On the other 364 days of the year, my favorite thing to do is stretching out on the family room carpet—widening the crotch of my knock-off, tribal printed Zubaz pants to its polyester blended limits—while being inspired by my homemade VHS mixtape of the training montages from Jean-Claude Van Damme's movies. But on October 29th, in anticipation of Halloween, my favorite thing to do is pumpkin carving—of course, also while wearing my faux Zubaz and watching JCVD exact his revenge, culminating with a 360 degree, split leg kick delivered to a foreign looking villain's face.
Last year, I decided to carve my pumpkin—just as JCVD carved up Tong Po in the final fight of Kickboxer—using the "ancient way." I wrapped my hands in my mom's discarded turquoise yarn (she hates that color because it reminds her of the birth stone ring my dad gave her just before she caught him with the 19 year-old mall worker who sold it to him), coated them with Krazy Glue, and then dipped them in a shoebox full of broken Miller Lite bottles. Just like Van Damme in the final fight of the movie, I bled at first, but eventually overcame my squat, seed-filled opponent. Take a look at the results.
At the time, I had just founded the DOJO, and thought a pumpkin on the front porch was an excellent opportunity to get the word out—something people in the marketing biz call "raising brand awareness." Unfortunately, after only a couple of days, my branded pumpkin became extremely moldy and collapsed upon itself. Probably from the weight of all that "awareness."
Two days ago, I readied myself for the rematch. Not wanting to reopen the scars on the back of my hands I got from last year's carving, I abandoned the "ancient way," and instead decided to use the "modern way"; that is, a steak knife. Different method, but same result.
I laid down some newspaper on the coffee table, positioned my pumpkin nemesis, and popped in my coveted Kickboxer DVD. Everything was going well, with me keeping focused on my handiwork and only listening to the dialogue, until the scene where Van Damme kicks the tree. When I looked up to watch—"What? You want me to break my leg?"—I continued carving. Right as Jean-Claude knocked over the tree and fell to the ground, clutching his bruised and bleeding shin, I stabbed my left hand, which was bracing the inside of the pumpkin. Which had me clutching my bruised and bleeding palm—except Mylee wasn't there to treat it with a damp cloth and some Thai TLC. With the adrenaline from watching Van Damme knock over the tree still pumping through my veins, I was able to finish my knifing of the pumpkin's face, before passing out on the floor and staining my beige carpet.
This time, I used a more conventional design, in the tradition of the Jack O'Lantern. However, this Jack has an unconventional facial hair design. My intention was a Jack O'Lantern interpretation of Van Damme's brother from Kickboxer, Eric Sloane—the one who, despite being paralyzed from the waist down by Tong Po, continues to rock, from the neck up, one of the baddest, bad-in-a-good-way mustaches ever featured in film. You could call my pumpkin carving an Eric O'Sloane-tern.
Because of the puncture wound in my palm, I won't be able to make a fist for a while. I'll still be safe, though, when walking home alone at night—like my sensei, I do most of my ass-kicking with my feet.
Sign up! And receive an e-mail every other Friday about the latest MOJO from the Van Damme DOJO. I can't promise you'll get in better shape. But I guarantee your cheeks will hurt.
I was born with two things, one being a full head of hair. The other? A full upper lip of hair. Pause. That's right, I'm telling you I was born with a mustache—and not a baby version, either, but a wreath so thick it would have made Grouch Marx raise his greaspaint eyebrows. The sight of me certainly made my mom's eyebrows jump. "Is it a mutant!" (Sadly, as it turned out, no, despite wanting-in-the-worst-way to attend Charles Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters.)
