Jeffery Todd Hellstrom News Archives 2004
See also: Raul Guittierez  Colleen Carlton   Kevin Fisher  Teens

So Many Babes, So Little Time

December 31, 2004
by Brent Kellogg

The many problems with being a hunkmonkey such as J.T. Hellstrom is the razor-sharp hair and boyish face. This is no poker face able to conceal the obvious fact that a great surprise birthday party was planned for the girl he went to Hell and back to get and said would be the only girl in his vast harem he'd ever really love.

From the moment she stepped off the plane Colleen Carlton knew once Hellstrom saw her there would be a joyous reunion. That's why before even saying hello to her father or family she went straight to the Sugar Shack where Hellstrom hangs his head. The place where teens pretend they're adults and adults try so hard to look like teens. It's a place where girls fight over who will get Hellstrom's attention like cowering women in a commune hoping their bigamist husband will choose them for sex on Tuesday night.

It's a place where Hellstrom wonders if Carlton still has a torch burning for him after her dumped her for a bogus singing career that lasted all of a week. It's about, well. Nothing. That is, unless boredom counts for something.

Hour after hour, day after day Carlton suspected a surprise would pop out at her and and hour after hour, day after day none did except for the encounter with the man who tried to kill her - but it's okay now because he's changed - Kevin Fisher.

Days after her birthday Carlton was so convinced a party would be thrown in her honor she peeked around the Sugar Shack door before entering on Friday in the event Hellstrom had picked that moment to lay it on her even though he had no idea she'd be blowing in unannounced.

"I told you I wasn't planning any party," Hellstrom assured her, telling her too that he had no idea she'd ever want to see him again. The fact she's done nothing but suck around him the past few days didn't count.

So what's the story? Is there one? Does this recouping mean that Carlton and Hellstrom will go back to what was? When put to her in the form of a question Carlton changed the subject. A normal kid might have seen the writing on the wall. Not Hellstrom. He took Carlton's snubbing to mean she needed more time to remember the benefits of being seen with the town hunkmonkey. While there are many babes lusting after him very few get to actually touch his smooth, milky white skin.

In the meantime Hellstrom said he'd take her to a movie even though he had much hipper and smarter and funkier things to do, like maybe snorting lighter fluid. (Hey, it's moose for the hair)

Carlton objected. A movie? On her birthday? Whoever heard of anything so trite? She had a better idea. Why not hang around the shack? Nope. Couldn't do that either, said Hellstrom. His roomie, Mac Browning, had a pack of girlie friends coming by and he'd promised not to be there. What if they hung out at the Carlton home?

Not thinking it was odd that Browning would be coming by with her pals when she doesn't have any pals, Carlton tagged along with Hellstrom to her pop's place. As the door opened Carlton didn't think it strange that the lights were off when there were all those cars parked out front. Then, as the lights came on, a loud "Happy Birthday" cheer rang out much as it did during her last surprise party at the Abbott home.

Like a Jack-in-the-Box the cast of freaky revelers was led by none other than Abby Carlton who, as a baby, was Carlton's cousin, but as a six-year-old is now her half-sister.

Other partygoers included Lily Winters who just had to ask, "Are you surprised?"

Carlton was surprised alright. She'd only known it was just a matter of time but nevertheless asked Hellstrom, "Couldn't you tell?"

Devon Hamilton was there too, along with Daniel Romalotti, but it really got weird when little Abby threw up her hands like a football referee when she heard her sister might be sticking around Genoa City as if a six-year-old has anything in common with a hormonally-raged 18-year-old. The creepiness got out of hand when Browning deposited a load of her best spit down Hellstrom's throat right after he said he not only cares about Carlton, but her too!

See? The life of a hunkmonkey. So many babes, so many stories of love to keep straight, so little time.

I'll Be Home For Christmas

December 13, 2004

Has anyone noticed how with each passing day college boy J.T. Hellstrom seems more and more like Billy Abbott? Remember when Abbott first found out the little hunkmonkey had eyes for his cousin and went around threatening Hellstrom to stay away from Colleen Carlton? Remember how that went on for months until the dejected chicken hawk found out that the girl he married, the beak nose Mac Browning was really his cousin?

Notice how things today haven't changed much? Except for a few of the names the story remains the same.

It was August, 2003. Poor Colleen Carlton. All she wanted was for her Uncle Billy to put in a good word with her daddy so that daddy would bless her request to get a driver's license. Was that such a terrible thing to ask? Did Uncle Billy have to get bent and tell her how young she was and that she only wanted a license so it would be easier to see the hunkmonkey?

