A dwarf in a pink Easter bunny costume was beating a midget, in a Superman outfit, with a Black Mamba dildo. The carnage was contained to a small boxing ring that had been assembled in the middle of an empty field. A buxom blonde with huge surgically-altered tits officiates the match—her shirt is tied in the back and hugs her breasts tightly. Blood poured from Supermidget's face with each whack, as a fresh wound formed. I stood in shock and dismay, thinking of what could be done to save Supermidget. "Kick his ass!" shouted a burley man with a tattoo on his forehead. Well, I couldn't really think of how to begin the rescue, so I had another sip of my beer.

Just when I thought it was going to be lights out for Supermidget, he delivered about fifteen swift kicks to the groin of his opponent, leaving Little Bunny FuFu unconscious. Supermidget pranced around like a cheerleader at the varsity football game after the winning touchdown had been scored. This was just one of the many activities to partake in at Arizona Bike Week.

Something told me that Skip was off his rocker. For some reason, deranged psychopaths love to come up and talk to me uninvited.Wait! I'm getting ahead of myself, let me start from the beginning.


I was just outside of Phoenix, blazing down I-10 at about 101 miles an hour. My destination was Arizona Bike Week, a festival that celebrates everything America loves about itself: bikes, beer, cheap sex, violence, drugs, midgets, and the occasional ritual killing. Rolling Stone had commissioned me to write a piece about modern day biker gangs. I rolled out of Costa Mesa at daybreak, prepared for the long, hard drive.

Interstate 10 is one of the great American highways, starting in California, winding its way through Arizona to New Mexico, and then through Texas all the way to Florida. A coast to coast superhighway, a superior example of government planning and civil engineering.

My friend, Omar Muhammad Kaleah, had lent me his brand new Ferrari F430 spider. True Italian engineering at its finest, this bad puppy goes zero to sixty in just 3.9 seconds. I was determined to drive the ever loving shit out of that machine.

After five hours or so on the road, I had arrived at my hotel. (This was not as simple as it sounds.) When I drive, I tend to disregard traffic laws and not respect anyone deemed by the State to enforce them. Piss on those people. Fuck' em! Those Communist fuckpigs can suck my left nut and serve me lemonade. I don't need protection, just service. I'm not about to take any shit from those limp noodle, pinko, sons of bitches.

I checked into the hotel, dropped off my clothes and headed to the bar. There was a long day ahead of me tomorrow, the first day of a three-day mega-weekend.

I took a seat at the right corner of the bar in front of television.

"Hey bartender! Who's grandfather do I have to fuck to get the game on the TV?!" I shouted. I then smiled at him, kindly, but he smiled back at me as if he felt happy. What a sick fuck, I thought to myself. Arizona is definitely the weirdest state in the Union. Some might say Utah, but I don't consider it a part of the space-time-continuum, much less the United States.

"Hey there, young fella," said an older gentleman in a fishing cap that had ‘Skip' stitched in blue letters.

"You must not be from around here," he said.

"You're damn right, Skip. Hell of a guess!"

Something told me that Skip was off his rocker. Perhaps he was related to Charles Manson. Who knows. For some reason, deranged psychopaths love to come up and talk to me uninvited, for no reason at all. I could see Skip wanted to tell me his bullshit story. There is no shutting these people up. Just let them talk—they'll get tired, and eventually shut the hell up.

"Oops, forgot my beer, be right back," remarked a cheerful Skip.

As Skip turned to fetch his beer from a table, I noticed an unsightly tear in his pants, extending from his belt to his calf, revealing a stained and soiled undergarment, which one could only assume was an adult diaper. I nearly vomited in my beer mug, fully aware that Skip had no idea he was carrying a loaf in his shorts. Skip came back and sat down with a loud squish. He then began to rape my ear with a tale involving a three-legged dog, a young couple, a pool cue, Ben-Wa Balls, a family of midgets, and numerous wretched things. His tale was so horrible that my brain retreated to the back of my skull, trying to escape sensory overload. I couldn't take it anymore.

