Jack Kukoda

Goddamnit, my back hurts. But that’s what I get for trying to raise boxing kangaroos in my apartment. I get a big kangaroo punch in my back! Yowch! Let me start from the beginning.

The other day I was sitting on my couch, trying to figure out how to make enough money so that I could retire for good and live on a sweet ass houseboat, when all of a sudden it hit me: train kangaroos to box and then promote their bouts. Kablammo-that’s a billion dollar idea. If cartoons and sepia-tinted silent filmstrips have taught me anything, it’s that kangaroos make excellent boxers. Now all I had to do was get my hands on some ‘roos and I would be in the money.

I called up the Australian consulate and asked for some kangaroos, but they must have thought it was a prank because they called me a “wanker” and told me to go blow myself. I didn’t have many other options, so I ended up breaking into the zoo and stealing one. Oh boy, did that kangaroo put up a fight. If there’s one lesson I’ve learned about kangaroos in real life, it’s that they DO NOT enjoy having a burlap sack tossed over their heads in the middle of the night and being dragged out of the zoo.

Anyway, I hurt my back because yesterday Destructo(that’s what I’ve named my kangaroo) punched me in the back when I bent over to pick up his boxing gloves for our daily training session. So now I’m back on the couch and well, Destructo pretty much has the run of the house. He’s been running back and forth all day, breaking stuff, and eating all the food out of my refrigerator. As soon as I get back on my feet, I’m going to put him on some sort of leash, teach him some discipline, and mold him into the greatest fighting kangaroo the world has ever seen. That’s a promise.

Oh man, I am excited today. My new line of ladies activewear goes on sale at Target and I couldn’t be more thrilled. What? You didn’t know that I design clothes for today’s modern woman on the go? Well, I do. And you know what? I’m awesome at it.

I started designing clothes when I was about 7. I used to make dresses for my 10 sisters out of whatever I could find around the house; ususally the furniture upholstery. My parents would get pretty mad when they discovered a dress pattern cut out of the couch, but they’re not angry anymore. Now that I’m making Target money, nobody’s complaining. You know what, why don’t I just let some of my clothes speak for themselves.

I call this first outfit: “Queen of the Hive” and I think it’s perfect for the office or a romantic dinner. A lot of people will tell you that a sexy bee outfit is really only appropriate on Halloween. Those are the same people that would tell Beethoven his music had too many notes. They are not dreamers like you and I, so don’t listen to them.

This outfit is a little something I call “Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing.” I call it that because this Shetland sweater looks all tame and innocent at first, but underneath you just know there’s a sexy wolf waing to pounce!

Finally, this is a little something I like to call “Wings of Desire.” This is definitely more evening wear. You can try to get away with silver hot pants during the day, but I wouldn’t recommend it. I was really inspired by classic Hollywood movies from the 1940’s when I designed this piece. Nothing says “old Hollywood glamour” like pointy boobs and sheer wings. Damn straight.

Anyhow, please head over to Target today and buy my latest creations before they’re all sold out. See you on the catwalk!

Yes, that is a lyric from a Jewel song. Most of you don’t know this, but I count Jewel among my personal heroes. A few years ago I was living in a van up in Alaska, just like Jewel did. But I wasn’t a struggling singer-songwriter. I was on the run from the cops, working in the Alaskan oil fields, trying to make enough money to send back to my family. Wait, I should back up a little and tell you the whole story.

A few years ago, a shady developer tried to force my parents to sell our family home. The family home that has belonged to the Kukodas since they came to this country in the 18th Century. The developer wanted to build a mini-mall on our land, but my parents refused to sell. All of our neighbors had already sold, but my dad refused. Luckily, I found some old pirate treasure and saved the day. Wait, that’s the plot from Goonies. That did not happen to us. What was I talking about? Oh right, why I was in Alaska. Here’s what really happened.

