[American Chainsaws]

Seeking Refrigerated Owner Operatiors for Reality TV Show

American Chainsaw Entertainment is a Los Angeles based entertainment company represented by ICM that was started in 2006. We have a strong history in development and production in reality television shows. Currently we have Diamond Divers and Rat ######## that are airing on Spike TV with two new show in pre production that are coming out later this year on HGTV and The Discovery Channel. We have personally created and sold shows to MTV, Food Network, FUSE, BET, Spike and G4. In addition we have produced shows for NBC, ABC, A&E, TLC, E! Entertainment, Fox Reality, History and The Discovery Channel.

To gain further information about us, please feel free to check out our website at American Chainsaws Entertainment .

What we're looking for

Currently, American Chainsaw is seeking out Refrigerated Owner Operators for a casting call to possibly be on a new reality show. We are looking for individuals that own ONE (1) to THREE (3) Trucks and Trailers. Below you will find in detail what we are seeking and ask that you to send us this information to possibly be considered for this reality show.

REQUIREMENTS

1. Must be a refrigerated owner operator that runs solo or team.
2. Has the authority to driver all 48 Stated.
3. Can provide proof of insurance - Both Cargo and Liability.
4. Submit no more than a one (1) page Bio about yourself along with explaining how long you have been driving in the trucking industry OR if you have a video camera, you can submit a video bio of yourself that is no more than 5 minutes long.
5. Submit pictures of the following.
a. Head Shot
b. Body shot
C. Truck
D. Trailer
E. Truck and Trailer shot.

To be considered for this show, Please submit your information via Email to - [email protected]

Deadline for all entries must be received by 08/31/2012.

Thank you and good Luck!

[Roadhog]

............................​Roadhog


pssst... hey can you guys give the doofus driver a French accent this time, instead of a hillbilly accent?

[Malaki86]

That'll be an exciting show. Just think, 6 hours of a driver sitting in a grocery warehouse waiting to get unloaded.

[Roadhog]

Scene 1, take 4; Roadhog begins his 3rd day out
Title;
RestRoom Cell Phone

...and ACTION...

All in all, it hadn't been a good day. Bad traffic, Trailer tire flat, incompetent dockworkers and a sore back all made me a seething cauldron of rage. But more importantly for this story, it had been over forty-eight hours since I'd last taken a dump. I'd tried to jumpstart the process, beginning my day with a bowl of bowel-cleansing fiber cereal, following it with 24 oz. mug of coffee, and adding a bean-laden lunch at Taco Bell. As I was planning for a Truck Stop to park for the day, my insides let me know with subtle rumbles and the emission of the occasional tiny fart that Big Things would be happening soon. As I was cruising down the Interstate, I noticed a large sale sign proclaiming, "Everything Must Go!" This was prophetic, for my colon informed me with a sudden violent cramp and a wet, squeaky fart that everything was indeed about to go. I hurried to the nearest Rest Stop.

I surveyed the five stalls, which were numbered 1 through 5;

1.Occupied
2.Clean, but Bathroom Protocol forbids its use, as it's next to the occupied one.
3.Poo on seat.
4.Poo and toilet paper in bowl, unidentifiable liquid splattered on seat.
5.No toilet paper, no stall door, unidentifiable sticky object near base of toilet.
Clearly, it had to be Stall #2.

I trudged back, lined up with the door and backed in, dropped drawers, chocked my heels and sat down. I'm normally a fairly Shameful ****ter. I wasn't happy about being next to the occupied stall, but Big Things were afoot.
I was just getting ready to bear down when all of a sudden the sweet sounds of Beethoven came from next door, followed by a fumbling, and then the sound of a voice answering the ringing phone. As usual for a cell phone conversation, the voice was exactly 8 dB louder than it needed to be. Out of Shameful habit, my sphincter slammed shut. The inane conversation went on and on. Mr. ****ter was blathering to Mrs. ****ter about the ****ty day he had.
I sat there, cramping and miserable, waiting for him to finish. As the loud conversation dragged on, I became angrier and angrier, thinking that I, too, had a crappy day, but I was too polite to yak about in public. My bowels let me know in no uncertain terms that if I didn't get crapping soon, my day would be getting even crappier.