"Skip! Skip! I would love to stay and continue this chat, but I don't have time. Besides, I get the fucking point. OK?" I left a five on the table and exited the bar. I ventured around back, where I began to vomit uncontrollably. "What the fuck, did I eat?" I thought to myself. Then I realized, it was the images of Skip's story; the girlfriend blowing the dog, the family of midgets using the Ben-Wa Balls on each other, the boyfriend being sodomized with a pool cue by O.J. Simpson. It was all too much to take. As my puke flowed like Niagara Falls into a steel barrel, I noticed a small flyer.

2 Card Fight
Dwarf vs Midget
Lesbo vs Lesbo in a Steel Cage

Holy Jesus, that's incredible! This was an event that could not be missed.

There I was, a freak among freaks, in a crowd thirsting for violence. The next bout was of particular interest to me. I have attended over ten WrestleManias, eight Super Bowl games, three Stanley Cup Finals, five World Series, the last four X Games, and even a few XFL games, so I have seen my share of competitive sporting events, but I have never seen something so equally gruesome and coarse as what I witnessed that day in Arizona.

A group of men working the event removed Little Bunny FuFu from the ring by tossing him out to land head first on the ground. They began to assemble a steel cage around the ring. The rules of the fight were simple: Two women from Bum Fuck Egypt (more than likely crack whores) would enter the cage. Then the very same Black Mamba dildo, now slightly bloody, would be raised above the ring. The first trick to grab the dildo got to use it on her opponent for 30 minutes after the match, while the whole crowd watched.

It took about 45 minutes to set up the ring. To buy time the promoter hired a local stage magician. Most tragically, he was killed that day, during a stunt gone horribly wrong. He announced to the crowd that he had acquired special powers that allowed objects to pass through his body with no harm to him. Hubris! Well, before he could attempt cutting himself in half, he was shot in the face with a sawed-off twelve gauge, then stabbed thirty times with a switch blade. So much for that shit; if it had only been David Blaine.

A portly gentleman stood in the middle of the ring with a cane in one hand and a glass of Chivas Regal in the other, cigar in his mouth.

As the bartender handed me a drink, I became fixated on a beautiful woman. My next thought was, How can I get her in my bed?"Ladies and Gentleman. Degenerates and Sick Fucks, Pimps and Hoes, Outlaws and Kings!" he proudly proclaimed. "I wanna thank everyone for coming out tonight and making this the best Arizona Bike Week, ever! I promise, what you're about to see is gonna shock you. You'll be talking about this shit for weeks. Well, without further ado, let me introduce tonight's fighters…"

I figured that there was enough time for me to grab a hot dog and go to the bathroom. This was a gamble because I had a front row seat. Naturally, I darted toward the pisser. Much to my dismay, there was a line. While in line to urinate into a steel trough, I lit up a cigarette.

"No! Smoking!" said a frail-looking man.

I took a long drag from my cigarette and looked him over. He was a sawed-off little fuck with a chip on his shoulder. Maybe a buck ten soaking wet. Not much of a threat to anyone.

"You know, I'm terribly sorry about this. It's my fault." I said this to make him think he had won.

He had no idea what was about to happen. I moved closer, apologizing profusely, the cigarette still lit between the fore and middle fingers of my right hand. He opened his mouth to respond. I jammed the lit cigarette into his gaping pie-hole.

"HUZZAH!" I screamed as I drove my right foot into his testicles, forcing them into the cavity of his lower abdomen.

"Great Jesus. This man's on fire!"

I then proceeded to relieve myself, on his body. I was sure to catch him in the eyes. As I zipped up I told him, "Cigarettes will kill you. But so will a smart ass mouth."

I was so infuriated by that insolent little prick that I didn't feel like sticking around. Everywhere you go, there's always one asshole. They want everyone to compensate for their bullshit needs and deficiencies. I got in the Ferrari and headed for the hotel.

I arrived at the Ritz Carlton still enraged.

"Good evening, sir," said the doorman.

"How in the fuck do you know what kind of god damn evening I've had?" I barked.

I then went to room 373, to my king-sized bed, popped a few Valiums, and drifted to sleep.