I killed a bear in a bar fight. I don’t remember who started it, but I ended it. And I ended that bear. Ended his life! Well, it turned out that bear had some pretty powerful friends, and despite the fact that a bear had no business being in a Buffalo Wyld Wings Sports Bar to begin with, they were determined to put me behind bars. So I packed up my van, drove up to Alaska, and started working the oil fields. Let me tell you, living in a van in Alaska is no picnic. Sure it seems like it would be fun, but Alaska gets pretty cold and a Dodge Windstar is no substitute for a house.

For a while, I thought I was going to die up there, but then I remembered that if Jewel could get through it, then so could I. So thank you, Jewel. Thank you for saving my life. By the way, I chose this picture of Jewel because I like to pretend she’s saying, “Shh, don’t tell anyone. I’m awesome. But keep it a secret.” And then I say, “It’s no secret how awesome you are, Jewel! Everybody knows!” And then Jewel and I have a good laugh. Oh, that’s fun.

Good Lord, I am lonely.

I’ll be the first to admit it: my beard is completely out of control. I thought it would be funny to have a beard down to my knees, but now it’s just getting ridiculous. My beard is like some kind of magnet for food and crap. Here’s a partial list of things I found in my beard in the past week:

1. A piece of celery
2. Half a baloney sandwich
3. Corn. Lots and lots of corn
4. A whole baloney sandwich
5. The TV remote
6. A copy of the DVD Without Limits(What?!)
7. A human child
8. Another beard

C’mon! How did all that stuff get in my beard?! And you know, it would be nice if my friends would occasionally say something like, “Hey Jack, you’ve got a whole baloney sandwich in your beard,” instead of letting me walk around looking like a jerk. By the way, I have no idea how that child got into my beard and now I don’t know what to do with him. I gave him some potato chips and a diet Coke yesterday, but I think he needs vitamins or some shit because he’s in a real crabby mood.

Anyhow, I think I’m going to shave my beard and donate all the hair to “Hair that Cares.” That’s a charity that supplies fake beards to men who can’t grow them because of chemotherapy. Am I a saint? Let’s just let the Pope decide that one.

Okay, it’s time I finally came clean. The rumors have been swirling for weeks now so I might as go on the record as saying it: Yes, Jackée and I are dating. Whew. That feels better. I know it’s a cliche, but I really feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders.

These past few weeks have been really hectic, what with all the photographers camped outside my apartment, trying to get a shot of me and Jackée leaving together. One time Jackée had to climb down the fire escape on the other side of the building just to avoid being photographed! Unfortunately, one of my neighbors mistook her for a burglar and called the police. She tried to explain the situation by telling them she was the Jackée Harry, but the police just acted like they had no idea what she was talking about.

I guess this is the price people like Jackée and I have to pay if we want to be together. Sure, we’re happy to get the publicity when we’re promoting a 227 DVD or introducing our own line of cologne(Eau de Kukoda drops Sept. 10!), but when we just want to be alone, all the attention can feel like too much. Sometimes Jackée and I just want to have a quiet dinner at the restaurant around the corner without be hassled by paparazzi and autograph hounds. Unfortunately, that’s unlikely to happen anytime soon the way Jackée’s star keeps rising.

Occasionally, Jackée and I talk about retiring from showbiz for good, and maybe just buying a farm somewhere upstate where we can raise pygmy goats and start a family. But that’s just a pipe dream. As much as we knock it, we both live for performing. Be it on the commentary track on a 227 DVD or for a handful of drunks at a bar in the East Village, we can’t escape the allure of that spotlight.

Anyway, I just hope the public will respect our privacy and leave me and Jackée alone to build our relationship on trust, understanding, and royalty checks from the syndication and DVD sales of 227.

You know what is not very fun? Moving to a new apartment. It is about as far from fun as you can get. Except for death maybe. Death is probably less fun than moving. And cancer. And other debilitating diseases. And pooping in your pants at your own wedding. Come to think of it, there are a lot of things less fun than moving. But I’m moving this week and since this site is all about me, let’s talk about moving.

