Archive | June, 2009

MAILBAG III: Second Punch, First Kill, Part 3

14 Jun

Sorry this is late. I had a friend who said he’d write a guest blog for today and didn’t. I’m not going to name any names, but if you e-mail me, I’ll give you his name, address, and other contact information.

Ok, you know the drill. Let’s get to screwin’.

I ordered a water at a fast food restaurant recently and was given a tiny, transparent plastic cup about half the size of the normal cups which are reserved for the people who order Coke. This happens every time I go to a fast food restaurant. I mean am I less thirsty just because I like to drink water? I was just wondering if you think America would be less fat and I would be less pissed if the water cups and the Coke cups were switched. Please help me.

–Nolan Cox, Highland Village TX

This is an excellent question. It is one that philosophers and scientists have grappled with for centuries, eons–hours, even. I consider myself a philosopher and a scientist, so the pattern goes on. I have a simple answer for you. Why are you given the clear cups? Because when fast food restaurants go through their sales at the end of the quarter, they tally up how many drinks they sold partially through the number of “Coke” cups they hand out. It’s also how they know how many health-conscious consumers they boned. There have been numerous times that I’m ordering a combo, because it’s faster, and I just get a drink so I get more for my money (water being free, water covering 70% of the earth, water being the most readily available natural resource in existence beside air, which is one of the ingredients of water). I’ve always thought that maybe they give water-drinkers the small cups as a way to push them back to drinking/buying their drinks. It’s like when people come to me and want me to give them an autograph, but without buying a licensed “Iron Kyle” photograph. To kind of steer them back towards buying the photo instead of me signing on a napkin or movie stub, I sign all un-official autographs like this:

autographI’m not sure if they actually get the message or not, but to make the difference in service clear, here’s what I give paying customers:

Please, please, please don't tell James Woods. Please don't.

Please, please, please don't tell James Woods. Please don't.

So, in summary, laziness, apathy, and glandular disorders make people fat, not plastic cups. I think if the cups were switched, you’d never order Coke again, taking millions out of the hands of fast food moguls, sending our economy into a tail spin that could only result in you living in an abandoned warehouse, peeing in a corner and rimming other vagrants for canned corn. That would sure as hell piss me off, so no, I don’t think you’d be any less pissed if they switched the cups.

Question Answer Rating: SMASHED!


One day I was walkin’ through campus after it had rained and I didn’t want to soak my feet or the bottom of my pants, so I might have tip-toed through some puddles… Is that gay?

–Sam Miller, Denton TX

Hm. Tip-toeing through puddles sounds pretty effeminate. However, what would be even gayer (meaning more fitting with homosexual culture) than tip toeing is if you found a male puddle and had sexual relations with it. As long as you tip toe with an angry, begrudged look on your face, you’re OK. If you giggle and accidentally drop your satchel, you may appear “gay.” Good luck out there, Sam.

Question Answer Rating: DOMINATED!


Our lifetime has seen an exponential increase in social technology. It seems more than ever we’re communicating through technology. Do you think we as a people are becoming less efficient communicators when we’re actually together?

–Lanny Thompson, Waxahachie TX

Lanny, great question. I thought for a long time about how to answer this question, and decided that the best way to analyze this issue was to dive in head first through empirical study. I met a woman on the internet, talked to her for a few days, and decided to meet up for a date. Here’s a transcription.

We met in a park in Denton, TX. She was sitting on a green, corrugated picnic table.

“Hello! Are you Kyle?” She holds out her hand.

“Hey.” I say, standing stock still. She slowly lowers her hand.

“How are you?” She asks.

“Fine. U?” I ask. I’m a good conversationalist, and am putting on a clinic in communication right now.

“Fine… Is that a frisbee you brought? I’m so bad at that. I can’t throw it more than like…two feet.”


“What? Did you just say ‘lol’?”

“Haha. No. Brb.” I turn around as if I needed to do something, but quickly realized there was nothing for me to do. There’s about 20 or so seconds of gut-wrenching silence.