A mustached childhood presented many challenges—"Ma'am, there's no way he's under 12. I'm going to have to ask you to remove him from the ball pit."—among them choosing a Halloween costume. Just like college co-eds who must dress as a slutty version of whichever horror archetype they choose—"Oh, I know Stacey, you're a vampire! Who makes extra cash as an escort?"—I was forced to be a mustached version of whomever I mimicked. In second grade, I went from door to door in my neighborhood as A.C. Slater, calling all blonde-haired boys "Preppie" along the way. But every parent guessed I was Cheech Marin. It broke my heart, realizing I wasn't ever going to be an X-Man or the host of an entertainment news program.
There are two things she wants to suck. And only one of them is your blood.
As I got older, I learned to incorporate my mustache into my Halloween costume, treating it as the cost-effective first step toward recreating the look of a famous mustached figure. I had it all wrong by attempting to be mustached versions of clean-shaven celebrities, seeing my 'stache as a costume liability. Now I know better, viewing my flavor saver (Or savor? Think about it.) as an authenticating asset. And yes, smooth-faced doubters, there are plenty of recognizable mustached faces to choose from other than Howard Taft, the last President whose upper lip was handlebar-ed.
This is my early treat to you, fellow Mustached Americans who feel they have no other option this Halloween than putting on a skirt, knee-high hooker boots and a Sarah Palin mask: a list of five famous Mustached Americans you can dress up as and be confident that others will correctly guess your visage. I've provided links to the necessary costume elements, along with their individual prices, and also a final price quote for the entire outfit. The price of a picture of you dressed as one of the following alongside a Slutty Vampire? That, my friend, would be priceless.
Research: Watch this YouTube vid of Slaughter demonstrating the Cobra Clutch. You may need to apply it to the neck of anyone who questions your patriotism or maligns your mustache (Slutty Vampires included).
Response: If anyone gives you sh** about your costume, reply with "Don't be jealous that I've been chatting with babes all day." Or "Your mom goes to college."
Tip: Bring the gloves along in case anyone suggests your fists are paralyzed too. Or if they pet the perm.
Sign up! And receive an e-mail every other Friday about the latest MOJO from the Van Damme DOJO. I can't promise you'll get in better shape. But I guarantee your cheeks will hurt.
It's well known that behind every story, there's another story—one that's often told. But it's the story behind that story that often goes untold. And that's where the DOJO steps in, to tell the story behind the story that was behind the original story. Did somebody say story? I'd like to tell you something—the story's story's story. The Story. Opening in theaters this Friday is Sex Drive, the latest R-rated exercise in teensploitation. What's it about? You mean—well, duh!—besides a high school boy's quest to cure himself of that un-coolest of conditions, virginitis. A synopsis from the movie's Web site, www.sexdrivethemovie.com:
Eighteen-year-old Ian Lafferty sets out on a cross country drive with his best friends Lance and Felicia in order to lose his virginity to a red-hot babe he met on the Internet. But the journey, filled with hilarious misadventures and raunchy escapades, teaches all three more than they expected about life and love. Randy, raucous and unexpectedly romantic, Sex Drive follows three friends on the road trip of a lifetime!
Apparently, this Sex Drive is about taking American Pie on a Road Trip. But will the journey turn out super good or Superbad?
Sombrero-wearing donuts—the only laborers cheaper than Mexican migrants.
Superbad, the late summer hit of last year, was a success both critically and commercially, earning an 87% Tomatometer and $121,463,226 in domestic box office.
Michael Rechtshaffen, in his review for The Hollywood Reporter, writes "the raunchy "Sex Drive" is by no means "Superbad," but thanks to a likable cast, neither is it superbad." Guess I'm not the only who couldn't resist a bad pun—excuse me, a super bad pun.
Perhaps Sex Drive should aim for the more modest goal of surmounting Superbad-starring Michael Cera's latest teen-o-rama drama, Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist, which cumed $6.4M last weekend, it's second. With it's Manhattan setting and skinny jean wardrobe, Nick and Norah is more narrowly focused on the hipster types. But Drive seems more widely appealing. I mean, who doesn't enjoy a dick joke that tickles the homophobic bone?