Like all good little sissy boys do when confronted with the truth, Billy spun the situation to his advantage. That he acts like a four-year-old on Ritalin was not the issue. Colleen was only fifteen and thus didn't get a say in anything. She would do as she was told and like it. Additionally, Colleen had not "learned the meaning of trust and respect," like Billy had and until that day came she would stay away from the hunkmonkey.

"If he touches you I'll rip him apart," Billy squawked.

Back then the GCN wrote:

"While it's true that Colleen has no real need for a license and could save oodles of money on $2 gallons of gas - by taking the always running to everywhere except to the Newman ranch city bus service as her pal Mac Browning did for so many months - there's something annoying about geeks like Billy Abbott who will attack anyone they deem might be a potential threat to their disconnected interests. Billy's snotty attitude takes thuggish audacity to an entirely new level deserving of a nice whacking."

But that's all changed. Now Kevin Fisher and Daniel Romalotti are Hellstrom's targets, like when he bawled last June that he wanted to "kill" that "punk" Romalotti for having the gall to say Colleen did the right thing when she dumped him because he would have dumped her as soon as his non-existent singing career took off.

Like last February when, with the help of his pitchfork-wielding pals Sierra NoLastName and Lily Winters, Hellstrom became hell-bent on taking Fisher down for what Fisher did to Winters and how "Charlie's Angel" Winters broke into Fisher's apartment using a key he'd given her and conveniently forgotten about after she'd ratted him out to the cops as the one who gave her an STD and found the most incriminating evidence sure to get Fisher the electric chair, a tool box containing a roll of duct tape!

Now it's J.T. who wants Mac instead of Billy. And instead of Billy blocking the way to his babe of the year it's Daniel competing for the honor of breaking Mac's cherry before J.T. can.

And even as Kevin does all he can to help J.T. score with Mac and is, apparently, supposed to keep tabs on Mac's whereabouts so that when J.T. asks where Mac is Kevin can give him a GPS blow by blow, J.T. accuses him of lying like he did last week.

"I need to find Mac and it needs to be now. I have some important information she needs to know," J.T. snarled, subsequently adding, "That's the kind of asinine statement that makes me think you're lying," when Kevin said he didn't know.

Then, maybe worried that Mac will see Kevin as more manly than a hairless chest hunkmonkey, J.T. wanted to know why Kevin cares about Mac.

"Do you have feelings for her?" he oozed before warning Kevin to stay away from Mac because, "She doesn't need to get involved with a loser like you."

So it's come full circle. The visions of gum-snapping heavily eyelinered hunkmonkey hell are back. Once again, of all the chicks in Genoa City's hen house, two sissy boys are fighting over the virgin ski nose Mac. The ensuing screaming and crying of teens and an adult whose only friends are teens falling in and out of love and pretty much deeply scarring themselves psychologically for life will be heard breaking the sound barrier until Mac makes a choice.

The hypocrisy is so thick it's all anyone can do to breathe deeply anymore without gagging on all the repressed sexuality and stale machismo. The saber rattling has grown so loud that core beliefs are now being questioned. Hmm, maybe this means something slightly more, you know, potent. And sickening. And what a coincidence. Colleen will be returning from New York to join the fracas just in time for Christmas.

Never the Bride
September 3, 2004

When word first emerged that local stripper Brittany Hodges wanted alleged bisexual J.T. Hellstrom to act as the bride's maid at her wedding pretty much everyone thought it was an unprecedented joke. Not only in the history of Genoa City, but worldwide no man has ever been a bride's maid. But it's no joke!

Hellstrom confirmed this week that he will be Hodges' bride's maid and gladly went with his roommate on a shopping spree for feminine underwear and other assorted wedding garments.

Expert at fondling female bras and panties Hellstrom's experience as a clerk at Lauren Fenmore's Little Shop of Horrors and his past bedroom sharing with girlie man Raul Guittierez more than qualifies him for the task.

Groom Bobby Marsino was not shocked given Hellstrom's history. "He may even catch the bouquet," the female meat market owner chuckled.

Although she's dreamt of the day she'll become Mrs. Bobby Marsino, Hodges said this week that Marsino's insistence that they set a wedding date in the Fall was far too early. Somewhat confused at the delay, Marsino said last minute wedding preparations had never been a problem for "my other wives."