“Kyle, are you feeling OK?”

“Uh, I dunno. LMAO. BBL. BRB! GTG! Oh, fuck–” I throw up all over her feet. She left after that.

So, to answer your question, God in heaven, yes. Technology is a strong contributor to our disintegrating social skills.

Question Answer Rating: BONED!


Is there a way to tell a girl you don’t know that she smells good without sounding creepy?

–Seaborn Sanders, Lewisville TX

Are you telling your significant other that she’s smelling good? If she is your significant other, you can compliment her fragrance without fear of being creepy. If she isn’t, well then no, there’s practically no way to tell her without sounding as creepy as a hairless cat with a hat on. *shivers

Question Answer Rating: MODERATELY RESOLVED!


Do you think boxer briefs effectively hide my thunder?

–Jack McGraw, Flower Mound TX

Stop e-mailing me. Stop writing me letters, stop calling my home. I’m telling you, that restraining order isn’t some kind of fucking joke. It’s real. Stay away from me, and stay away from my family.

Question Answer Rating: TROUNCED!


Where does “Kyle Irion” end and “IronKyle” begin?

–Jason Fieldman, Fort Worth TX

Oh my, that’s quite a question. IronKyle begins when the Lord of Hosts looked upon the void that was and spoke out his command for existence to commence. I think that was in like, 1987, or whatever. Let there be light. Let there be light. Kyle Irion ends when you cut his head off or shoot him with a silver bullet.



Well, there you go, everybody. Another mailbag in the books. All of these questions were sent to me by you, the people, the readers, the oil that greases the IronKyle machine my life blood. Later gators.

Oh yea, one more.

I want to hear more about C double R-E-D. Can you tell me more about the band C-Double R-E-D?

–Angela Frayre, Waxahachie TX

Angela is referencing a conversation we had in which I spelled “Creed” with two “R’s.” Isn’t she mean? I think she is. But anyway, Angela, here’s an update. Creed will be performing on Fox and Friends Morning Show on June 26th at 8 AM EST. They’re beginning a summer tour in support of their yet to be released new album, tentatively titled “Full Circle.” They’ll be in Dallas on September 22nd.

Question Answer Rating: TAKEN HIGHER!



12 Jun

Do you like presents? I do too.

I love the presents.

Well, here’s my present to you. You can now subscribe to my blog via the “KYLE TO THE MINUTE” icon on the right of your page. So, instead of checking back here only to be disappointed on no update days, you can just check that. Do it. I’m actually not sure if it works or not, so let me know.

Vanessa Quilantan Bio

11 Jun

This is Vanessa Quilantan: writer  and creator of

Yea, thats her.

Yea, that's her.

She asked me to write the biography section of her site. I’ve known this woman for roughly a month, so a biography seemed a bit daunting. Then I remembered that I also wrote an entry about time travel, then another one about me interviewing with the CIA, and told my doubts to shut the fuck up.

The last time I saw her I let her borrow my auxiliary cable for my iPod, and you know what? She gave it right back. That’s the kind of girl she is. Anyway, I wrote this entry for her site, but I think it’s pretty good on it’s own. So just read the damn thing, then go to her site and subscribe the shit out of it.

Hi, I’m Kyle Irion, writer, CEO, president, and Czar of

When Vanessa approached me about writing her biography section,  I was a little leery–because she approached me in an alley and had a gun.

However, after talking it over with Vanessa, and roughly a half hour of crying into a mirror, I decided it was a pretty good idea. We decided to do an interview, a round table, a back and forth. We held our meeting at a lovely little coffee shop in Denton– just a hole in the wall, mom and pop place called “Starbucks.”

“Hello Vanessa, I’m glad you agreed to this public, well-lit location.” At this point, I’m still absolutely terrified by Vanessa Quilantan.

“No problem, Kyle. No problem.”

“So, let’s get started. Tell me a little about yourself and the site.”