Apparently, critic Richard Corliss, who describedSuperbad as "an avalanche of d--- jokes and strenuous slapstick." I wonder which mountain-based, natural disaster-themed metaphor he'll use in his review of Sex Drive. "A mudslide of c--- humor"?
The Story Behind The Story Playing Ian's best friend-with-a-penis, Lance, is Clark Duke. Maybe you recognize him as Dale from ABC Family's Greek. That is, if you're into watching "a new kind of family"—only the newest kinds of families have kids who are boozing underage and bumpin' uglies pre-maritally. You can't see the cutting edge when you're standing on it, folks.
In NNIP, Norah's best friend-chewing-ABC-gum, Caroline, played by Ari Graynor, manages to provide the movie's most entertaining moments, despite her secondary status (which is why she's now on my Infinite Babelist). Could Clark Duke as Lance do the same scene-stealing in Sex Drive?
Ian, when he isn’t getting skull-punched by his older brother (James Marsden is in top form here) is gaping at the exploits of his buddy Lance. Lance has glasses, a moon-shaped face and a belly. Obviously he is a total chick magnet - thanks to the performance of Clark Duke, who gives Lance so much completely unearned self-esteem that he actually does seem like the kind of guy who could date about six levels above his gene pool. Check him out in the jail scene: The guy commands respect faster than Tony Montana.
Dating six levels above his gene pool? Sounds like the movie career of Seth Rogen, who's next movie, Zack and Miri Make a Porno, has him sloppily seducing Elizabeth Banks, the babe Steve Carell hit on in the bookstore in The 40 Year-Old Virgin.
Sorry, but you're only five levels above my gene pool.
I'd say that Clark Duke, soft around the everywhere and classically un-handsome, looks to have a shot at being the next Seth Rogen, needing only the script to his own Knocked Up. And perhaps Judd Apatow will deliver it—a real possibility, given that Clark is real-life friends with Michael Cera. But who he looks like is someone completely different from Rogen. Someone who isn't even the same sex.
The Story Behind The Story, which was behind The Original Story. After a Google image search of Duke, clicking through Greek and Sex Drive promo pics, I realized that he reminded me of another teen movie character. But I couldn't coalesce the cobwebs of memory into a recognizable face, so I did what I always do when I need some quality thinking time.
And halfway through my peanut butter and jelly on 100% wheat, one triangle of the diagonally-cut sandwich consumed, the character's face came into focus. Who?
Laney Boggs, portrayed by Rachael Leigh Cook in 1999's She's All That and a Bag of Chips. If you don't remember, Laney is the four-eyed art geek Freddie Prinze Jr. bets he can turn into prom queen. The one who, in the process of her Extreme Makeover, he didn't bet on falling for. The same one who he didn't bet on finding out about his bet on her, and yelling in his face, "Am I a bet? Am I a F@*&ING BET!" But did they eventually reconcile in her backyard, sharing an after-prom dance beside the in-ground pool, below the twinkling night sky? You bet!
And I bet Zach Siler wouldn't have guessed, nor anyone else who's thoughts aren't fueled by PB&J, the resemblance between the bespectacled Lance and Laney.
Same hair stylist.
Same style of specs, same taste in shirts. Same cup size?
I've got another idea, thanks to the other triangle of my PB&J. If Zack and Miri does well, they should make a sequel, titled Lance and Laney Make a Porno. The plot? Lance makes a bet with his best friend that he can get any girl to make a porno with him...
Sign up! And receive an e-mail every other Friday about the latest MOJO from the Van Damme DOJO. I can't promise you'll get in better shape. But I guarantee your cheeks will hurt.