I’m finally leaving my apartment in Chinatown. A lot of people knock Chinatown because it is crowded, often smells bad because of the fishmongers, and everyday products like toilet paper are hard to find. Well, add me to the list of those people. Sweet merciful Christ, I cannot wait to move out of my neighborhood. Not to mention my apartment, which is completely deficient in so many ways I’ve lost count. There was that time last winter when I was without heat for about a week. Then there was another time I was without heat for almost a week. Actually, that happened about half a dozen times last winter. Oh, I just thought of something less fun than moving: sleeping with a hat and gloves on and worrying that the tiny space heater you borrowed from your friend is going to start a fire that will kill you in your sleep. Yeah, that was not much fun.

My new apartment is in the West Village, where lots of models and celebrities live. Finally, I can be among my own people. I mean, sure I had lots of models and celebrities over at my converted one-bedroom apartment in Chinatown, but they were always complaining about it. One time at a cocktail party I was throwing, Bea Arthur started bitching about the location so much that I just hauled off and slapped her across the face. Cindy Crawford spit out her canape she was laughing so hard. Hmm. Those are the times I’ll miss. Abusing elderly celebrities for the amusement of former supermodels.

Then there was that time I pushed Betty White down the stairs to get a rise out of Naomi Campbell at my Christmas party last year. Man, that was fun. Betty was a pretty good sport about the whole thing. Now that I think of it, I should really send her flowers. All right, I’m getting a little misty now just thinking of all the fun I had in that apartment. I’ll miss you, overpriced one-bedroom…

Oh boy, it’s almost football season, and since I am a heterosexual male, I am legally obligated to join a fantasy football league. Seriously, it’s just like Logan’s Run. I have a chip embedded in my hand that starts glowing around this time of year and if I don’t join a league, the Miller Lite Council of Men, or whatever the hell that thing is called, sends their death squads out after me. Stay away from me, death squads!

My fantasy league is different from the rest, though. Instead of drafting actual NFL players for an imaginary team, we dress up like our favorite players and go to Renaissance fairs. Oh boy, we are cool. Last year, I won a jousting contest dressed as Willis McGahee. It was awesome. I got to ride a little pony and hold a broomstick. And the guy that I beat was dressed as Ray Lewis, so it was extra sweet.

Some people say that my league doesn’t technically count as a fantasy football league. And they point out how pathetic it is to dress up and go to fairs where everyone speaks in fake Middle English. While I agree it’s not nearly as cool as spending hours drafting players, then feverishly checking the status of your team for the next 17 weeks all for a chance to win fifty bucks, it’s how I like to spend my time. And who are you to judge? Nobody! Unless, of course, you are a judge in some sort of court setting. Then, by all means, judge away.

And I’ll see you guys on the jousting fields!

P.S. Who wants to go to Medieval Times for dinner on Friday?

As some of you know I’m moving into a new apartment at the end of the month. That’s right, somebody’s building is going to have that new tenant smell. Me! Anyway, to alleviate the costs of the impending move and to make a little extra scratch, I’m selling some of my stuff. But unlike other moving sales, this isn’t just a bunch of crap I don’t want anymore. I mean, I’ve got some classy stuff here that you’ll want to buy. Check it out.

A Box Full of Props

Ooh boy! Do you want to put on a high school musical? How about shooting a low budget movie in your apartment that you can upload to YouTube? Then I think this box of props and costumes will interest you. Included in the box: a fake knife, fake poo, fake mustache, candelabra, monkey’s paw, real knife, sexy witch costume, a fake rock, and real poo. I’ve accumulated these props and costumes from appearing in regional theater productions over the years so I can personally vouch for their quality. What else am I selling? Let’s find out, jerk!

Commemorative Plates

Hoo boy, this is a good one! Ever since I can remember I’ve been a sucker for those commemorative plates they sell on channels old people watch. I’ve got them all hear, from the Revolutionary War all the way up to Princess Diana’s death. Unlike a lot of people though, I actually ate off of these plates. What’s the point of having a commemorative plate if it’s just going to sit in a glass case? The way I see it, eating Hamburger Helper off of FDR’s face is my way of remembering Pearl Harbor. You want these sweet plates? Come and get ‘em

This Refrigerator

I know what you’re saying. You’re saying that I cannot sell this fridge because it came with the apartment and it belongs to the landlord. Well, tough shit for my landlord. What’s he going to do to me? I already know I haven’t got a snowball’s chance in hell of getting my security deposit back after I accidentally set the bathroom on fire. The damage to the tiles alone is more than one month’s rent. Plus, I haven’t even told him that I tried to install a porch swing in my living room, but the ceiling gave way and now there’s just a big hole with wires coming out. Anyway, I’m selling the fridge. It’s pretty good, I guess. Keeps stuff cold.

