the only reason I wanna see Nic Cage play Ghost Rider is on the off chance he gets really method and sets his face on fire. I figured MSJ would get some weak sister to play me like Hugh Grant. Or Oprah Winfrey.

Plus, taking my story to HBO didn’t sweeten the pot for me a bit. Maybe five years ago when they were doing shit with teeth like The Sopranos and Oz. But now that place is run by nothing but ugly dykes (redundant, I know) who think the Mormon version of The Waltons is cutting edge. I heard they were even rerunning WKRP in Cincinnati, and I hate to say it, but outside of Loni Anderson’s tits, that show didn’t exactly stand the test of time. So I was happier than a pedophile in a petting zoo when I heard that Sue Naegle, the new dyke in charge, had dropped PREACHER from its development slate. Tickles me pinker than a commie eating a rare steak. Said garbage director MSJ about his inability to get a bankable property like my kick ass life story past the budgeting stage even after a (s)hit movie like Ghost Rider:

“The new head of HBO felt it was just too dark and too violent and too controversial. Which of course is kind of the point. It was a very faithful adaptation of the first few books, nearly word for word. They offered me the chance to redevelop it but I refused. I’ve learned my lesson on that front and I won’t do it again. So I’m afraid it’s dead at HBO.”

Much of a preacher’s job is deciphering the hidden meaning behind cryptic text, so allow me to apply my skills to this horseshit statement and provide a line by line translation.

“The new head of HBO felt it was just too dark and too violent and too controversial.” When Ms. Naegle finally pulled her face out of the unshaven twat of some 50 year old GLAAD rep long enough to read her dyke assistant’s one page treatment on the three page coverage some dyke reader had done months ago, she decided the material wasn’t within the boundaries of safe controversy like dudes ass-fucking each other.

“Which of course is kind of the point.” Once again this mouth breather proves he has a better grasp on his dick than on the story he’s trying to tell. I didn’t storm the gates of heaven, assassinate the heavenly host and put a Colt Peacemaker round through God’s head just for the sake of giving you a dark, violent or controversial story to tell. I did it to free humanity from the shackles of oppression. Can I get an amen?

“It was a very faithful adaptation of the first few books, nearly word for word.” MSJ borrowed the original script for the comic and stenciled his name over ‘Garth Ennis.’

“They offered me the chance to redevelop it but I refused.” They told him to get the fuck out of their offices and never come back. They wouldn’t even let him take the bottle of Fiji that the receptionist gave him.

“I’ve learned my lesson on that front and I won’t do it again.” MSJ just signed up for creative writing classes at Santa Monica College and doesn’t feel comfortable rewriting a script until he gets his trade degree.

“So I’m afraid it’s dead at HBO.” He was afraid of having to shoot thirteen hours of film in nine months when he’s used to squeezing out two hours worth of film over a period of five years. That was a close call, huh Mark? Good thing Sue didn’t call your bluff, or you’d really be fucked now.

Clears everything up, don’t it? I’m just glad it all worked out in the end. MSJ is off the project and can go back to making leather bondage flicks with Affleck. HBO botched the pass, and hopefully Showtime will make the key interception. I’d love to see the underdog network with Dexter, Weeds and Californication knock those pompous dykes at HBO off their Sybians like the Giants blindsided those Patriot pricks in the Superbowl last year. But if Showtime’s gonna tell my story, they can’t just jump on the bandwagon of whichever funnybook faggot made the most at the box office last year. If they want to tell the story of the man who lived through hell to track down the king of heaven, they gotta get the right man. There ain’t but one hombre in the world with the balls to tell my story proper, and he ain’t got three names like some President-killing sonuvabitch.

Ronnie Pudding, where are you?

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Julius who?

Oh, you mean Sho’Nuff. Why didn’t you say so in the first place, asshole?

Julius Carry, who went on to smaller and shittier things like The Hughleys, Jag and pancreatic cancer, made an irremovable mark upon cinema with his fantastic portrayal of the Shogun of Harlem. Would we even remember Bruce Leroy without the converse he was forced to kiss? Could good exist without evil? Would we appreciate peace without war? And why does pancreatic cancer always get the coolest people? It smoked Bill Hicks, high-kicked Sho’Nuff and threatens to surf all over Patrick Swayze’s toned ass. Man, that’s some classy cancer.

