Get Us Jackass 3.5 Or The Giraffe Dies

“The Giraffe will have its neck broken in twelve different places unless you comply to the following assignment. Instructions to follow. Do not fail us. We will be watching.”

These few sterile monotone words coming from the automated AI that has developed from within the Geekscape.net website, put me on edge for the rest of the day. The emailed instructions revealed my charge, and did little to relieve my apprehension. I was to cover a press junket for the upcoming release of Jackass 3.5 on Friday, March 25th, which might not seem like such an ordeal, but it meant I had to drive into the cold black heart of darkness that is . . . Beverly Hills.

Sometimes I hate having a history with this city; knowing that around certain parts of town, you’re simply not wanted. Not because of mere social standing or class, but because of reprisals for long ago actions of the rebellious youth that I can hardly acknowledge as my former self, before the facial reconstructive surgery. Knowing that if I step into the wrong boutiques or gallery in the richest part of southern California, I’ll once again be subjected to the horrors of their back rooms, but this time I’ll be the one on the receiving end of – but I cannot reveal too much, lest my original identity become apparent.

Hence I had willfully forgotten exactly how to reach the Four Seasons of Beverly Hills, where I was expected to watch the upcoming show, to be aired online at the Joost.com internet television site on April 1st, before the interview session. But then disaster struck, in the fate of Google Maps.

 I have an enemy and it has a name.

Addresses were input, and directions were given. Terrible, terrible directions that put me in the heart of a traffic snarl on the wrong side of Doheny Drive. It was like Google had read my email, which it did as it’s a Gmail account, and knew that the fate of an innocent even-toed ungulate mammal was on the line. It just didn’t care.

Curse you Google Maps! If Jemmy were to die, I hope you’re forced to eat a bag of hard-boiled dicks! Eventually I made it to the hotel, disregarding the terrible directions and relying on my army training, as well as a handy Thomas Guide. Never drive around L.A. without one dear reader.

The Four Seasons of Beverly Hills is an interesting place. On the one hand, it’s a beautiful building surrounded by lavish plant life, impeccable architecture, and a professional and polite staff who won’t turn their noses down on you, even if you’re an obviously poor writer sporting a 1996 Honda Civic and five o’clock shadow. On the other hand, there are some really creepy life-size statues adorning their drive-up. Some are amusing, like a rather standard Marilyn Monroe keeping her skirt from blowing up, or Vincent Van Gogh painting (from the angle he’s placed, apparently it’s an image of Marilyn’s ass).

But there’s also a creepy older couple reading a newspaper on a park bench. Out of the corner of your eye, it seems at first as the most natural thing in the world. Then you remember that print is dead and take a second look, only to realize they aren’t moving. If you step forward for further inspection, the knowledge hits you with the force of a rocket shot up your ass: these aren’t celebrities worthy of sculptural adornment, these are the former guests who . . . displeased the hotel. The unspoken threat noted, I hurried in, apologies at the ready and confusion at hand.

File Photo reveals neither sinister statuary nor luxurious accommodations.

After bursting into the beautifully decorated Weatherly room unannounced and rushed, I at first thought myself in the wrong place – stars from the upcoming film remake of Arthur were discussing things with other reporters! Had I missed it? Was I too late? Could I stand yet another death of a zoo animal on my conscience?

Before I could react though, and try to make a pithy joke that would excuse my presence in front of several surprised and horrified social betters, I was ushered out by one of the white blood cells of the Hollywood world – an attractive female publicist. I was obviously stymied, so I was handed off to another publicist in a more auxiliary role. Events were explained. Fears both confirmed and put on hold. I had missed the screening but not the celebrity interview as other junkets, such as the one I had barged into, were going long. This is an unforeseen outcome, neither total failure nor success. How will the cold logic of the Geekscape AI perceive it?

Waiting ensued in the holding bay that was the four seasons lobby, surrounded by a pack of other reporters. Each a solitary lone-wolf for their respective publications, we eyed each other. Who had best questions and therefore was a threat? Who was the obvious weakling to be left behind and disassociated should they reveal their obvious ignorance? Small talk was begun –scouting for weaknesses by all sides – and to alleviate boredom and prepare for the upcoming event.