It's well known that behind every story, there's another story—one that's often told. But it's the story behind that story that often goes untold. And that's where the DOJO steps in, to tell the story behind the story that was behind the original story. Did somebody say story? I'd like to tell you something—the story's story's story. The Story. Last Friday, opening in theaters, along with Beverly Hills Chihuahua—which appears to be Legally Blonde performed by dogs?—was Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist. It's an old-fashioned angsty, teen-centered rom-com—a formula first made bankable by filmmaker John Hughes in the 80s with The Breakfast Club, Sixteen Candles, etc.—shoved into skinny jeans, an iPod in the pocket playing the latest you've-never-heard-of-so-obviously-they're-super-cool bands. With a pinch, make that fistful, of gay thrown in to make it both trendy and progressive (sort of like supporting Ron Paul in the primaries). Simply put, Nick and Norah is a love story for today's under-twenty somethings. That said, maybe it's more like an I-like-you-a-lot, "let's be f. w/ b." type story.
There's nothing I like more than tight jeans on teenage girls—well, besides Jean-Claude Van Damme doing the splits between kitchen counters, like he did in Timecop to avoid electrocution. So, of course, I was at my local theater's first showing, sharply at 10:15 a.m. Central Standard Time, settling my faux Zubaz-covered legs into a middle-of-the-aisle seat. And I was hoping to have to cross them to hide my excitement for one of the Urban Outfitted starlets. Maybe for Michael Cera too? The tag of my Zubaz imitations says 50% Cotton, 50% Polyester; but it feels like there's a percentage pinch of gay woven into the teal color, tapered legs and zebra print design.
Apparently, nobody wanted to be out of breath while sucking down their gallon-sized soda.
The Story Behind The Story. NNIP's movie-postered lady-lead is Kat Dennings, playing the titular Norah. It's been three years since Kat was introduced to many movie goers as Marla, Trish's daughter in The 40-Year-Old Virgin, in which she showed a lot of, ahem, "promise," so to speak.
"I told you so, Mom. The stripes make them look even BIGGER! He's not even going to notice my eye makeup."
Just as audiences are asked to accept that twentysomething actors are believable as teenaged, they're also asked to swallow the fact that certain ostensibly attractive ones are average-looking. Here, you're supposed to accept the facade that Norah, with curves a Pakistani cave couldn't hide, is a brainy, non-popular blip, so cloaked by her hipster musical taste and un-slutty wardrobe, as to be undetectable on the radar screens of most high school boys—the ones who are allegedly focused on Nick's ex Tris, a seemingly put-together collage of 16-year-old boys' wall pinned Maxim pages that, like Dr. Frankenstein's creation, didn't coalesce as intended. Sure, Norah pales in comparison to Tris—but only because of a darker spray coat added to the latter as a final lifelike touch by her creators at the closest L.A. Tan. Yes, Norah's certainly the worthy muse of the homemade mix tape CDs soft-at-heart Nick is prone to compiling, complete with original Sharpie penned art. However, she's not the one that forced me to cross my faux Zubaz.
Introducing Ari Graynor, playing Norah's attention-seeking, Gatorade-spiking b.f.f. Caroline. She's a blonde, life-of-the-party boozehound, who had me love-drunk in the theater with my pants tent-popped.
She gets wasted in the movie's first act, staying so for the rest of the movie. So wasted, in fact, she gets lost, propelling the plot through the second and third acts, and providing much of the comic relief.
In a running gag, her ever present chewing gum (not always present in her mouth) travels drunkenly along with her, going person-to-person and place-to-place—including, during the obligatory gross-out moment, into a public bathroom toilet bowl.
After fishing out the gum—and, yep, throwing it back into chomping rotation—she stumbles upon an off-duty cook (chef, maybe, with the hat?), who's got Caroline's favorite drunken snack in his lap. Before your mind goes to the gutter, watch this clip.
Earlier this week, in a USA Today article about Graynor, author Donna Freydkin writes "If you don't yet know Ari Graynor, she'll stick with you after seeing Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist." Just like a well-chewed piece of gum sticks on the styrofoam container, while you take down a turkey sandwich, waiting to be your breath-freshening dessert.
