Jack Kukoda

I’m in Canada today, playing hockey outdoors and building a barrel to take me over Niagara Falls. Traditional December 26th stuff, you know. I’ll be back tomorrow!

Oh man, sorry I haven’t blogged at you jerks in a while, but I’ve got a pretty good excuse this time. Damn, that sentence just took me 5 minutes to write. But that’s what happens when you’ve got to type with your nose. Why am I typing with my nose? Let me back up and tell you all about it.

Sunday afternoon I went to the Bills-Jets game out at that shithole of a swamp of a stadium that is known as The Meadowlands. It’s a great place…for jerks! Anyway, I was in the parking lot, getting wasted on blackberry schnapps and blackberry wine(what can I say, I love blackberries!) having a great time. Everytime a Jets fan walked by I would yell that line about the Meadowlands being a great place (pause) for jerks. A lot of parents didn’t appreciate it, but I don’t go out and get obscenely drunk at NFL games for other people’s parents. I do it for my own. Because it makes them proud.

Again, I digress. After the game, which the Bills won 31-17, thank you very much, I was heading back to my car when some guy threw one of those plastic bottles at me. I don’t know if it’s because I was singing the Bills Shout song at the top of my lungs or if it was because I had put a Jets jersey on a blow up doll and was pretending to make love to it the whole time I was walking back to my car, but I had somehow angered this gentleman.

I turned around and asked him what his problem was. And he said, “I’m looking at it.” (He was looking at me) The whole crowd oohed and aahed. He was waiting for me to make the next move. So I calmly said, “I’m not looking for trouble. I just came to watch a football game and act like a drunken jackass.” Then I grabbed a handful of sand from the sand I keep in pockets just for occasions like this and I threw the sand right in his face! “Kickboxer style!” I screamed. He dropped to his knees, totally blind and that’s when I made my move. I ran up punched him in the side of the head, then dumped a whole bunch of sand down the back of his shirt(that itches like crazy.) Then I made a pretend fart noise with my mouth and declared myself king of the Meadowlands.

Needless to say, the rest of the Jets fans who witnessed this beat me absolutely senseless, breaking both my arms and legs. So that’s why I didn’t write anything yesterday and why I’m writing this with my nose. True story.

Update: Oh, and I’ll be back at the Meadowlands tonight to watch the Sabres-Devils game. I’ll be the guy in the Schoenfeld jersey calling everyone around me a “fat pig.” Speaking of which, enjoy that Schony classic below. He was even coaching the Devils at the time. If you’re at the game, buy us a beer!

Oh man, sometimes I feel like the phones never stop ringing around here. And by here, I mean deep within the blogosphere. A lot of people think the term “blogosphere” refers to the interconnected network of weblogs on the Internet and the way they influence each other and drive ideas. Not So! The blogosphere is actually a self-contained dome that houses a bunch of dorks. And we are always on our laptops! Talking about shitty new bands from Brooklyn!!! Oh, it’s grand!!!

Oh boy, the blogosphere is busy today. There was a big fight over whose job it was to water the tomato fields. Since the “b-sphere” is completely self-sufficient the tomato fields are very important. They provide sustenance and turn the CO2 in the air back into oxygen. As the tomato fields go, so goes the blogosphere. That’s what we say ’round here.

Anyway, I guess some people thought it was my turn to water the tomatoes, but I had an extremely good reason for not doing it. I was drunk! And not drunk on blogging. I’m talking drunk on alcohol. Before we were hermetically sealed inside the b to the log to the osphere, I managed to sneak in a flask of peppermint schnapps. It wasn’t brand name schnapps, but it was still pretty damn good. Schnapps is like sex in that way. Or pizza. I forget what I’m talking about. Oh right, tomatoes.

Anydoodles, a bunch of other bloggers told me if I didn’t stop getting drunk on peppermint schnapps and tending to my duties, they were going to kick me ouf of the blogosphere. “Blogosphere?” I said. “More like boogersphere!” Then I took a big swig of schnapps and passed out, hitting my head on one of the milk cows we depend on for milk. Well, it turns out that I was passed ouf for a few days and that’s why I’m so behind on everything. Cows! I’m drunk now.

Hey there, everyone. You may have noticed I wasn’t up to the task of writing yesterday. But I had a legitimately good reason. I was hosting an event for one of the many charities I work with. Yesterday it was for “Fares that Care,” which is a charity that takes old subway Metrocards and makes clothing out of them for homeless people. Metrocards are totally waterproof so they make excellent ponchos. Fares that Care isn’t to be confused with Hair that Cares, which is another charity I’m active in. Nor is it to be confused with “Lairs for Bears,” which is a non-profit that provides temporary cave-like housing to bears that were displaced during Hurricane Katrina. Before I got involved with Lairs for Bears, I had no idea that homeless bears were such a problem. But they are. For realz.