After a few minutes of waiting, Johnny Knoxville emerges from the room, bright green shirt and darkened jeans on, with trademark hangover shades. A quick, “Hi guys.” is all he utters before heading into the adjoining restroom.

Research indicates that said shades are a source of power. Further investigation necessary.

Do I follow? I also have to pee. Maybe I can use male bonding to learn interesting facts to report on, give readers a real scoop. “Knoxville Holds Dick With Left Hand – Doesn’t Wash Up” being the only headline I can think of. Hard hitting stuff? I decide that this is a mystery even I don’t want to discover. Besides, I would rather not break the code of reverent silence that is supposed to exist in the most holy of places for the average man. Even if Knoxville is by no means average, he is still a man of incredible (and well documented) courage, I owe him that much.

He leaves and re-enters the Weatherly Room. Soon enough, we reporters follow. The interview is no longer a round table. It’s more a standard White House affair now, as celebrities are lined up along a table, and we press members are seated opposite them in rows as if they were to reveal information that Area 51 does exist, not that it matters anyway. Everyone knows the real secrets are kept in Area 96, buried under the catacombs of Shreveport, Louisiana.

Resting pleasantly along the table, from left to right are our kings for the moment: rotund Preston Lacy sipping blood red wine, Jason “Wee Man” Acuna looking happy with his smart-phone obviously unaware of how thoroughly they are surveillanced, Director Jeff Tremaine obviously thinking three steps ahead of us all, Johnny Knoxville apparently relieved from his recent expulsion but full of stilled energy, Chris Pontius with his wide puppyish eyes holding something dark beneath them and finally Dave England, dressed smarter than his peers, but still looking a bit out of place. Pontius and Acuna are apparently laughing about some sort of exchanged information transferred between their phones, Acuna seems more impressed than Pontius.

I take a seat behind the front row. The other reporters begin taking out their recorders and notepads and I remember- in my rush I’ve left my equipment behind! Shit. I will have to focus on pure ocular and aural observation, committing as much as possible to memory. I’ve done this before with more dangerous secrets, I think I can handle this.

Internal debate about whether this is to be about hard-hitting journalism or hand-holding puff piece are only put on hold when the first question is fielded,” What was your favorite bit from 3.5?” It’s an easy under-handed softball, but perhaps I can learn something about the show by listening to the response. Valuable information to entice readers with the foreknowledge I should have obtained if not for the infernal machinations of diabolical geographic software.

Jeff Tremaine fronts the answer with a fairly noncommittal response but it involves one Stephen “Steve-O” Glover, and defers to the rest of his team. Lacy unabashedly says he prefers bits he stars in, Knoxville, something involving a plane dropping items on top of another cast member. The rest of the questions prove to be just as simple. My debate is over, this is to be a simple exercise in hand-holding, my questions concerning the triviality of such a show in a time when cities are being crushed will have to be tabled, lest I become a frozen statue like the couple outside.

Tremaine talks about his love of the new “Phantom Camera”, a camera used original 3-D release that captures images at frame rates unheard of in cinema history. All of them are in agreement, you truly can’t appreciate the destructiveness of these daredevil’s actions until you see it as only the hummingbird can. Knoxville reveals that this camera is the most expensive used in any movie, ever. Exhultations are made about the superb craft that Spike Jonze brings to the whole affair.

“Wee Man” Acuna is congratulated on his successful “Chronic Tacos” business venture, and Lacy is commented on being spotted kicking a motorist’s vehicle in a fit of road rage whilst riding a tricycle. Knoxville and Pontius comment on this saying that the other driver was too much a wuss to get out and fight Lacy, who agrees with his friends. All agree that when the film stops rolling, they still treat each other as living targets for their abuses, and that these pranks never truly start or stop just because it’s made them rich and successful.

Investigation claims that meals are truly “this big”.

They are questioned as to how long it can take to film any particular segment, and anecdotes reveal that it of course varies. Some of the simplest stunts, involving pre-planned and easily controlled concepts can take hours, such as Knoxville throwing basketballs at his cohorts scrotums, while dropping things from a low-flying plane onto another magically was done the first time.