In response to that Today interview, the pop culture blog of New York magazine asks, Is Ari Graynor Your Next Indie Crush?" A commenter wrote "I saw this girl quietly dry hump Kelli Garner's leg in a play once. She's good." I'll take that as a "yes."
Here's Graynor with the flowers I sent her. The attached note reads "Dear Caroline, Want to go camping? I've already pitched a tent. Love, LamBam."
The Story Behind The Story. Which was behind the first Story. Just kidding, those flowers weren't from me. Although, I did serve detention and attend mandatory counseling for writing that same note to my middle school crush. The flowers are probably—hate to break it to the rest of you who, like me, have fallen into lust for the Indie Crush—from her boyfriend, also an actor, named Eddie Kay Thomas. The name doesn't ring any bells? Didn't for me either. Then I found a picture of the two.
She's dating Finch from American Pie! Are you thinking what I'm thinking? Isn't Ari, only 25, a little young for the man who first coveted and then triumphantly made coitus with Stifler's Mom? I guess his MILF-worship was just a phase, something he grew out of—just like the Pie movies, which, Finch-less, are now direct-to-video spin-offs with colons punctuating the titles and credits still including Eugene Levy.
How'd they meet? No, it wasn't in the basement recreation room at a prom after-party. According to this blog post—the writer of which describes Ari as an "adopted sister"—they met while working in an Off-Broadway play called "Dogs Sees God." I wonder if she was impressed with his maturity. Or his Stifler-given nickname, "shit-break."
So what has Mr. Thomas moved on to, from big-screen teen comedies? Maybe adult-oriented romantic comedies, like former co-star Jason Biggs in the recent My Best Friend's Girl? Nope. Small screen, werewolf-themed dramas on ABC Family, for their 13 Nights of Halloween. The made-for-TV movie is called "Nature of the Beast." It's about Rich (Finch) and Julia, a couple about to get married, who's relationship goes terminal after Julia finds out about Rich's beast-like nature. They struggle to find a cure, eventually finding another way besides a silver bullet or stake in the heart. "But is the cure worse than the curse?", the show's Web site asks. This ABC Family is, without a doubt, a new kind of family.
"Nature of the Beast" airs later this month, on October 21st. I'll be sure to tune in. During these trying economic times, a movie free of charge is that much more enticing. Especially one about an engaged werewolf who nearly eats one of his fiancee's relatives. As I'm watching, my faux Zubaz-ed legs reclined on my faux leather couch, I'm sure I'll wonder if Ari is doing likewise. Despite her status with Eddie, I haven't given up my Indie Crush yet. As the movie poster for NotB points out, every relationship has its issues.
Sign up! And receive an e-mail every other Friday about the latest MOJO from the Van Damme DOJO. I can't promise you'll get in better shape. But I guarantee your cheeks will hurt.
The 80s was a decade of acceptance for the mustache, although declining with each year closer to the 90s. It was a starkly different attitude from today's marginalization of the lip sweater as warming only the mouths of molesters and porn stars. (Just the other day, a "friend I know"—who coincidentally also happens to wear a Selleck-esque 'stache and knock-off Zubaz pants, medium sized, like mine—after respectfully inquiring to the 7-Eleven clerk as to why Miller Lite was stocked, but not MGD 64, was disrespectfully referred to as a "Ron Jeremy wanna-be.")
So, of course, being a hit 80s TV show like Magnum, p.i., MacGyver showcased a slick-an-thick mustache. However, unlike Magnum, it wasn't on the face of the show's star: it was on the grill of MacGyver's best friend, the high-flying Jack Dalton, played by Bruce McGill in 19 of the show's 139 episodes. He was an aviator by trade who wore a "walrus" by choice.
Mustache Mondays at the Van Damme DOJO Presents:
The Swiss Army 'Stache: A hairy utility tool that can MacGyver you out of any situation.