But I guess the charity I’m most proud of is the one I started myself. The name of it can be found below in rebus form. First person to correctly identify that rebus gets a coupon for one very innapropriate back massage from yours truly. Happy guessing!

Hurry up with those guesses. This massage oil is heating up!

Previously: Name Game

Yes, that Amy Grant. Christian pop music sensation, my ass! More like drunken-college-student-raping music sensation. I don’t know why I decided to tell everyone about this since I’ve kept it a secret for 5 years now, but I think it’s about time the truth about Amy Grant came out.

Let me set the scene for you. It was April of 2001, my junior year of college, and my fraternity was holding its annual All-Nude Male Mud Wrestling Revue.(And yes, me and all my fraternity brothers got naked and wrestled each other in the mud, but that doesn’t make us gay. It was all for charity. God, people can be so closed-minded sometimes.) Anyway, I had just finished wrestling my fraternity bro and best friend Ames Wayburn. I won the match after making him submit by jamming both my thumbs in his butt hole.(Again, not gay. The two-thumb butt-jammer is a perfectly legal move in wrestling.) After the match, I went over the hose on the side of the house to wash off and drink some Icehouse beer.

After I got cleaned up, I heard someone’s voice say, “You really know your way around a wrestling full of mud. Nice to meet you. I’m Amy Grant.” It was a good thing my shorts were still covered in mud because when I realized I was talking to the Amy Grant, I shit in my pants. “Nice to meet you, Amy,” I stammered. “Can you wait here for a second? I have to go change my pants. Not because I shit in them, just because they’re covered in mud.” She totally bought it so I ran up to my room and changed into some overalls.(Overalls were making a slight comeback at this point.)

Amy and I chatted all night. I was drinking Icehouse and she was having non-alcoholic wine. I figured she wasn’t drinking because she’s a Christian and all that, but I realized later it was just so she could have all her faculties in tact when she took advantage of me later.

The rest of the night is pretty hazy, but I remember at one point she asked if we could go up to my room to see the posters of scantily clad women advertising malt liquor that I had been bragging about all night. But once we got up there, posters were the last thing on her mind. The details are still too painful to relate in full, but let’s just say that over the course of the night I was on the receiving end of a rather forceful donkey punch from Amy Grant.

After it was all over, she gave me her email address and told me to get in touch with her. I tried and tried, but the emails kept getting sent back. Goddamn you, Amy Grant.

By the way, the YouTube version of Rusty the Audio Repairman video is up now. Go watch it.

Related: Did I Ever Tell You Guys About That Time I Killed A Wild Boar?

Hey everyone! Sorry for not posting today but I’m away from my computer. I’m having my balls photographed for Awesome Balls Magazine. That’s a magazine about awesome balls. Make sure you pick up the double holiday issue. That’s double the balls just in time for Christmas!

Hey kids, it’s me, Radical Jack. And I’m here to tell you how awesomely cool voting is! Man, voting is like a a vert ramp, a Hot Pocket, and an Xbox all rolled into one! So get out there and do your cool civic duty by voting.

I won’t be voting today, unfortunately, as convicted felons are not allowed to vote in this state. Actually, convicted felons can vote, but thrice-convicted felons cannot. How did I end up getting convicted of three felonies? Well, there’s no easy answer. Actually, there is: drugs. More specifically, Franzia Dust. That’s angel dust mixed with box wine. Sweet Christ on a cracker, I cannot control myself when it comes to the Franzia Dust. I’ve lost count of the number of relationships and furniture I’ve destroyed when that demon gets a hold of me.

But I haven’t lost count of the felonies I’ve commited. That number is three. And that’s very easy to remember because I have to wear three different ankle bracelets that track my every move. If I want to go to the store just to buy nachos, I’ve got to notify like a billion federal agencies. But does that stop me from buying nachos? Shit no, homes. You’d have to saw my legs off to keep me from buying nachos. Speaking of which, one of the crimes I’m accused of committing is threatening to saw the legs off of my neighbor because he refused to turn his stereo down. Don’t worry, I didn’t actually do it. The police came before I could break into his apartment. It’s actually a funny story. Turns out his stereo wasn’t on at all. But I had been up snorting Franzia Dust for three days straight and was convinced that he was playing Frank Zappa at ungodly levels.