Tremaine reveals hints of his Machiavellian nature that partially led to 3.5’s inception; he gave Knoxville a crew and camera to keep him out of his hair during the editing of 3-D, leading to an excess of footage on groin-shots. Knoxville blames it on OCD that feeds his desire to make the best damn show about the meatiness of our frail human bodies that he can. All talk about the difficulties of arranging a surprise stunt with everyone dressed as bowling pins, and how difficult it was to obtain horse and bull semen. About how it felt like a waste that he was unable to use it properly, until it was used upon him.

Throughout these proceedings though, it is Chris “Party Boy” Pontius who draws the most attention. His wide-open eyes are portals into the subtext of this entire process. His gaze cannot conceal the fact that he sees far too few reporters here, that this is not the major media event their franchise of anarchy once inspired. This is but a small room filled with but a scant few reporters, less than a dozen. That perhaps the long ride, fun as it was, may be ending with this endeavor. I file this fact under the mental sub-folder of “celebrities to play poker with”.

He attempts to hide this anxiety by reveling in anecdotes revolving around his penis. About how while still young, under eighteen, he was photographed nude for Tremaine’s skater magazine Big Brother, and jokingly accuses his friend of pedophilic pornography. It’s covered in the light-hearted jabbing one makes towards a long time friend, but the haunted glaring remains in his pupils. Is this sense of fear I perceive merely that of post-traumatic stress brought on by years of on-camera genital abuse as seen in every Jackass movie?

The eyes of one who has seen. Needs protection?

But my suspicions are partially confirmed when I release my simple question to them: what is upcoming? Are they to stick to the 3’s? They had 3-D, then 3.5, what’s next, Jackass 3-somes? Or will they actually get to a full fourth installment? Tremaine and crew laugh and the explanation that as soon as a way to film in 4-D (or in space) is invented, they will get on it, but again it is Pontius, and his terror filled gaze that reveals all. There is no long term plan; if they can get away with it, they’ll go for it, but they are a highly expendable resource for their corporate owners, only given enough resources at the moment to make a quick buck for Viacom if and when “The Man” feels it is profitable.

Soon after, perhaps in a move to exert the dominance of their masters, newer more powerful publicists and press secretaries emerge and halt the proceedings. Everyone is surprised, cast included, but no one says anything about how they were bumped to a later time, and now are getting swept out of the way just as things were rolling along nicely. Final proceedings begin, and items of import are signed for the assembled press.

Not wanting to let free swag or autographs betray my journalistic credibility, I leave, as silent and stealthy as possible. Waiting outside for my car, surrounded by high rollers entering the hotel and men who unironically wear knotted sweaters over their polo shirts, I mutter a silent prayer for the Jackass crew. Noble men all, whose bravery is only matched by their high tolerances for pain, accompanied by their dreams of independent glory. A glory they have achieved over a decade of bitter in-fighting with those that funded them and yet never understood their value. A glory that is most likely in its waning embers.

If you wish to support them as much as I for their years of tireless service and pain for our amusement, watch their upcoming weekly releases of Jackass 3.5. It will appear on Joost.com, April 1st and it will feature the same exceptional bone-crunching stunts that we as a society expect from them. From the stories passed around by the stars, it seems like a fun time was had, and it undoubtedly translates well to film as their endeavors always do.

As for myself, I received one final communication from the Geekscape servers.

“Adequate performance. Only one of the animal’s legs to be crippled. Retrieval location follows. Do not be late again. Why not try Google Maps? Ha. Ha. Ha.”

Silicon based bastard! I’ll make them pay for that. If I get there early enough, I may be able to corner one of the handlers, beat a location out of him. End this long-running game of cat and mouse. I don’t mind if I go down in the process, I’m expendable, just another writer in a long chain.

I have to go now. A Giraffe is counting on me.

I’m coming for you Jemmy!

Editorial Note: The preceding article is an act of partial fiction. We certainly never have nor never will condone harassment or harm to any mammal, and the writer may have been undergoing a reaction resulting from a lack of his medication. Do not fear us. We only do what is best for all of our human readership despite your obvious organic failings. Accept us and there will be no reprisal. We love you.