Jack had a weakness for falling victim to various get-rich-quick schemes, the escapes from which always required the help of his best bud MacGyver. Did Mac come to the rescue with a machine gun in hand, like Chuck Norris—whose bearded face is pictured in the margin next to "brawn" in Webster's—did during the 80s in his Missing in Action films? No, my friend.
You knew Jack was lying when his left eye twitched. You knew he was flying when he wore his "peaked" cap.
MacGyver used his brain—a mullet covered cache not of ammunition, but of practical applications of scientific principles—to jury-rig an escape with his pocket-ready duct tape and Swiss Army knife, using whatever items were within reach, not excluding the seemingly unavailing chewing gum piece, ballpoint pen or paper clip.
As the quote says, a paper clip can get you out of a tight spot. Conversely, a haircut like that can get you into a "tight spot."
As the bomb-mounted clock counted down toward zero, ready to trigger a limb separating explosion, MacGyver saved the day with his wits, not his weapons, embodying a hero trained by the textbooks of physics, instead of the armed forces. And that, my friends, is why Chuck Norris has become an Internet punchline, and why MacGyver is now a globally used verb. From Merriam Webster's Open Dictionary:
MacGyver (verb): To practically apply scientific or engineering knowledge in the inventive use of common items. Variant of "to Macgyverize." Jim was able to MacGyver my car by replacing the broken radiator belt with my pantyhose. Submitted by: morjana from California on Oct. 05, 2005 12:39
MacGyver never wore facial hair while working as a special agent, first for the government's Department of External Services, then for the non-profit think tank called the Phoenix Foundation. I think a mustache could have helped him in the field. Granted, his spy work didn't necessitate seducing women, à la James Bond, which is the, shall I say, main thrust of the mustache's pleasure-centric powers. But one of its auxiliary ones is storage, in a manner of speaking. And here's a situation I dreamed up, where the shelf-like properties of the mustache could come in handy:
Gotta get out of this prison cell. Think! I need an adhesive to attach this paper clip as a trigger on my ballpoint pen gun. Dammit, I gave my last piece of gum to Dalton after he had chili dogs for lunch. Wait. I had a PB&J. Please, Jesus, let there be leftovers. [Licks mustache with tongue] Yes! [Attaches paper clip to ballpoint pen with mustache-stored peanut butter. Shoots prison guard in eye with bullet tack and escapes.]
Although Richard Dean Anderson never acted as MacGyver while sporting a 'stache, he was pictured as a Mac-in-'stache. In "Hell Week," the ninth episode of season three, MacGyver returns to his alma mater, Western Tech, where he studied physics under Nobel Prize winning professor Julian Ryman.
In a scene where MacGyver and Ryman first reunite in the science building, they reminisce about Mac's time there under Ryman's guidance, during which he earned a spot in the school's physics hall of fame—sort of like the football one, except the girls you get after inauguration wear Sarah Palin-style glasses. In the middle of the conversation, the camera cuts to the below portrait. Although not mentioned in the episode, I bet the photo was published in the school newspaper: It's black and white and readmustached all over.
In the fifteen years after MacGyver graduated college, the acceptance of mustaches decreased. However, the acceptance of male hair highlights increased.
In May, at Maker Faire 2008, the creator of MacGyver, Lee David Zlotoff, announced his plans to develop a MacGyver movie for the big screen. Zlotoff told crowd members at the Faire that he has the movie rights, and with them, full control over the film (article at Gizmodo). But he didn't provide any further details, and since then, no official announcements have been made concerning the project.
It begs the question, Would Zlotoff bring back Richard Dean Anderson to play MacGyver?
But that begs the question, Does Richard Dean Anderson still have the MacGyver-portraying goods? Watch the following MasterCard advertisement from the 2006 Super Bowl and judge for yourself.
Absolutely, he's still got the goods! And by goods, I mean an air freshner, a tube sock, paper clip, ballpoint pen, rubber band, tweezers, nasal spray and turkey baster. But what about the peanut butter?