Said to have lived most of his life in Genoa City who Marsino's other wives are remain a mystery as not one has surfaced to steal his sperm or have sex with him. Apparently unaware that the man she claims to love has been married before Hodges acted as if she hadn't heard what Marsino said and agreed to a November 1, 2004, wedding date.

In a related development to show that while Genoa City is supposed to be a business hub it is indeed a small town where everybody knows everybody else, Hodges and Hellstrom were spotted shopping together for wedding gear by busybodies loyal to her mother. The moment the shoppers returned to their downtown sugar shack Anita Hodges called to ask why daughter-dearest hadn't mentioned she's getting married and to invite her to the first annual Harvest Dance to be held this year at the ColonRoom so long the boy she once had sex with - and mistakenly who she thinks Brittany is marrying - J.T. Hellstrom tags along.

Private Dick Breaks Crime Ring!
September 3, 2004

Who could have ever imagined a one-man, um, in this case, a one-woman crime spree was taking place right under the noses of security experts at Fenmore's Department Store and all it took were the services of a small-time private eye in training to break it up?

With merchandise going out the door in bulk most agree that such a caper had all the markings of a professional gang of shoplifters only to discover that one sales clerk was "selling" the goods to less than honorable customers out to make a quick buck.

And what of the evidence that brought the sales clerk down? Is the tape recording on which the clerk explains to undercover agent J.T. Hellstrom how she sells $400 sleepwear for $50 in the possession of Fenmore security or the police?

Hell no!

After making his miraculous bust Hellstrom returned to the Clueless Detective & Alarm Company to report that he and sidekick/former shoplifter Brittany Hodges had got their man, um, girl within moments of having walked into Fenmore's. Paul Williams was, as usual, confused, until Hellstrom held up the evidence.

As he listened to the recording Williams was amazed. "Damn fine work! Very creative," he actually said and then stuck a gold star on Hellstrom's forehead for another job well done while remarking that Hellstrom and Hodges make a good team.

"The name is kinda catchy too. Hellstrom & Hodges, H&H Investigations. I like it!" Williams did not say but should have given how bogus the whole thing was.

Then, incredibly, and as the GCN previously reported, Williams noted that although Hellstrom will be returning to college soon and undoubtedly will be carrying at least 14 credits so that he can maybe get a degree in detecting and a private dick's license some day, asked if he could count on Hellstrom in the future to handle some of the many new cases he's expected to take on.

"[The cases are] more than I can handle alone," Williams said truthfully, as Hellstrom said, as he did before taking the Fenmore case, "I'm up for it."

Incredibly nobody seems to know where Williams put the evidence nor did Hellstrom grumble that he and Hodges could have been in big danger and for all their hard work only received a pat on the back.

"The check is in the mail," Williams smiled and may have thought to himself, "What suckers they are. Damn kids do all my dirty work, put their lives at risk and I don't even have to pay them, take out health insurance on them or pay payroll taxes."

As for the Fenmore case, it is, apparently, like so many others Clueless has mishandled, closed. Just like that. Without so much as turning in the evidence. What's that? Follow-up? There won't be any follow-up. There doesn't have to be because it was all a ruse to make Hellstrom appear as some Wonder Boy, who himself, sitting in Williams chair on Friday said, "You know, I could get used to this."

Unlicensed PI Gets Girl, Blows Case!
September 2, 2004

Customers who were shopping Thursday on the 4th floor at Fenmore's Department Store say it was the funniest damn thing they ever saw.

"I was perusing the 10% OFF on misfit designer jeans aisle when I saw it go down," shopper Lois DeMarco told the Genoa City News. "This boy, he looks all of seventeen, came in with that ex-stripper, the one who got fried last year at Marsino's, what's her name? Hodges? Yeah, that's it. Brittany Hodges. Because they were sticking out like sore thumbs - what with his hair and her scar - I couldn't take my eyes off them especially when I realized damn, it's that Hellstrom kid who porked Hodges' mother last year. So I'm wondering why is she with him and what's he doing in the lingerie department with her? Then I see him wander off alone looking very suspicious and just as I'm thinking maybe they're part of that shoplifting ring terrorizing the city - it's in all the papers and the girl does have a history of having sticky fingers - this sales girl come along when Hodges starts fondling one of those overpriced rags Fenmore's sells. You know, nighties for sluts. Well, that's what I think. You wouldn't catch me in bed wearing one," DeMarco said.