But I’ll leave these mysteries to the philosophers. What I do know is that the first poser in the bar I hear talking about how he loved this movie as a kid but thinks it’s silly now is gonna be wearing my size ten steel toe in his colon. Douchebag hipsters always miss the point that a guilty pleasure is something you embrace, not something you pretend to like ironically so that your opinions are insulated from the worthless criticism of other douchebag hipsters. If you don’t get goosebumps during The Last Dragon’s climax, you should be shot out of a cannon mouth-first at my dick.

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I don’t want to fuck this chick for the same reason I don’t want to watch a movie with subtitles.

It was announced today that Megan Fox has ended her engagement with Brian Austin Green from the O.G. 90210. And every straight man in Los Angeles cheered. All three of them.

Except me. I just don’t get this chick. She looks like a page of the Wall Street Journal with all that shit written on her. When I see Megan Fox pictures I don’t know whether to jack off or take them to the bathroom for some light reading while I go number two. Writing quotes from Shakespeare on your shoulder blade doesn’t make you deep. It makes you pretentious. Similarly, it doesn’t make you deep to tattoo a poem on your ribcage that you wrote yourself. It makes you a narcissist. Especially when it’s something as trite as, “there once was a little girl who never knew love until a hug broke her HEART.” Nice use of unnecessary caps to punctuate your maudlin point, Meg. I shudder to think of how embarrassed I’d be today if I’d gone through with my plans to get a tattoo of the poem I wrote in middle school, “Mommy, Why Does My Butt Always Hurt After I Spend the Night at Uncle Larry’s?”

Moral? Not every thought that crosses your vapid mind needs to be commemorated in ink on your living flesh.

But I can forgive Megan for having no taste. If I kicked every girl out of my silk-sheeted rotating waterbed who had some bad ink, that five-some I had would have been reduced to a lonesome one-some. However, I can’t forgive that she tattooed “Brian” next to her in/out-box. Helpful guidelines for the ladies when selecting tattoos: if you’re going to write the name of your lover next to your honey pot in permanent ink, always make sure that 1) he’ll be the only man who ever gets to see it and 2) that man was not a cheeseball alumn of 90210. Because unlike 90210 which still walks today like a zombie across the CW’s rotting schedule, such a relationship won’t last forever. Before Megan’s recent and inevitable break-up with Brian Austin Green, she told FHM in regards to the tattoo, “[If it doesn't work out] I can always have a kid and name him Brian.” Yeah, I’m sure the father will have no problem naming his son after the dude who broke in your O-ring (any chick into tattoos is also into anal – it’s a fact, just read your Bible), a guy you only hooked up with in the first place because he played the dork on a serialized abortion, you star-fucking fame-chaser. And the kid probably won’t think it’s creepy that mommy has his name stenciled next to her hoo-ha. Plus, I’m sure Megan will want to commemorate the birth of her offspring by memorializing one of her ex-boyfriends. God knows when I gaze deep into my child’s eyes, I want to see this:

Maybe her theory needs to be fleshed out a bit before implementation. But beyond all these brilliant and irrefutable condemnations, lies the major truth: you can’t apply new meaning to a moment in time that you CARVED INTO YOUR FUCKING BODY*. We already know what the “Brian” by your vagi-NO means. You can’t change the present by retroactively rewriting history, especially when you’ve already announced that meaning to the world in a national publication. No American actually believes our forefathers inherited this land from the noble savages already here playing in the doo-doo when the Mayflower hit Plymouth Rock. And even if you get something tattooed over his name, David “The Rapping Jew” Silver will always be lurking just below the surface of whatever tribal-sun/dolphin/pixie/poem-you-wrote-on-your-MySpace-blog tattoo you choose to obscure his unholy name. Any self-respecting man’s boner will shrivel from the two degrees of separation between Brian Austin Green and his penis. And by the way, telling us you have a back-up plan for future meanings of your tattoo only tells us that it really doesn’t mean a fucking thing at all. That you don’t mean a fucking thing at all. ‘Course, I already knew you were as empty as my gas tank just from watching the Transformers trailer, but thanks for confirming it for the rest of the world.

*That’s how you use caps to make a point, dummy.

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