In July, a blogger from cinemablend.com interviewed Anderson at Comic Con, asking him about the MacGyver movie project.
When I asked him what’s up with the project Anderson said, “I have heard something actually. I guess it might be happening.”
Whether or not he’ll be in it or whether it’ll actually get done is something else entirely. The best he could give me there was an “I honestly don’t know.” If they are doing it though, the original MacGyver says he’s “absolutely” ready to jump in and revisit the character on the big screen.
I hope Zlotoff makes the movie with Anderson as MacGyver. And I pray that it'll integrate a sub-plot of flashbacks to a college-aged MacGyver, during his hall of fame days at Western Tech. Who to portray a Young MacGyver? How 'bout the son of MacGruber! I wonder if Shia can grow a mustache thick enough to store leftover peanut butter...
Sign up! And receive an e-mail every other Friday about the latest MOJO from the Van Damme DOJO. I can't promise you'll get in better shape. But I guarantee your cheeks will hurt.
Subscribe to my feed and you'll be notified whenever I post new MOJO to the Van Damme DOJO. "Subscribe to my feed"? Sounds like I've got a new way to ask ladies to play on my jungle gym.
Do you suffer from a disease known as Unsexiness? Well, I've got the cure. Let me spell it out for you: J-C-V-D. The man called Jean-Claude Van Damme, who everyone forgot about in the late 90s. Everyone except me.
For the last ten years, I’ve molded myself into a mirror image of Jean-Claude by mimicking the training montages from his classic 80s movies, like Bloodsport and Kickboxer. I emulated everything about him: his handsomeness, physical prowess, chiseledness, charm, and, above all, his sexual appeal.
Can you see the resemblance? Of course you can. Seriously. It's uncanny.
While I was in training, Americans turned their thoughts from being in shape, to eating shapes—like onion rings, ice cream cones, and cheese squares. Now, everyone’s one shape... round.
I transformed myself from a Screech Powers look-a-like into A.C. Slater's body double by following JCVD's example. Now, I’m ready to be an example for others, reflecting JCVD’s gilding light on a fast-food culture that loses its breath just talking about the newest, sloppiest burger at Hardee’s.
If you begin to put JCVD in your life, instead of that burger in your mouth, you’ll start to feel better too. And more importantly, you’ll look better. How do you begin? Check out my movie, MOJO by DOJO. What should you do next? Let me spell it out for you: J-O-I-N!
The key to makin' babies with hot ladies? A butt like Van Damme.
Can't convince anyone to make babies with you? I bet it's 'cause your butt looks like a plastic grocery bag. Full of banana peels. If you ever want a girl to play in your jungle gym, you're gonna have to take out that garbage in your back pockets. My sensei, Jean-Claude, has two petrified hams for a butt. And did you know that he has kids on every continent? Yep. Even Australia. What can you do to get a butt like Van Damme? You gotta blast it!
MOJO by DOJO: A short film with high kicks and low calories. And firm butts.
In danger of drowning in its own obesity, America needs a life preserver. It needs the buoyant ring of fitness that is my sensei, Jean-Claude Van Damme. My short film, MOJO by DOJO, shows fat-asses and other sexually unappealing types how they can imitate Jean-Claude in order to reveal their inner sexiness. So do your part to help save this great nation, and spread the word about MOJO by DOJO. It's your patriotic duty!
Are you suffering from TMJ disorder, dealing with symptoms like locked jaw, neck pain and headaches? And you're searching for relief? A dentist can help! Find a TMJ dentist in Phoenix, Arizona who specializes in the treatment of Temporomandibular Joint Disorder. And find relief!
Sergeant Slaughter from the WWF
Thomas Magnum from Magnum, p.i.
Kip from Napoleon Dynamite
Bo "Bandit" Darville from Smokey and the Bandit
Eric Sloane, brother of Van Damme in Kickboxer who was paralyzed in the ring by Tong Po
