What happens is, I get some letters every now and then, and I usually answer those motherfuckers one by one, personally, because I ain’t no fucking Hollywood douchebag like some of these motherfuckers who pretend they ain’t got the time to put the personal touch on their got-damn fans. They got the time. What they don’t have is that special Sam Jackness I got going on that makes me want to sit down and type out some shit to little Betty Lou in Omaha or bADdMOFOjR@bumfuck.net.

I thought I’d share some of this shit with you. Their questions and comments are their own fucking typing, so don’t be sending me no Strunk and White handbook telling me to correct my fucking grammar and spelling. I know how to write proper. These motherfuckers don’t.

Hi, mr jackson!!! I’m 5 years old i live in florida and my momma says you r my daddy. will you help me by a bike? i promise i’m a good kid. --Davey L.

Davey:

Boy, fuck your got-damn momma, cause I sure as shit never did. All my got-damn kids live in my got-damn house, and they got three motherfucking bikes a piece. Make your tired old momma get off her damn ass and go down to the Wal-Mart and buy you a bike her own damn self. And stay in school, motherfucker--someday you might be famous enough to have some bitch claiming you the father of her illegitimate crotch-fruit. Keep it real!

I ain’t one who looks at porn. It ain’t cause I’m a prudish motherfucker or nothing. It’s cause I got me a great got-damn wife.

(Love you Baby. You the only reason I Sam Jack it. Smooches!)

I might do a lot of dumbass shit in my trailer when I'm off on location, but one thing I ain’t doing is spanking the little Sam Jack to some hot-ass porn streaming on the internet. Why'd I want to do that when I got the best motherfucking woman in the world back home?

So imagine my total motherfucking surprise when I typed “digital camera self-pic thong” into my Google image search, and the below picture popped up. I mean, shit, man, all I wanted was to find my fine-ass wife a sexy thong and a digital camera--I had no got-damn idea that I’d be presented with this:

There's a lot of bullshit that pisses Sam Jack off. I get pissed off the way most motherfuckers sneeze or scratch their ass or vote Republican. I get pissed off the way motherfuckers enjoy the smell of their own disgusting got-damn farts. It's a predilection of mine that I never expect but tend to revel in when it happens. And right now I'm got-damn pissed off at young men who don't know how to do a flaming got-damn shot of alcohol.

There ain't no telling why this is pissing me off. But a quick search on youtube sure as got-damn shit proves that this is a worthy motherfucking pissed-offness in need of some Sam Jack attention.

Don't believe me? Take a look at this shit:

First off, you motherfuckers need to know that there’s an article in Vanity Fair about Bill Clinton, and how he’s been macking up on some actress named Gina Gershon and flying around with Ron Burkle on a private airplane called the Air Fuck One. There’s some other shit in the article, and you can go read it your got-damn self because I ain’t your personal got-damn secretary, summarizing shit for you like I ain’t got nothing better to do.

Second off, you motherfuckers need to know that Bill Clinton is so motherfucking pissed off at that Vanity Fair piece that the guy can’t see straight. He’s sputtering around like a got-damn Edsel. Here’s what he said to some poor reporter he literally clutched onto like grim motherfucking death and refused to let go:

"You know [Vanity Fair reporter Todd Purdum] didn't use a single name, cite a single source in all those things he said. It's just slimy. It's the most biased press coverage in history.”

Give me a got-damn break, Mr. Former President. The motherfucking reporters have a right to be biased against your ass, or do I need to bring up a certain “I did not have sex with that woman” incident that ended up being a bald-faced motherfucking lie direct from your lips to the press’ pencil-tips? You want me to remind you of that bullshit, motherfucker?

But the motherfucker continues:

“It's another way of helping Obama. They had all these people standing up in this church cheering, calling Hillary a white racist, and he didn't do anything about it.

They weren’t calling her a racist, you cigar-poking motherfucker. They were calling you a racist.

"The first day he said 'Ah, ah, ah well.' Because that's what they do..."

“They,” motherfucker? Who the fuck is “they?” You mean black people? Is that what "they" do?

It ain’t easy, what I’m about to write. But I’m hoping you’ll keep in mind that this is Sam Jack writing at you, and Sam Jack can be cool even when he’s doing lame-ass shit like starring in a buddy picture with Eugene Levy.

That said, I’m about to swallow my own Sam-Jacksticles and write about “Sex and the City.” Again. Because I liked the got-damn show and fuck you.

I just rewatched the last episodes of that shit, and all I got to say is, Motherfucker, you got to be kidding. That show was a good got-damn show. Why'd they have to go and fuck it up?

If you ain’t seen the last episode, which is a two parter as if they couldn’t get all the predictable got-damn bullshit into one thirty-minute block, then let me sum that shit up for you: Carrie goes to Paris to find her own identity, realizes she ain’t got shit unless she’s got other people ooo-ing and aaa-ing over how got-damn unique she is, grabs onto the motherfucker who treated her like shit for six got-damn years, and flies her ass back home so everyone can continue ooo-ing and aaa-ing over how got-damn unique she is. And as far as I can tell, the only unique got-damn thing about her is that she considers a tutu formal wear. And I don’t mean a tutu as formal wear like she’s doing Swan fucking Lake at the Met. I mean formal wear like “It’s perfectly got-damn acceptable for me to be walking down a got-damn sidewalk wearing a got-damn tutu like I’m Bjork” or some shit.