So come over to my apartment this weekend, where all this, and some old porn I’m sick of, could be yours!!!!!

Hey there, everyone. You might have noticed that there was nothing new on Kukoda.com last Friday. Before you start raising hell about my recent laziness, let me assure you there is an excellent reason. I won a radio contest last week and first prize was a chance to play poker with Bananas, a poker-playing chimpanzee. I was pretty psyched because 1. I love poker and 2. the only thing I love more than poker is humiliating chimpanzees in games of chance. Bammo, this was a double whammy if I ever saw one.

The radio station sponsoring the event was, Kiss 103 FM, who contrary to their claims, do not play the greatest mix of hits from the 70’s, 80’s, and today. The other day they played what they called a “giant rock block of Golden Earring,” which, in reality was just “Radar Love” on repeat for two full hours. Hey, I love “Radar Love” as much as the next guy. Shit, I love “Radar Love” more than the next guy. It’s bedazzled on my couch cushions for pete’s sake. But even I don’t want to hear two straight hours of it.

I digress. KISS sent a limo to pick me up at my apartment. I stood outside on my balcony waiting for it just like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. And I refused to come down until the driver stuck his head out the sun roof and asked me to marry him. Listen, I don’t come down to where you sleep and make fun of your dreams so don’t go mocking mine. The limo took me to the KISS studios where Bananas was waiting. Oh, did he ever have a smug look on his stupid chimpanzee face! Man, I hate chimps.

Anyway, after a quick interview, we got down to playing poker. We were playing no limit Texas hold ‘em, just like the celebrities do! I figured I would make quick work of Bananas because, even though I haven’t played much poker, I won the Buffalo Pinochle Championship: 16 and under division two years in a row. Let’s see a monkey do that! I quickly learned Bananas would be tougher than I thought, as I was down to my last five dollars within half an hour. In my defense, someone really should have told me that different colored chips represent varying amounts of money.

On my final hand, I was dealt two Kings and I went all in. Bananas called me and eventually won with a flush to my three of a kind. “Curse you, Bananas!” I shouted. Then I threw a carton of orange juice against the wall. Big mistake. The carton exploded, raining orange juice down on all of KISS’s audio equipment, not to mention the priceless Eddie Money posters that covered the walls. The manager of the radio station yelled at me to get out of the studio. I told them I wasn’t leaving until I got my “KISS the Summer Hello” promotional T-shirt and held onto my chair so they would know I meant business. They eventually called a couple summer interns that played college football to forcibly remove me from the studio. Oh boy, those fellows were rough.

Anyway, that’s what happened Friday. I’ve been on the phone all weekend with lawyers trying to find someone that will help me sue KISS FM. If you are a lawyer and hate chimps like I do, or just want to help me file a frivolous lawsuit, contact me today!

Whoooo!!!! Oh yeah! I am wasted! Oh man, you have got to get down to Uncle Froggy’s right now! There’s so many hot chicks here just getting ca-razy! And when I say ca-razy, I mean Ka-ka-ka-razy! That’s triple crazy! Oh boy, Uncle Froggy’s has got to be the hottest bar in midtown. Better than the Turtle Palace and Spikey-Haired Pete’s combined! Uncle Froggy’s forever!

I’m sure a lot of you are saying, “Jack, why are you getting wasted at a midtown bar on a Thursday afternoon?” To that I say, “Two for one tequila shooters for the next 15 minutes!!! Get down here now!” Seriously, I know some of you have been worried about my drinking ever since last week when I didn’t get my dream job of writing for Mind of Mencia. Sure, I took that pretty hard, but who wouldn’t? When it’s been your lifelong dream to write cheap jokes about Mexicans, an opportunity like that only comes around once in a lifetime. Mind of Mencia was my Haley’s Comet.