“Well, in July I’ll be twenty. I’m about to move to Denton permanently with my best friends. I’m really excited to start my adult life, although it feels like I’ve been an ‘adult’ for a long time. Soon I’ll move out of my mom’s house for the first time–”

“THAT sucks.” I say.

“What sucks?” She asks.

“Moving out of mom’s place. I love mom. Lot’s of ice cream.” I rub my hands together and smile broadly.

“I…I want to move out of my mom’s place. I want to go out and be myself, not my mother’s daughter.”

“Vanessa,” I say. I’m going to try to sound intelligent and cultured. “Your last name–Quilantan, it sounds ethnic. It also sounds like a weapon that would be used on Star Trek. What’s the deal?”

She laughs and waves her hand at me playfully. I stare straight ahead and wait for her answer.

“…” I wait.

“…” She shifts uncomfortably in her seat.

“Where the hell is your name from?” Probably somewhere weird, I thought.

“It’s Spanish.” Yep. Weird. “I’m a quarter Spanish, a quarter Apache, a quarter Mexican, and a quarter Austrian.” I take a few moments to make sure her math is right. Then, finding it correct, decide to tell her about my own mixed heritage.

“I’m half white and half Caucasian.”

“Those are the same thing. White and Caucasian–they mean Anglo-Saxon.”

“Hm. That sounds smart. You must be smart, you’re on the internet. But please, go on– more about yourself.”

“In the fall, I’ll start college. I’m excited to be in a place that fosters creative thoughts. I want to spend my formative adult years in a place that encourages free expression.”

“Formative is a big word.”

“Mhm…” She pauses. “And really, I created the site to kind of document my progress and evolution as an artist.”

“Artists.” I roll my eyes and display a wry grin.


“You guys are crazy. So kooky. Can we get cookies after this?” She ignores this question and takes a sip of her coffee.

“FUCKING HOT!” She screams. “Why the FUCK is this so hot?! I hate this god damn place!”

I cringe at her use of bad words.

“Hey, hey dude!” She points at the man behind the counter. “This is what I think of your coffee!” She then spikes the coffee like a football, inciting a small explosion of coffee at her feet. “AND IT RUINED MY FUCKING SHOES!” I was about to tell her that it ruined her shoes because she spiked it inches from them, but at this point, I was still scared shitless.

I show her a yellow clutch purse (Where did this purse come from?) and throw it into the parking lot. She chases after it.

“OOH! SO cute!” Vanessa yells as she prances out of the coffee shop. I  lay a five dollar bill on the counter and walk away. As I leave I hear the clerk saying that our order was actually nine dollars. Turns out by “I’ll pay for it,” Vanessa meant she’d just take someone else’s order as the barista put it out. (I know what a barista is. Thanks, college!)

We finish our interview on the drive home. I’m driving because Vanessa has warrants out, like me. Mine are for parking violations. When I ask her what her’s are for, she just looks out the window and, half whispering, says “Loving too much, Kyle. Loving too much.”

I’m still scared shitless.

My First Metal Show

8 Jun

Welcome back.

You ever heard of metal? Metal is what most cars are made out of. “Metal” is also a word I scream while playing Metal Gear Solid. But what I’m-a talkin’ about is a genre of music called “Metal” (pronounced METAAAAAL).

My friend/sometimes-roommate Lanny has a friend from some accounting classes that plays in a metal band(METAAAL). His band was playing at a bar called “Andy’s.” My band was playing the next night at a place called “Kyle’s.” It’s just down the way from “Kitchen’s” and right next door to “Bathroom’s.”

Anyway, after adequately “pre-gaming” by listening to some really hard music of my own, we piled into Lanny’s Tahoe and off we went for a night of metal.

Oh, yea. Time to rock. We get to the venue and Derek is noticeably giddy. He gets giddy all over himself in the parking lot and we have to go home for a change of pants.

When we get to the club, I’m one of probably six individuals not wearing a black t-shirt. It’s a bizarre sea of sweat-tinged, 100% cotton blackness. I walk in and put my hands out in front of me like I can’t see.