Anyway, the point of all this was to tell you to vote. I won’t tell you which party to vote for, but I do recommend voting NO on Proposition 219, which would prevent thrice-convicted felons from renting cars. If that shit gets passed, I’ll never see Montreal in Autumn. Keep Hertz alive.

Hey everyone! Hope your day is going well, because mine is NOT! All of my co-workers are staring at me and making me really uncomfortable because of my Halloween costume. When my boss said we could dress up today, I was psyched. I had the perfect costume: Adam from Adam and Eve. It’s easy(all you need is your naked body) and it’s pretty sexy(naked body, remember?) And since I’m going as Adam before he ate from the tree of knowledge and realized he was naked, I’m not even wearing a fig leaf. That’s right, my zing zang is swinging freely in the office.

Anyway, I thought this was a really clever costume that everyone would appreciate, but you should have seen the looks I got on the subway. At first I thought it was because I had a snake draped over my shoulders(authenticity), but then I realized everyone was staring at my ding-dong. My awesome ding-dong. What is everyone’s problem? It’s like they’ve never seen a buck naked man on the subway before. I see at least two a week. Although, that may have something to do with the fact that I ride the subway at all hours of the night, and seek out the train cars that are listed on gay cruising sites. But that’s not important.

What is important, is that my co-workers are making me feel really uncomfortable right now. Two of them have already asked me to cover up my wing-wang with a folder or something, and the guy I share a cubicle with told me to stay the hell away from him. I’m sorry, when did Halloween become “Act like a jerk to your co-worker day?” Also, I think they’re trying to freeze me out of here because they just opened all the windows and there’s quite a draft in the office. I stayed in character by saying, “Oooh, the Garden of Eden is quite chilly. I wish God would close the windows.” But instead of closing the windows, our office manager just threw his sandwich at me and called me a weirdo.

Well, it’s pretty clear that my coworkers’ childish behavior is based on jealousy of my clever costume and my irrepressible sexiness. But I’m not going to let them ruin my Halloween. I’m going to get through the rest of the day, do my job, maybe make some photocopies of my bare ass, then go to a Halloween party and dance my ass off. Then I’ll head home, happy and exhausted . (By the way, I’ll be riding the 6 train, 2nd car from the back.)

Wait. Is gaggle the right word? I think gaggle refers to a group of geese. Oh boy, people are already sensitive enough about celebrities like me adopting African babies and whisking them away from their home countries to live in American luxury. Hmm. Just forget I called them a “gaggle.” Let’s just say I adopting a shitload of babies. Ah, much better.

Anyhow, I’m sure you’re all aware that Madonna is adopting a one-year old child from Malawi and there has been a bit of controversy surrounding the adoption. I’d just like to come to Madonna’s defense to say, “Who the hell are you to judge what we celebrities do with our lives or the lives of baby strangers?” If Madonna or I want to take a child from its family and call it our own, we will. Because it’s our perogative. You stay out of our business. And don’t give me that claptrap about looking out for the welfare of the child. If you’re so concerned about the well-being of African babies, how come you don’t have one? Wrap your mind around that one, why don’t you?

Now that I’ve come to my good friend Madonna’s defense, let me tell you about my new brood. I got them from an orphanage in Niger. Or Nigeria. I forget. The important thing is I love each and everyone of my new babies. And as soon as I get around to naming them all, I’ll be happy to introduce them to you. Actually, I should probably introduce myself to them now that I think about it. The paperwork for adopting a whole village was pretty extensive, so I just left my lawyer there to take care of it. Hey, I wasn’t about to miss last night’s Heroes marathon!! From what my lawyer tells me, the children should be here in a day or two.

Anyway, I just want to say that if you care about children or want to look like you do, you should put your money where your mouth is and get yourself a whole mess of African babies. That’s what I did and I couldn’t be happier. Unless Heroes was on every night of the week! Am I right, folks?!

You heard me right. I’m starting up one of those secret societies they have at fancy schools. And yes, I went to one of those fancy schools, but I wasn’t in a secret society. You want to know why? Because I was a dashing investigative reporter for The New Times News, the most investigative paper on campus.(You heard me right, Investi-college-agation Tribune!) And had those clubs admitted me, I would have exposed all their secrets.

The leaders of those secret societies knew they would never be able to keep me under control. “He’s too much of a live wire,” they used to say about me while they smoked cigars in leather club chairs, feet propped up on the finest prostitutes money could buy. How do I know this? Because I was an investigative reporter, goddamn it! Keep up!