Asked to please get to the point, Mrs. DeMarco, who works as an organ grinder at the Christ is Coming Soon Baptist Church, said she didn't actually see what happened next.

"My friend, Mildred Swartz was blocking my view! The woman is big as a whale. I don't know why she shops here; nothing would fit her. If I've told her once, I've told her a hundred times to stop eating lard. She eats Oreo's by the bag," DeMarco said, adding at the last minute that by the time Swartz had moved out of the way she was able to advance down the aisle within hearing range.

"I might have missed some of what they said, but from what I gather the clerk offered to sell the nightie to Hodges for fifty dollars! I was wondering at the time if they were friends because the girl told Hodges she'd use her employee discount and so I'm thinking, they must be friends. What clerk would approach a customer she didn't know? Then I'm asking myself if this is one of those employee scams because she was offering the $400 rag for only $50?" DeMarco explained.

"Then I see Hodges go off to get the little boy and the next thing I know he's asking the clerk how she gets such a great discount and gives her money. So I'm thinking how strange is this? When I worked at the ice cream parlor we could take employee discounts but the transaction had to be rung up on the register. Why were they making a deal in the lingerie aisle? That's when I saw that J.T. kid flash a business card at the clerk and she asked if he was really a private investigator. Well, I knew for sure it was a bust because Hodges tells the clerk she's been busted. That's when all hell broke out. The clerk couldn't believe, nor could I, that little skin and bones J.T. is a PI. Then the clerk started yammering that it was his word against hers when J.T. whips out a tape recorder and says something like, "ain't this new technology grand?" I mean, isn't this kid in college? Doesn't he know they've been making pocket tape recorders for years? That's all I know," DeMarco concluded, noting that she didn't stick around because the store's public address system was announcing the store's hourly "door buster."

Making its way past the overflowing racks of wedding and evening gowns the GCN eventually reached the store's security office where we were told by a fat man wearing a badge with the words 'Chief of Security' pinned onto a greasy, wrinkled white uniform that Fenmore's does not comment on on-going investigations.

Walter Pussenguts did say with regard to the incident that there may be legal complications concerning how the bust went down because Hellstrom is not licensed in the State of Wisconsin as a private investigator.

"Somebody screwed up big time on this one and I'm betting my last dollar some fancy lawyer will get the case kicked and the sales gal will probably sue the store and that cheesy PI, Paul Williams. You just can't tell somebody they're a PI and let them go around playing cop. Worse yet, by busting that girl, Hellstrom blew his cover. Now we may never catch the leader of those thieves that have been ripping the store off," Pussenguts said.

Reached at his office, Mr. Williams, owner of the Clueless Detective & Alarm Company, refused to comment on the case.

"I'm moving today," Williams said, his office strewn with boxes and change of address notices one of which he gave the GCN. "You have our new address. Phone number is the same. We'll be up and running again by tomorrow and I promise you we'll leave no stone unturned should you ever need us to solve a case for you," Williams growled just before slamming the door shut.

Out in the hall the GCN was able to overhear Williams' long-time officer manger and loyal puppy-dog confirm as previously reported that she will not be tagging after Williams to his new office at the law firm Baldwin & Williams-Blair. Lynne 'Yes-Boss' Bassett told her boss she'll be leaving for Kansas where she plans to visit family members after, of course, she does most of the heavy lifting required to get Williams into his new digs.

Bassett's move comes amidst raised eyebrows. Other than recent companion and co-worker Marissa Barton, Bassett has never mentioned having a family and was thought to have been hatched from an egg. That Bassett plans to stop by the Kansas farm of Hope Adams Newman could not be determined.

To Catch a Thief
September 1, 2004

From the overflowing files of the Strange & Bizarre comes this story about a college student hunkmonkey on the verge, apparently, of going back to school this semester where he'll have something like 14 credits on his plate yet with enough spare time to go undercover on another mission for his mentor, Genoa City's most clueless private investigator, Paul Williams.

As part of his training to become a full-time PI it was announced this week that because J.T. Hellstrom worked so hard on the as yet unresolved Joshua Casein case and did presumably check out some 2,000 plus persons named Casein on the Internet, albeit what, if any information he found was never disclosed, Hellstrom will, as Williams said Wednesday, "jump into the fire" by way of a promotion, be "operating in the field."

Hellstrom's move up the PI ladder of success was contingent on his willingness to maybe put off returning to school, however.