I woke up early that day and made a call to Rolling Stone, to inform that I had arrived and was in fact covering the event. My editor, James Thompson, told me that a press dinner was taking place in the ballroom of my hotel. Free food and free drinks would be provided, so I was sure to attend.

I arrived at the bar at 6:30, a half hour before the dinner was to commence. The bartender from the previous night was off duty. Good! God knows my world is strange enough without that pig vomit lurking about.

I went up to the bar and ordered a glass of straight rum with ice. As the bartender handed me the drink, I became fixated on a beautiful woman. Her hair was wavy and her smile was enticing. She was well built, probably a swimmer. My first thoughts were about what she looked like naked. My next thought was, how can I get her in my bed?

I made my way to a table near the back and lit a cigarette. I began debating with myself about how to approach her. She probably has a boyfriend, I thought. Taking a long sip of my rum, I stared deep into the glass. Setting the glass down I noticed she was heading toward me. Shit! OK! Act normal and maybe you might score some sex tonight.

"Hello," she said in a soothing voice.

"Well, hello to you," I said firmly, then smiling.

She told me her name was Anna Lauren and that she was a photographer from a New Orleans magazine. She was very easy to talk to and easy to look at.

"Do you mind if I buy you a drink?" asked AL, Anna Lauren's moniker.

Well I figured, what the hell, why not. I mean how often is someone at Arizona Bike Week? I took her up on her offer and soon one drink turned into five or six. Each time she would go up to the bar alone and return with drinks. But for some reason I began to feel somewhat sick. My balance was off and vision blurry. This was very rare because I developed a high tolerance for alcohol while spending a year on tour with Green Day, drinking toxic amounts each night. I considered myself a professional who never lost control.

I had lost track of time and had no earthly idea where AL was or what she had done to me. Fucking bitch, at least I got free drinks. I stumbled into my seat in the ballroom, which elicited unwanted stares from those in the vicinity. The room began to spin fast, very fast. Then darkness.

I awoke at the table. The seating arrangement was as follows, starting from the left: Adolf Hitler, Pat Baggins (myself), Michael Phelps, Colonel Sanders. We were engaged in a discussion on US Foreign Policy.

"I really have to say that I'm impressed with George Bush's leadership," said Phelps in a nasally voice.

"Ich denke, dass er große Bälle hat," barked Hitler. However, there was a major communication barrier as none of us spoke German. I could tell Hitler was dismayed because he really wanted to voice his opinion.

"Ich spreche mit Ihnen," he screamed, this time banging his fist on the table. He nearly knocked my drink off.

"Hey! Knock that shit off! Be a gentleman," I said, trying to gain control of the conversation.

"You are a most foul creature. Here in America we speak the language of English. If I was to travel to your homeland, then I would speak German there. It's common courtesy," lectured Colonel Sanders.

Hitler became very enraged. My senses told me that he could understand English and probably speak a little. Hitler was beginning to twitch.

"F-Fuck you!" stammered Hitler in plain English. He then spit in the face of Colonel Sanders.

The Kentucky Colonel became filled with rage. He stood up from his seat, cane in hand, and began to thrash Hitler thoroughly. Michael Phelps tried to break up the fight but had his Achilles heel slashed from a blade hidden in Hitler's boot. I could see that things were about to spin out of control. The police were certainly on their way.

I had to make a quick exit. Because of the RICO statues in this country, I would become a felon just for speaking with Hitler. Oh yes! I associated with a criminal (Hitler) before he committed a crime. Even though I didn't know him or what he was planning, I was guilty. It was in my best interest to leave the country immediately, go where they do not extradite. But before I could do that, the dizziness returned. The darkness filled all around me, I was lost in the black.


Arizona Bike Week had been a complete success. Early estimates suggested that almost 750,000 bikers rolled into town for the week. The grand finale, a Bruce Springsteen concert, was taking place at the local fair grounds. I would not be attending this bullshit. I had already made plans to fly to Las Vegas for a Playboy Party. In fact as I type these very words, I'm seated in first class on United Airways flight UA239.

If there is one thing to be learned from this weekend, it is to never trust a good-looking woman. Especially if she is offering free drinks.