Finally my anger reached a point that overcame Shamefulness. I no longer cared. I gripped the toilet paper holder in one hand, braced my other hand against the side of the stall, and pushed with all my might. I was rewarded with a fart of colossal magnitude -- a cross between the sound of someone ripping a very wet bed sheet in half and of plywood being torn off a wall. The sound gradually transitioned into a heavily modulated low-RPM tone, not unlike someone firing up a Harley. I managed to hit resonance frequency of the stall, and it shook gently.
------
Once my ass cheeks stopped flapping in the breeze, three things became apparent: (1) The next-door conversation had ceased; (2) my colon's continued seizing indicated that there was more to come; and (3) the bathroom was now beset by a horrible, eldritch stench.

It was as if a gateway to Hell had been opened. The foul miasma quickly made its way under the stall and began choking my poop-mate. This initial "herald" fart had ended his conversation in mid-sentence.
"Oh my God," I heard him utter, following it with the suppressed sounds of choking, and then, "No, baby, that wasn't me (cough, gag), you could hear that (gag)??"
Next door I could hear fumbling with the paper dispenser as he desperately tried to finish his task. Little snatches of conversation made themselves heard over my anal symphony: "Gotta go... horrible... throw up... in my mouth.... not... make it... tell the kids... love them... oh God..." followed by more sounds of suppressed gagging and retching.
------
Alas, it is evidently difficulty to hold one's phone and wipe one's bum at the same time. Just as my high-pressure abuse of the toilet was winding down, I heard a plop and splash from next door, followed by a string of swear words and gags. My poop-mate had dropped his phone into the toilet.

After a considerable amount of paperwork, I got up and surveyed the damage. I haven’t punished a toilet this severely in weeks. My God it was a Guinness Book Grade Rembrandt. This was definitely a 3 or 4 flusher. That’s if it doesn’t over-flow…then you have to just escape and evade.

As I left, I glanced to the next-door stall. Nothing remained in the bowl. Had he flushed his phone, or had he plucked it out and left the bathroom with nasty unwashed hands? The world will never know.

I exited the bathroom, momentarily proud and Shameless, looking around for a face glaring at me. But I saw no one. I suspect that somehow my supernatural elimination has managed to transfer my Shamefulness to my anonymous poop-mate. I think it'll be a long time before he can bring himself to poop in public -- and I doubt he'll ever again answer his cell phone in the loo. And this, my friends, is why you should never talk on your phone in the restroom.


....AND CUT...

[firebird_1252]

Originally Posted by Malaki86

That'll be an exciting show. Just think, 6 hours of a driver sitting in a grocery warehouse waiting to get unloaded.

just wait till a snow storm closes the room or the "whats that light mean?!" and the truck is just gonna regen.

[American Chainsaws]

Originally Posted by Roadhog

............................​Roadhog


pssst... hey can you guys give the doofus driver a French accent this time, instead of a hillbilly accent?

HAHA - Thats funny.. I cannot guarantee that, but it could be possible depending on who applies.. We are looking for roughly 6-8 drivers to do this show and we've been getting some pretty interesting feed back on this so far.

[American Chainsaws]

Originally Posted by Roadhog

Scene 1, take 4; Roadhog begins his 3rd day out
Title;
RestRoom Cell Phone

...and ACTION...

All in all, it hadn't been a good day. Bad traffic, Trailer tire flat, incompetent dockworkers and a sore back all made me a seething cauldron of rage. But more importantly for this story, it had been over forty-eight hours since I'd last taken a dump. I'd tried to jumpstart the process, beginning my day with a bowl of bowel-cleansing fiber cereal, following it with 24 oz. mug of coffee, and adding a bean-laden lunch at Taco Bell. As I was planning for a Truck Stop to park for the day, my insides let me know with subtle rumbles and the emission of the occasional tiny fart that Big Things would be happening soon. As I was cruising down the Interstate, I noticed a large sale sign proclaiming, "Everything Must Go!" This was prophetic, for my colon informed me with a sudden violent cramp and a wet, squeaky fart that everything was indeed about to go. I hurried to the nearest Rest Stop.