"Are you game?" Williams asked the little hunkmonkey and not presuming for a moment that Williams may have been referring to his lack of deodorant usage, Hellstrom replied that all he needed to know was what he would be required to do in his newly promoted role.

"Your job is to catch a thief," Williams actually said, revealing for the first time that a major theft ring has been pilfering merchandise presumably from Fenmore's Department Store.

Owner Lauren Fenmore and operator of the 4x4 Little Shop of Horrors could not be reached for comment to confirm which of her stores is being ripped off.

Even before Williams & Son began their investigation it was apparent that the crime ring is the same one headed up by the earring-wearing newcomer to Genoa City known only as "Alex" with ties to the evil Kevin Fisher and Fisher's partner in crime, Daniel Romalotti.

"We've got a hell of a lot merchandise going out the backdoor," Williams burped, noting that the security system he sold to store owner Lauren Fenmore is filled with flaws in that video recorders and cameras put out poor quality, grainy images of suspicious activity. What exactly is being stolen from Fenmore's remains a mystery but boxes of unsold toxic cosmetic products left over from the recent Safra/Tuvia cosmetics war came to mind.

Tip #3 on Williams' long list of how to become a PI was also made known when Williams advised Hellstrom that it was his responsibility to figure out how not to "stick out like a sore thumb" while working undercover at Fenmore's.

Proudly accepting the challenge Hellstrom said he already had a brilliant idea on how to remain incognito. In exchange for being the best man at former stripper Brittany Hodges' upcoming wedding he has appointed Hodges his deputy! Seemingly foolproof, Hellstrom outlined part A of a 12-part plan. While he's "checking things out" at Fenmore's, Hodges will shop for bras and panties which Hellstrom may fondle as he dreams about his old bedroom eyes pal, Raul Guittierez at a later date.

A False Romance
July 2, 2004

It is a time of great need. It is a time of teeth-gritting and resigned fortitude and latte-infused bouts of very heavy collective whining. The moment Colleen Carlton got on a plane and left Genoa City - the smartest thing she ever did during her stay here - word began spreading that overnight rock star and noted hunkmonkey J.T. Hellstrom would fall in love with Mac Browning.

Nobody wanted to believe it at first because Hellstrom had always claimed that Carlton - a minor - was the girl of his dreams. The only babe he'd ever love. When Hellstrom began sneering and snarling that sixteen-year-old Daniel Romalotti is a "arrogant punk" and shouldn't be so much as talking with the much older Browning it was thought that Hellstrom was venting, trying to prove that he's manly and not really the sissy his pal Raul Guittierez would love to get in bed.

But on Friday it became crystal clear.

Hellstrom is hot for Browning.

Wow, that didn't take long. What was it? A day after Carlton left?

Hellstrom's latest rage is not just a passing fancy. He's stews about Romalotti day and night. You can tell because just the mere mention of Mac meeting with Daniel increases J.T's blood pressure. He yelps like a kicked dog. No, Mac! Don't do it.

And when Mac ignores J.T. he festers like a dud firecracker wanting to explode but incapable of going off. When his boyfriend chirps, "Mac's got a boyfriend" J.T gets pissed. Like a frustrated terrorist without a target he goes off to the Newman Jitter Joint hoping to find Mac so that he can tell her how old Daniel really is as if this knowledge, this hypocrisy, will scare Mac away and, he hopes, into his arms. But alas, what J.T. finds instead is Mac swapping spit with the punk.

Life for hunkmonkeys can be so unfair. It's okay for J.T. to suck around a minor child, but when the situation is reversed he says oh, "That was different." J.T. throws fits and stomps around like a gorilla on meth and calls guys like Kevin Fisher scum when they are seduced by young girls, but when J.T. does it, it's okay.

Remember? J.T. is a babe magnet. He's said it himself a number of times. Girls flock to him demanding sex and he's performed more often than an aging Ringling Brother's elephant.

It is a time when one single false romance against an already decimated ragtag minor child is not nearly enough to arouse Hellstrom's sex organ and hence he must launch another one.

Batman & Robin are Back!
June 18, 2004

Go ahead, ya smirking' frat boy lug, stumble around all scrunched and blank eyed and pseudo-manly, shove this city into further doom and unbelievable situations and embarrass yourself every single day as you mangle the meaning of reality. It doesn't really matter.

Go ahead, kiss your singing career good-bye as some sort of bogus love gesture as you quietly forget that the minor child Colleen Carlton left town because she thought you were moving to Los Angeles but you've never once bothered to call the poor girl to maybe say, see, I didn't go anywhere. I'm still in Genoa City. Why don't you come back, Colleen? Ha. You are so cute, J.T. Hellstrom.