Anyway, I’m not an investigative reporter anymore so I think now would be the best time to start up a secret club. Also, I’m lonely as shit. I’m going to lay down the ground rules for my club, and if you like what you hear and think you can handle joining, send me an email.

1. The club is going to be called “Jack & Kukodas.” This is not open to debate. All the good secret societies have names that follow the pattern of “noun & plural noun.” i.e. “Skull & Bones” That’s the only one I can think of right now.

2. Jack & Kukodas will meet in the apartment of one of our members. I initially thought we could meet in some sort of crypt in a cemetary or something, but then I remembered how I am deathly afraid of skeletons and nearly poop my pants every Halloween when I see a fake one hanging at a costume store. So we’re going to steer clear of skeletons. If anyone out there has a decent sized apartment that could serve as a meeting place for an elite secret society(preferably one with digital cable), send me an email.

3. Our secret handshake will consist of one member putting his hands on the shoulders of another member and saying, “Whatever happend to the band Snap?” To which the other member will reply, “‘I’ve Got the Power’ was a really great song.”

4. Pot luck dinners all the time.

Thats all the rules I can think of for my secret club right now. But it will be awesome, I can guarantee you that. Anyone interested in joining should of course send me an email.

P.S. No Greeks allowed.

Hey everyone! I know what you’re saying. Is it time for Jack’s year-end van roundup already?! You bet it is! As we all know, October 11th marks the end of the Van Year. Why is that? Hell, I don’t know. I didn’t invent the van rules. I just play by them. And I play hard! This roundup this year will be the same as always. I go around the country taking pictures of and meeting vans. Then I give you my top vans at the end of the year. And maybe a few of my not-so-top vans! Watch out, vans. This kitten has claws!(by kitten I mean me.) Enough chit-chat, let’s get to those vans!

This first van is one that my neighbor drives. I call it “El Jefe.” I often see it on my street because, duh, it’s my neighbors. Anyway, I think this is a pretty great van for the following reasons. 1) It looks cool. 2) It runs well. 3) It’s got that certain ‘it factor’ that makes a truly great van. I can’t put my finger on what makes this van so great, but I can put my finger on this van itself! Because it’s parked next door.

I call this van the “Crazy Snake.” I call it that because when I was taking a picture of it, a crazy man came out of it who called himself Snake. He demanded to know why I was taking pictures of his van and I told him it was for my year-end roundup. Then he punched me right in the stomach and called me a gay. Totally uncalled for. But that doesn’t detract from the awesomeoness of this van. Good job, Crazy Snake!

That’s all the van round up for now. Stay tuned for part II coming up later. Hell, if it’s half as good as part I, then you’ve got a treat in store!

Hey teens! It’s me, Jack “halfpipe” Kukoda, and I’m ready to talk. I know how tough things can be for teens these days. In fact, it wasn’t so long ago that I was a teen myself! Of course, back then we didn’t call ourselves “teens” because the dinosaurs wouldn’t let us! Hey-oh! See, I’ve got a sense of humor, too, teens. I’m not some old boogie man that can’t relate to all your hip-hop problems today. I’ve been there, too. Except, when I was “there” I had to ride a wooly mammoth to get there! Bing bong!

Anywhoodle, I just want all the teens that read this site to know that you can feel free to ask me questions about life, girls, guys, sports, the mall-heck, anything a teen would want to know about. And I’ll be happy to answer those questions. Although, I might have to communicate via cave drawings! Slam bam-a-roo! What? Okay, I’ll stop.

But 4 rlz, I’d be happy to help you out with some of your problemz. Here’s a question a teen sent me just last week:

Dear Halfpipe,

Some of my friends smoke marijuana and I feel pressured to smoke sometimes. I kind of want to try it, but I’m afraid of what drugs can do. Is it true that you can get addicted to marijuana? Will it really lead to other drugs? What do you think I should do? Thanks in advance.

Confused in Kansas

Questions about drugs are never easy to answer. That’s why, in this case, I immediately alerted the local police. I figured they would know what to say. Hell, if they came up with that “McGriff the Crime Dog,” I’m sure they can handle a question or two about marijuana weed.

Anyhowsers, feel free to ask more questions in the comment section or email them to me. I’ll do my best to put you on the straight and narrow, teens! In the meantime, rock and roll!

Hey everyone! I’m going to meet my new nephew this weekend. I’m pretty excited. I think I’m going to take him fishing and bowling. And if there’s enough time left over, I’ll teach him how to kill a deer with his bare hands. That sounds like a fun day for a two-week old, don’t you think?