That bitch would rather find a got-damn shoe sale than a raison d'motherfucking etre.

Warning: I’m about to unleash a whole shit-storm of Skull-fucking spoilers, so if you ain’t seen the new Indiana Jones movie yet you might want to move along to some other motherfucker’s blog.

I got a long got-damn list, but I’ll simplify that motherfucker down to five of the most severe screenplay offenses.

1. What the fuck was up with Irina Spalko’s one-time-only psychic friends network bullshit at the beginning of the movie? That bitch, played by Cate Blanchett, tried to read Indy’s mind -- or at least she held up one hand to his face and did that “I’m trying really hard to either orgasm or read your thoughts” facial expression that says to me that she was trying to get all Miss Cleo on his ass. Does she ever try it again with anyone else? Hell naw. Maybe she realized how stupid she looked the first got-damn time and decided a sword was more effective.

2. Monkeys? Really, motherfucker? An army of greaser-coiffed primates? Gimme a got-damn break. I swear, I ain’t got no got-damn clue what kinda fucking furry fetish George Lucas has got, but between the monkeys and the Ewoks, I can understand why that motherfucker can’t stay married.

3. FBI agents that appear at the beginning of your motherfucking movie being all hard-assed and suspicious better by damn be at the end of your motherfucking movie being all apologetic and exoneration-minded. What’d the agents do in this movie? Not one got-damn thing except provide some exposition bullshit that didn’t mean one got-damn thing because not one got-damn thing in the movie made any got-damn motherfucking sense. Those agents were just drawing attention to the fact that there ain’t one bit of logic going on anywhere near Indy in his old age. It’s like the motherfucker has a logic vortex around him.

Y’all might remember the bullshit that went down a few months back between me and Jack Thompson. If you don’t, you’re a better got-damn person for it, because it turns out that Jack Thompson ain't no more useful than a drunk frat boy looking for a motherfucking pledge to haze.

I ain’t in the mood to go into a bio on Jack Thompson. If you’re needing it, google the motherfucker and keep a fucking bottle of Pepto handy.

What I am in the mood for is to go off on the motherfucker, and kick him while he’s as down and out as a hooker in Grand Theft Auto.

One way to put this shit is that Jack Thompson, Atto, found out yesterday the difference between psychosomatic symptoms and somatic symptoms. Motherfucker found out that blaming pretend bullets shot into pretend people ain’t got one got-damn thing to do with real violence going on in real societies. If the motherfucker had half a brain, he’d’ve known that. But the motherfucker had a pretend brain which was framed and placed over his desk in the form of his now useless got-damn law degree.

Another way to put this shit is that Jack Thompson is a fucking moron who ain’t worth half the motherfucking attention being paid to his scrawny ass. Instead of bitching about the bullshit that has some real got-damn impact, like wars, poverty and how society has a fucked-up need to watch "Two and a Half Men," he’s spent his life getting all pissed off at gamers doing fake things.

Let me tell you what you gonna see in this youtube video:

You gonna see a dumbass motherfucker in shorts (with his got-damn shirt-tail tucked in, like shorts are some got-damn formal wear necessitating a tidy t-shirt tuck) and flip-flops willingly stand still long enough for some other dumbasses to shoot him in the balls with a high-speed tennis ball.

And then you gonna see him get interviewed about how that shit felt.

Now, I ain’t above base humor. I spent more than my fair share of time watching that America’s Funniest Home Crotch-Shots shit, but this has got to be the first got-damn time I ever seen some white-ass cracker stand still long enough to let his balls be racked as hard as a Minnesota Fats pool table.

What ain’t funny about this video is that they keep saying dude is doing it for science, as if we need some investigating into how men feel when they have a high-velocity object shove their got-damn nuts half way up their torso. You want to study that shit? Yell ‘Cunt” at a Hillary Clinton rally. Don’t make some poor fool moron in shorts and flip-flops stand in the middle of no got-damn gym while you shoot felt balls at him. At least make that fool moron earn the shot to the gonads.

Ya’ll already know about my after-credits cameo in Iron Man. And if you don’t, fuck you. Get out the got-damn house and go see the motherfucking movie. What ain’t being talked about is my cameo after the Sex and the City credits. I ain’t supposed to say nothing, but it’s so got-damn cool I got to pass this shit along.

It goes down like this: Samantha, that hot older bitch played by that chick that was in Big Trouble in Little China, comes home after a long night of fucking everyone in Manhattan, and she’s tired, right. She’s walking funny and her lipstick’s smeared and she smells like Skyy vodka and KY.

She opens her door and the camera cuts to a wide got-damn shot of her impossibly huge loft apartment. There’s a dark figure standing at a window, looking out at all the sex going on in that got-damn city.

Samantha pauses as the door slowly closes behind her, cutting off the light coming from the hallway. The dark figure--me, motherfucker--turns from the window. “Got-damn,” I say. “Samantha Jones.”

“Who are you?” Samantha asks, moving her tight ass slowly across the hardwood floor towards me, and she's scared, yeah, but she's also just as motherfucking excited as you would be if you came home to find Sam Jack loitering around your got-damn windows.