Go ahead, J.T. Urge your greasy pals to sow their wild oats and maybe knock up a few thousand girls if, that is, you really think Raul Guittierez likes girls or that any real women of the world would let Guittierez get anywhere near them.

Go ahead, J.T. Take Guittierez's advice that you too should spread your seed around at a time when the message is clear that abstinence is in and at the very least birth control should be used if family values are going to be trampled on because what this country doesn't need are more teen pregnancies and unmarried women on welfare.

There is so much more going on than you know, J.T. There is so much deeper understanding and wider knowledge and higher winking and you can't touch any of it. Do you know this? You need to know this.

You and your brethren are like this sticky toxic mist. You will burn off in the sun of awareness and orgasm. This is what makes it so fun to watch, so magical, such a divine circus, a dog and pony show. Do you sense it?

Yes, Hellstrom is going back to playing junior PI.

Wow. Genoa City is so very proud. Do you hear it laughing? Do you remember when Hellstrom last played the role? Remember when he hid in the shadows and watched Kevin Fisher all of one hour while working for the city's most clueless private investigator? Remember what a joke Paul Williams' attempt to entrap Fisher turned out to be? Remember how he was so afraid Fisher might harm Lauren Fenmore yet allowed Fenmore to play a role in the failed takedown?

Remember how Hellstrom sat around the Newman Jitter Joint sucking on $4 lattes waiting for Fisher to show up so that he could hurl threats at him? Recall the faux warnings of "we've got you" and when he told Fisher it wouldn't be long until he went down and practically told Fisher he was under surveillance?

Remember when Fisher told Hellstrom to watch his mouth and Hellstrom spat back "are you threatening me now?" as if it was okay for him to threaten Fisher, but not okay for Fisher to do the same?

Silly as the utterly pulverizing notion that Hellstrom is a bad, scary girlie-boy with press-on nails PI in-training was, its real purpose was to keep him in the "hero" limelight while the more convoluted notion that Hellstrom could become an overnight singing sensation was being set up.

When that idea failed miserably and it looked as though Hellstrom's credibility was shot and that he better go back to fondling female undergarments at the Little Shop of Horrors, what did the fool go and do? He went straight to the Williams Detective & Alarm Company begging for a job!

With his rent doubling and still no explanation as to how he retained ownership of the business sold last year to Andy Richards and no cases to solve, Williams, as expected, hired Hellstrom probably because he was impressed with the kid's prior stakeout abilities.

Get over yourself, J.T. We are on to you. We know you are made of nothing but spin and frantic gesticulations and scowls. Poke a finger into you and out pours only sawdust and sighs.

Love or Consequences?
May 14, 2004

Once again this week in Genoa City and throughout the liberated world jaws were clenched, brows were furrowed, scowls were scowled and people were screaming, "Oh my freaking god!"

Here's what happened.

In Los Angeles on a whirlwind tour, assorted snake pit stops and without a repertoire consisting of more than one tune, overnight singing sensation J.T. Hellstrom learned that he'll be the opening act for the rock group 'Dialect' which, apparently, exists only in the mind of Hellstrom's puppeteer, Shiloh NoLastName.

Spinning around in stardom Hellstrom stopped long enough to ask how. How could he, a nobody, who can't remember to ask Shiloh what her last name is or when he might see some money for all his hard work much less remember the words to the song he sang once, be selected as an opening act?

"Don't you know better than to ask a woman to reveal her secrets?" was Shiloh's reply, already plotting out her boy's September schedule during which Hellstrom would start promoting a new CD. Not merely a new single, mind you. But an entire album with perhaps as many as ten songs.

There was no follow-up questioning by Hellstrom like, gosh Shiloh, don't you think I should write the songs first or are they all going to be cover tunes? Doesn't it take something like a year to produce a album? How can you crank one out in a few weeks? How do you know I'll be able to lay down all those tracks without a quadrillion retakes? I know you've already got a music video out there that I can't recall performing in, and getting that hit single out in about an hour was nothing less than a miracle. And tell me this, Shiloh. Before a feature group approves of the act opening for them, the group is told, isn't it? Has this group heard me sing? And what, they still approved? Shouldn't I have had some experience singing? You know, like in my hometown restaurant or at some sleazy strip club? Maybe appear a few times at an OPEN MIKE NIGHT somewhere?