I wish my father had taught me to kill animals when I was a younger, but that was something I had to figure out on my own. Because when I was 3, my dad drove me to the edge of the woods and told me to get out of the car. Then he handed me a flint, some twine and a juice box, and told me he’d see me in a week. He said, and I remember the exact quote to this day, “Son, it’s time you learned this world can be a harsh place. If you can make it through this, you can make it through anything.” Then, for some reason, my dad made a really loud fart sound with his mouth and drove off laughing. That was the thing about my dad. He was an enigma. And he really liked making fart sounds. Thought they were hilarious.

The first two days in the woods were the toughest. I had never really spent much time outside of my parents house, and this was the first time I had ever been alone. I missed the comfort of my bed, my stuffed animals, my pop-up books. But I had none of those comforts in the woods. I had to rely on myself. And if I wanted to survive, I had to find some food. Up until that time I had mostly eaten baby food, cookies, and mashed potatoes. I was a picky eater, no question about it, but that was about to change. Just like there are no atheists in a foxhole, there are no picky eaters in the woods. I started eating berries, flowers, bugs, even rocks at one point. Give me a freaking break. I was three years old. How the hell would I know rocks weren’t food?

By the fourth day I was famished. I knew I would need some major sustenance if I was going to make it through the week. It was time to go after the big game. So I did what any kid would do. I dug a pit and filled it with punji sticks. Luckily, one of my uncles fought in Vietnam, and he had filled my head with stories about the VC and their various traps. If it was good enough for charlie, I figured, it was good enough for me. I covered the pit with leaves and brush, then lay in wait for my prey.

After a few hours a deer came walking by. He circled the outside of the pit before finally walking across it. He fell through and was immediately impaled. Sweet! I rigged up a pulley system using an overhead tree branch and some vines. Then I pulled the deer out. I skinned him, roasted the meat, and used the hide as a coat. I saved his ears to make a necklace.

I made it through the next two days without a problem. When my dad picked me up on the seventh day, I was fat with deer meat, covered in dirt, and nearly insane from living in the woods for that long. I also missed my mommy. Anyway, I kind of doubt my sister will let me do the same thing with my nephew. And I can’t really blame her, since I’ve had to see a pyschologist ever since. And sometimes in the middle of the night I wake up screaming. Oh, and all of our family pets have died in mysterious accidents involving punji sticks. Other than that, I don’t think I’ve suffered any long term effects.

You heard me right. I’ll be travelling from city to city, stopping in at bookstores and meeting my fans. What’s that? You didn’t even know I wrote a book? Well, I certainly did. It’s called The Devil Wears Zubaz and it’s awesome. If I had to describe it, I’d say it’s The Da Vinci Code meets Sex and the City meets the Buffalo Bills 2006 Media Guide. Yeah, it’s all over the place, but that’s what makes it so great.

The story centers around the very sexy protagonist, Zack Stakoda. He’s really sexy and sort of all-around awesome and he has to solve a mystery involving the founding fathers. Also, Zack plays for the Buffalo Bills and he sleeps around with a lot of sexy ladies. And then he goes out to brunch with some of the other Bills and they dish about the girls they’ve slept with. But everytime they’re dishing, Zack gets another clue about the mystery involving George Washington and Benjamin Franklin. You want to know what the mystery is? Well, you’ll just have to buy the book and find out.

Oh, and for all my readers in Denver, I’ll be at the Tattered Cover Bookstore on Friday. I’ll be signing copies of my book and probably fending off female fans who can’t get enough Zack Sta-oops. I mean Jack Kukoda.

P.S. Buy my book!

Really, I do. Nothing brings me more joy than filing frivolous lawsuits against individuals and corporations. In fact, most fast food restaurants have a picture of me behind the counter that says “Do Not Serve This Man.” Because I will sue you. Sue you real good.

This week alone I filed more than three dozen lawsuits. The first one was against Wendy’s because I claimed their chicken nuggets burned my mouth. So what if I doused them in kerosene and lit them on fire before I started eating them? It was still Wendy’s fault. The next day I sued the MTA because the doors of the uptown 6 train had some objectionable language written on them and it made me depressed. See, I’m like a modern-day Holden Caulfield. Except instead of being all whiny, I call up 1-800-LAWYER and I get to suin’!

I haven’t talked to my parents in about two years, ever since I sued them for not making a delicious Thanksgiving turkey. They were kind of pissed that I did that, but what do I care? I got a sweet ass settlement out of it. A settlement that included my dad’s lawnmower.

Okay, I’ve got to run. I’m going to head on over to the zoo and see if I can’t provoke a panda into biting me. Then I’m going to sue that panda for all he’s worth. Wish me luck!