I surveyed the five stalls, which were numbered 1 through 5;

1.Occupied
2.Clean, but Bathroom Protocol forbids its use, as it's next to the occupied one.
3.Poo on seat.
4.Poo and toilet paper in bowl, unidentifiable liquid splattered on seat.
5.No toilet paper, no stall door, unidentifiable sticky object near base of toilet.
Clearly, it had to be Stall #2.

I trudged back, lined up with the door and backed in, dropped drawers, chocked my heels and sat down. I'm normally a fairly Shameful ****ter. I wasn't happy about being next to the occupied stall, but Big Things were afoot.
I was just getting ready to bear down when all of a sudden the sweet sounds of Beethoven came from next door, followed by a fumbling, and then the sound of a voice answering the ringing phone. As usual for a cell phone conversation, the voice was exactly 8 dB louder than it needed to be. Out of Shameful habit, my sphincter slammed shut. The inane conversation went on and on. Mr. ****ter was blathering to Mrs. ****ter about the ****ty day he had.
I sat there, cramping and miserable, waiting for him to finish. As the loud conversation dragged on, I became angrier and angrier, thinking that I, too, had a crappy day, but I was too polite to yak about in public. My bowels let me know in no uncertain terms that if I didn't get crapping soon, my day would be getting even crappier.

Finally my anger reached a point that overcame Shamefulness. I no longer cared. I gripped the toilet paper holder in one hand, braced my other hand against the side of the stall, and pushed with all my might. I was rewarded with a fart of colossal magnitude -- a cross between the sound of someone ripping a very wet bed sheet in half and of plywood being torn off a wall. The sound gradually transitioned into a heavily modulated low-RPM tone, not unlike someone firing up a Harley. I managed to hit resonance frequency of the stall, and it shook gently.
------
Once my ass cheeks stopped flapping in the breeze, three things became apparent: (1) The next-door conversation had ceased; (2) my colon's continued seizing indicated that there was more to come; and (3) the bathroom was now beset by a horrible, eldritch stench.

It was as if a gateway to Hell had been opened. The foul miasma quickly made its way under the stall and began choking my poop-mate. This initial "herald" fart had ended his conversation in mid-sentence.
"Oh my God," I heard him utter, following it with the suppressed sounds of choking, and then, "No, baby, that wasn't me (cough, gag), you could hear that (gag)??"
Next door I could hear fumbling with the paper dispenser as he desperately tried to finish his task. Little snatches of conversation made themselves heard over my anal symphony: "Gotta go... horrible... throw up... in my mouth.... not... make it... tell the kids... love them... oh God..." followed by more sounds of suppressed gagging and retching.
------
Alas, it is evidently difficulty to hold one's phone and wipe one's bum at the same time. Just as my high-pressure abuse of the toilet was winding down, I heard a plop and splash from next door, followed by a string of swear words and gags. My poop-mate had dropped his phone into the toilet.

After a considerable amount of paperwork, I got up and surveyed the damage. I haven’t punished a toilet this severely in weeks. My God it was a Guinness Book Grade Rembrandt. This was definitely a 3 or 4 flusher. That’s if it doesn’t over-flow…then you have to just escape and evade.

As I left, I glanced to the next-door stall. Nothing remained in the bowl. Had he flushed his phone, or had he plucked it out and left the bathroom with nasty unwashed hands? The world will never know.

I exited the bathroom, momentarily proud and Shameless, looking around for a face glaring at me. But I saw no one. I suspect that somehow my supernatural elimination has managed to transfer my Shamefulness to my anonymous poop-mate. I think it'll be a long time before he can bring himself to poop in public -- and I doubt he'll ever again answer his cell phone in the loo. And this, my friends, is why you should never talk on your phone in the restroom.


....AND CUT...

OH MY - You guys are a riot! In a good way of course... Too Funny

[Roadhog]

Originally Posted by American Chainsaws

We are looking for roughly 6-8 drivers to do this show and we've been getting some pretty interesting feed back on this so far.

How about the title of the show? You could call it "Reefer Madness"

[mitchno1]

Originally Posted by Roadhog

How about the title of the show? You could call it "Reefer Madness"

you get some flowers for that one hog ,hope they not roses haha

[Roadhog]

.....