Also, yes, I am taking my divorce from my latest wife harder than normal. You’d think I’d be used to this after 4 marriages! No way, man. When I fall in love, I fall deep. I give my whole heart. I throw caution to the wind and I mean it when I say “I do.” Unfortunately, the strippers that I fall in love don’t mean it like I do! You hear me, Crystal?! We swore in front of God and our families to cherish each other! Not to get divorced just because your old high school boyfriend got out of jail! I want my blender back! And my down comforter!

Okay, I’ve gotten off track. Look, just come down to Uncle Froggy’s. For real. We’ll have a few beers, maybe shoot some pool, hit on a few ladies if the mood strikes. Uncle Froggy’s gets a lot of decent-looking secretaries around lunch hour when they come in for the all-you-can eat quesadilla bar. C’mon, what do you say? All right, I’ll see you guys soon. I’m on the third floor at the end of the bar. If I’m asleep in the peanuts when you get here, just give me a shake and I’ll wake up. Bachelors rule!!!!!

Seriously, what am I going to do with all them? I’m sitting here in my room and there’s so many goddamn pashminas piled up in here I can barely make it to my bed. What in Christ’s name was I thinking when I bought all these things?

Look, before you start making fun of me, let me point out that many people, including some very successful businessmen, have made poor investment decisions over the years. So it’s not like I’m the first one to have screwed up. I might be the first one to have bought 10,000 yards of pashmina from a shady garment merchant in Marrakesh, while stoned out of my mind on opium. Okay, I’ll give you that. But that’s not the point. The point is I need to get rid of these pashminas.

Remember when pashminas were all the rage? I think that was back in like 2001 or something. Well, isn’t it about time they made a comeback? I certainly think so. All we have to do is get some of the world’s top supermodels and celebrities to start wearing pashminas again, get photographed doing so, and then bammo-I can finally get to my refrigerator again because the path isn’t blocked by a 500 pounds of fucking goat scarves!

Ah, who am I kidding? Nobody wants these things. I tried to give my mom a box of them as a Christmas present and she practically punched me in the face. Why, why, why do I make so many investment decisions on opium? I need to hire like a valet or something. But instead of holding my parasol and driving me around, his only job would be to hide my credit card when I started smoking the ol’ Chinese Tobaccy.

So, look, if any of you wants one these pashminas, make me an offer. No offer is too low. For real. I’ll even take trades. And since I can’t get to my fridge, I’ll gladly accept food in lieu of cash. Ten pashminas for a meatball sub sounds like a fair trade to me. Wouldn’t you agree?

Guess whose name is going in the World Record Books? Go ahead, guess. No, not this guy. No, not her either. What? No, not these cats! Fine, I’ll just tell you. It’s me! I’m going to be in the Guinness book of world records for having the sexiest Myspace profile in the world. It’s a fact.

I’m not quite sure what put me over the edge. Whether it was the 400 photos I posted of my abs, or the 200 photos of me it a wet t-shirt, or the 20 photos of my balls painted to look like characters from Charles Dickens’ “The Pickwick Papers,” I’ll never know. All I do know is that I can probably expect some sweet ass endorsement money to come rolling in. And maybe a spread in Playgirl or Torso magazine. One of those is for gays, I think. You know what, who cares? When you’ve got a sweet ass body like this, you don’t care who sees it.

I know that a lot of other Myspace hotties like Tila Tequila are going to be disappointed that they lost out to me, but those are the breaks, sister! I can’t help it that the people at Guinness voted me number one. Shoot, it’s not like I asked for this honor. Unless of course, you count all those bulletins I posted asking people to vote me sexies Myspace profile. But I’m not counting those and neither should you.

I can’t even imagine the roller coaster that my life is about to become. So if any of you email or call and I don’t get back to you right away, don’t you dare go running to VH1 to tell them how fame has changed me. Same goes for Inside Edition, if that show still exists. Okay, I’ve got to run. I have an interview with some Hungarian blogger to get to and I still have to change into my crotchless Spiderman costume. (That way, you can see my balls!) Spiderman? More like Sexyman! Right? Right?