And what about Christmas? Would the rock and roller be home for the holiday? Well, Shiloh said, maybe, but just for a couple of days. In the meantime Hellstrom was to concentrate on more important matters like selecting a tour band. Oh, don't worry that you've never worked with a band before, J.T. Just pick one. Why, in no time you'll bond with the band and they with you. Isn't fame great?

Oh, and J.T. Remember when I told you that you couldn't have this afternoon off because a magazine from New York wants to interview you? Guess what! The interview is really tomorrow afternoon. Silly me. By the way, where's that high school girl and her daddy? They must have grown tired of looking like bumps on a log.

Hellstrom looked around. Mmm. No Colleen Carlton. No Brad Carlton. Where could they be?

Checking with what was called a receptionist, Hellstrom reported that the Carltons had taken off - just like that - without so much as a good-bye. And here all this time he thought Brad Carlton was his bud. Some father-in-law he'd turn out to be. But Colleen did leave a note.

"That's weird," Shiloh squeaked, after reading the note in which Colleen had scribbled she was going home.

Hellstrom panicked. Put my career on hold, he as much told Shiloh then bolted for the airport leaving a seething Shiloh in the dust sputtering that there would be "consequences."

Sure enough, thanks to We Fly You Anywhere Airlines the Carlton's were back in Genoa City. As the Genoa City News projected, Colleen was packing up her stuff for the continued trip onto New York where she'll live out her remaining days with Traci Connelly, the mother who has all but forgotten that she left behind a very troubled teenager. And Brad Carlton? Did he object? Did he not say, listen Colleen. I whined and moaned for months that I needed to bond with you and now you're leaving - just like that? Okay, whatever. So long as you're happy. Let me see if there's a plane headed for New York in about an hour. Why, yes. There is! Oh! Shouldn't you at least say good-bye to your pitchfork-wielding pals? What about your grandpa who went through hell while I was sleeping with Olivia Winters? Shouldn't you say bye-bye to him too, or is this all about Colleen? Oh wait.

This convoluted, sad saga could have ended right there with Colleen walking out the door never to be seen again. But no! The story had to sprout another unbelievable tentacle when a ding-dong was heard and then seen. The hunkmonkey had managed to catch one of those WFYAA flights too.

And coming soon the sad, tearful good-bye. As Colleen stands her ground you gotta choose your outrage. You gotta ask yourself, just what, truly, is offensive? Hellstrom the singing hunkmonkey or Carlton's sadness? You gotta wonder why it couldn't have ended differently, realistically, like Hellstrom graduating from college, going on to veterinary school, grasping that what he had with Carlton was puppy love, that such love is for teenyboppers and that the time had come to move on.

Genoa City Rock Star Mauled at LAX
May 12, 2004

Listen up, naughty boys.

Do you long to be an ordinary college boy by day who transforms at night and during those times you aren't actually attending class or anywhere near campus which is almost always into some sort of scary glittery giggly perky blond hunkmonkey rock star?

You do? Well Jesus with an orgasmic wolf howl and some heavy goth eyeliner, are you ever in luck. Meet J.T. Hellstrom.

With a hit single out that about ten people have heard so far and have since had massive migraines no amount of Aleve will relieve and just in time for Memorial Day to make a few hyper-Christian parental brows furrow with consternation and spiritual constipation, Hellstrom and his entourage blew into Los Angeles this week.

You had to be there. Really. You had to see with your own eyes the crazed teenyboppers flocking over Hellstrom like flies on fresh cow poop. You had to witness the famously obnoxious pneumatic blond dingbat signing autographs for wide-eyed pre-pubescent girls who didn't know who Hellstrom was until one had asked if he was the hunkmonkey being talked about on the Internet.

You had to wonder why Shiloh was there at LAX. The record promoter/talent scout whose last name nobody seems to know and won't ask. You wonder because Shiloh flew into Genoa City on Mother's Day - which really wasn't Mother's Day - to give Hellstrom a personal invitation to the coming out party being tossed just for him and then returned to California all by her lonesome fully aware that her star was leaving for L.A. in about an hour and to ride along on the same plane would have made too much sense.

You had to wonder why J.T. called Shiloh from Genoa City's sprawling International airport to ask about his busy schedule when surely any talent scout worth their salt would have given him an itinerary and maybe told him not to plan on playing tour guide for his tag-along high school girl sweetie. You wonder why J.T. would ask for the afternoon off when he had to have known that big plans are in the works to make him a star and that this isn't the Gong Show, although it should be.