“OH no, Lanny!” I say loudly. I look over at Lanny then close my eyes, miming with my hands extended. “I can’t see anything! There’s so much black in here! It’s so dark in this room! Haha, Derek! Look at all these t-shirts! So many blacks!” I feel the soft, leathery dampness of human skin colliding with my hands. The room gets noticeably quieter. I open my eyes, laughing to myself. I love it when I joke. I’ve run into an African American man sitting at the bar. When I see what I’ve done, .8 oz. of urine exits my body through my urethra.

“Oh, man. I’m really…sorry.”

“What did you mean, ‘It’s dark in here’?” He asks me. He looks upset.


“I said, what did you mean ‘It’s dark in here’? So many blacks, you said? What’re you sayin’?”

“I’m sorry. It’s too dark, I can’t hear you.” I make an “I dunno” face and walk past him, looking for the bathroom. When I get out of his line of sight I break into a slight run.

When I finally find the bathroom, it’s behind the stage, and I walk directly behind the drummer for the first band. I give the drummer a nice little tug on his underwear.

“WEDGIE!” I yell.

“FUCK YOU!” He yells.

I give him a dollar not to hit me after the show.

I continue into the restroom. The soap is held in a ketchup bottle, there is no toilet seat, and the door has been beat to hell. It looks like it’s just withstood an assault from a battering ram. I need to get one of those.

We get a spot up on the balcony. I’m a perfect throwing distance from the band, which, really, doesn’t mean that much coming from me, considering that with this arm, EVERYTHING is within throwing distance.

The singer for the first band, D****** (Name changed because I can’t remember it.), gets on stage and starts singing. Then, he stops singing. He talks to me in a deep, frightening,  gravelly voice. It sounded like what an angry alligator would talk like if he spoke English instead of Alligator.

THANK YOU ANDY'S! What a fucking nightmare.


I’m so scared. I drink whiskey to make the fear go away.

Things are now so much more badass. There’s this semi-attractive photographer girl talking to me. I may/may not have told her/allowed her to believe that I was in a metal band. At one point, she asks me about the club and I mention the open mics every Tuesday. She asked me to write down the day and time of the open mic on her napkin. It wasn’t until I write down “Tuesday at 8:00” that I realize she thinks I’m playing on Tuesday. This is okay with me. Lying doesn’t count when it’s at a metal show. When it’s at a metal show, it’s called “RIGHTEOUS OVERTURNING OF THE CORPORATE, ACCEPTED PRECEPTS OF THE GOD FEARING OVERLORDS.”

A few seconds after I “lie,” the young lady pushes me back two feet and takes a picture of me. I step forward to continue our conversation. When I do, she pushes me back and takes another picture. I grab her camera and politely ask her to delete the photos. I tell her it’s because of my Native American heritage (“Lie.”), that I can’t be photographed for fear of having a part of my soul stolen. In all actuality, it was for fear of the feds finding the photos and subsequently finding me then me subsequently finding myself in jail for a 2001 narcotics-related arrest warrant.

I tell her I’ll buy her a drink and then we both go downstairs. I throw a wall-ball into the distance and she chases it. Then Lanny, Derek, and I shake hands with the band, then each other, then leave.

It was a fantastic, metal time.

Look at this Video

8 Jun

By Wesley Alford


4 Jun

I’m writing this in 5 minutes. It’s for Sam. He’s at work and I’m going to save him from boredom.

You know what’s awesome?



You know what I love?



I was in traffic yesterday and guess what happens? Oh yea, you know. I feel my bladder start to scream. It’s time to pee pee and I’m not wearing my bag. Shut up. It isn’t gross, it’s efficient–and exciting for you. Imagine us having a conversation. We’re having a lovely talk, enjoying each other’s company, and then you start getting a little inkling: “Is he urinating right now? How does his bladder feel? Good, I hope.” Yea.