If you want to be a part of the magic, you can go here and soak it up.

Screw you, old friends. You hear me? All of my so-called friends can go blow goats for all I care because I don’t need you anymore. You know why? Because I built myself a sweet ass robot over the weekend. And me and my robot friend are all each other need.

First off, his name is Gorgon and he’s awesome. I had considered a few other names for him before settling on Gorgon. The first one I came up with was Friend-bot, but I immediately discarded that because it just sounds pathetic. The other name I came up with was Laximor, but that sounds like a medicine old people take for their bowels. Then I came up with P.A.L., but I couldn’t figure out any words that would necessitate that acronym. So I settled on Gorgon.

I don’t really know much about robotics or computers so I had to use the old guess and check method when it came to building Gorgon. I started out using what was around the house, so he’s mostly made out of pots and pans and an old pogo stick. And he’s got a Sega Genesis for a brain and Christmas tree lights for eyes-the blinking kind! So he looks real sweet.

Right now Gorgon doesn’t do much besides sit around and play the Sonic the Hedgehog theme song, but I’ve been reading some robot message boards and I’m going to trick him out real soon. That reminds me, does anyone have any tools I can borrow? I accidentally dropped the only wrench I own inside of Gorgon when I was putting his head on, and now I can’t get it out.

I think the best thing about Gorgon is that, unlike some other people I know, he won’t make plans to meet up at the mall, then blow me off at the last minute to watch Gia on HBO for the twentieth time, James Flaybern. And he won’t interrupt me when I’m hitting on some girl and tell her about the time I pooped my pants on a tenth grade field trip, Tim Gloefelm! See, real friends don’t do that sort of thing. And Gorgon is a real friend. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Gorgon and I are going to play some Ecco the Dolphin.

Oh boy, you’ll never believe the day I’m having. First of all, on the way to work this morning, I fell into an open manhole. My clothes got really dirty, but the worst part is all hard candy I had in my pocket got crushed. That’s 2 dollars of Worthers down the drain. Then, once I got to work I somehow managed to get my face caught in the stapler. It took a good 10 minutes and the assistance of our janitor to get me out of that jam.

Also, I guess today must have been take your wild animal to work day, because a raccoon somehow got into the office and it bit me. It ran away before I could catch it to take to the doctor and be tested for rabies. I hope I don’t have rabies. And how did a raccoon even get here? We’re on the 12th floor.

Finally, when I was eating my lunch, I leaned back against the water cooler and the whole thing tipped over. I tried to blame it on the raccoon, but nobody believed me because I was the only one who had seen the raccoon in the first place. Oh man, the day isn’t even over yet! I sure hope nothing else crazy happens. Okay, gotta run. I’m going to try and cook s’mores in the microwave. You can put metal saucepans in the microwave, right?

Hey everyone! Awesome news to report today. One of my oldest showbiz dreams came true this morning! I was chosen to go on tour with Technotronic as one of their(her?) featured backup dancers! Hooray! That means I’ll be working my signature moves to every Technotronic classic from “Pump up the Jam” all the way to their seminal classic “Get Up!(Before the Night is Over)

Finally, all my years of dancing and auditioning have paid off. People told me I would never be a dancer. People like Anne Meara, who chose my dance partner over me even though he was just some street punk who didn’t even care about dancing! But I showed her when I yelled, “Who the hell wants to go to some stupid school to learn how to dance anyhow?” Yeah, I showed her.

But I guess the last laugh will be on all my doubters when they show up to their local county fair, and right there behind whoever the lead singer of Technotronic is, they’ll see me dancing my ass off in a pair of throwback overalls. Oh boy, I can’t wait. I’m going to rummage through my closet and see if I still have any of my Karl Kani hats. All right, I’ve got to get ready. The tour bus is picking me up in like half an hour. Don’t worry, I won’t forget you. Stay gold, everyone. Stay gold!

I’ll give a dollar to the first person, besides the Lady, who identifies the Anne Meara reference.