So, I have to pee really, really bad. Unfortunately, I’m in traffic, where people will be sitting next to me for minutes at a time, completely able to look down into my car and see my golden flow (my pee). I get into the left lane, closest to the HOV lane, where there are less people to see me. I decide that now is the time. So, I undo the button and zipper of my pants, unlatch my chastity belt, pull back the velcro of my astronaut underwear, take off my penis’s tiny top hat, remove my penis’s tiny bat man cape, and peel back the novelty “WIDE LOAD” sign I made for my scrotum. I then look around coyly and get a Whataburger cup from my back seat. I look from my left…to my right… There’s nobody on my left, and the trailer of an 18-wheeler on my left. It’s time to go. I lower the cup below my penis and am about to start when the 18-wheeler pulls away, revealing the scene of the accident causing the traffic–and about 6 police officers. They look over and I quickly try to cover up. In the frenzy my penis begins flailing about like a child’s sprinkler toy. I scream and put up my hands to protect my face from the ammonia and gold dust.

An officer steps over to my car. I’m terrified. I start to put my penis’s clothes back on, but I’ve hardly got the top hat fixed when the officer is at my window.

“There something wrong here? Oops, your penis is out.”

“What? Oh, oh no! How did you get there, you little bastard?” I waggle my finger at my penis playfully. I then waggle my penis playfully and ask the cop the same question.

Sam. I’m at the Denton County Police Office. Can you come and bail me out? Oh, and please bring my penis a change of clothes.

BINGO! A blog in five minutes. Thank you for reading, now go read some more of my crap.

Kyle 2030

3 Jun
“Kyle?” The top of the letter reads.

I begin to answer “Yes?” but quickly realize I’d be addressing a piece of paper and stop before I embarrass myself.

“Got you.” The next line reads. Damn it. Who wrote this?

I scan down to the bottom and a chill runs through me. It reads:
“Hugs and Kisses, Yourself in 2030.”

I read the letter. *Cut to me in 31 years, writing letter to me in the past. I’m ripped as hell.

Dearest Past Kyle,
How’s it going? Don’t bother telling me. I already know. I’m from the future, remember? Isn’t time travel screwy?

The Future: Nothing like this.

The Future: Nothing like this.

Anyway, just a few things I’d like to give a heads up on. First of all, don’t sweat the fifth season of Lost. The sixth one, which you’ll be watching in a couple of months makes it all totally worth it. And please stop pitching your “Sawyer is an alien from the planet Sexy sent to make the world beautiful with his seed,” theory. That’s so off the mark I’m tempted to tear up this letter and use it as litter for my grizzly bear’s pen. Oh yea, we get a grizzly bear. Isn’t that badass? It’s still illegal, though, so don’t show this letter to any pigs–really, pigs. In my future there’s this totally bizarre Animal Farm thing going on. Pretty fucked up.

This is who I voted for this year. God, I disgust me.

This is who I voted for last year. God help us.

Oh, another thing. You know that recession everybody was so scared of? Turns out it was a just an incredibly elaborate Punk’ing. Just as the government is on the brink of collapse, Barack preparing to declare martial law, Ashton Kutcher stepped out from behind the flag in the Capitol Building and everybody burst out into relieved laughter. President Barack was the most vocal. ‘No you didn’t! Oh, No you didn’t! I can’t believe this!’

Savior of Democracy. Annoying as fuck.

Savior of democracy. Annoying as fuck.

Also, some personal things. You’re going to find out very soon that garlic crackers make you extremely gassy. Very soon after that you will find out that garlic crackers are one of the snacks to be served before your best friend’s wedding. Please. Don’t do it.

Okay. Bachelor’s parties are fun. Defecating in your hotel’s swimming pool is not. Come on, man.

Beware of scorpion women.

Hugs and Kisses, Yourself in 2030.

P.S. Remember to zip up your fly before you leave for work today. Oh, that’s right, you’re an unemployed bastard. Remember to zip up your fly before you sit on your ass and watch Wes play Zelda for a couple of hours.

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