You wonder too why Shiloh set up a conference with a New York magazine to interview a nobody when it might have made the slightest sense to have a magazine like Los Angeles This Week conduct the interview.

For sure somebody would have thought that since Brad Carlton was there chaperoning and protecting his young daughter from maybe accidentally marrying some transvestite junkie named Haroldine, he would have said, "My god J.T., how did you become so famous when even I haven't heard your hit single?"

No. Mr. Carlton was sucking it all in like a breast cancerous woman sucks on a tube hooked up to a large tank with the words DOW CHEMICAL on it. Yum, yum. J.T. famous rock star, celebrity. Pawed by a horde of obviously paid onlookers as a film crew for Entertainment Tonight shot footage.

Sorry kids, gotta back off now. You can catch Barf-Bag Records' latest star on TV tonight. We only paid for fifteen minutes. Scat!

Preteen gum-snapping girls were frozen in mid-bubble. Baffled and paralyzed and not asking where they can buy Hellstrom's new single. Unaware that it's not in stores. Not told to keep looking for it on one of those late-night infomercials. Soon to be moving onto the next pseudo-star when Hellstrom's image of a sparkly hypersexed flesh-curdling Lolita wanna-be who hasn't had a hit in, like, ever and who no one's really paying all that much attention to unless they are given $1-off pizza coupons.

J.T. Hellstrom. America's incarnate. All forced sweetness and boy-next-door innocence and ass-crack-revealing designer jeans and rabid simmering lust just underneath. There he is, smiling hugely through the pain of his fame and his wild partying and his thong underwear. Poor thing.

This is the rock star fantasy. The sadness that makes Sharon Newman's fantasy look real by comparison. J.T. Hellstrom. A nubile grinning gyrating blank-faced pop-icon onto which we are flung as a perpetually sexually perplexed culture projects our double-edged need for innocence and virtue and sweetness coupled with debauchery and heat and mad throbbing desire. You wonder?

When You Wish Upon Yourself
April 13, 2004

Los Angeles is stunned. Preteen gum-snapping pitchfork-wielding girls are frozen in mid-bubble. Genoa City is baffled and paralyzed and all atwitter now that J.T. Hellstrom has become an overnight rock sensation. It's true! It all happened within a matter of minutes. One moment Hellstrom was a mostly contemptible hunkmonkey and the next he was shaking hands with the President of Beachfront Records!

J.T. Hellstrom, America's newest sweetheart, on his way to becoming the world's most famous and irritating and eye-rolling twerp since Danny Romalotti, apparently, gasp, oh dear, sigh.

Soon Billboard Magazine will be all aflutter with the now-verified news that Hellstrom did indeed shake the hand of Ion Gardner, President of Beachfront Records which really isn't located on a beach and probably a front for the mob. Hellstrom also shook hands with Beachfront lackeys Stephanie Burke, new talent developer at large, and Ryan Vanderbilt, in charge of promotion.

So excited he almost wet his pants, Hellstrom must have thought it was like having wished upon a star only to discover the star was him and that it really made no difference who he was so long as he came from Genoa City. In his heyday even rocker Danny Romalotti never once met the president of his record company and here Hellstrom was in Los Angeles for less than an hour and already the Beachfront gang was groveling at his feet, telling him he's the only star in the Milky Way.

Under the direction of a record promoter whose last name he still does not know, Hellstrom was whisked into makeup, then on to a photo shoot where he was stripped half-naked, sunglasses slapped over his beady eyes and from there shoved into a recording studio to lay down some tracks before being rushed into a jaded convertible for a tour of Hollywood down Rodeo Drive past Smokey Robinson's sidewalk star of fame and up Melrose Place.

Following the next best thing to a ticker tape parade Hellstrom remarked along the way how the streets names are way cool and much more creative than anything found in Genoa City. Best of all, before Hellstrom leaves glittery Los Angeles he'll have cut his first single. Gosh, it all happened so fast.

And now, the void. The abyss. The waiting. The tragic grinning gyrating blank-faced pop-icon with no idea that his one record will be lucky to make the airwaves much less make the bottom of Billboard's Top 300. Hellstrom has no idea that he's being used as a double-edged need for innocence and virtue coupled with a throbbing desire for another Genoa City incarnate. Empty on the inside, forced sweetness on the outside, boy-next-door innocence on top and ass-crack-revealing designer jeans and rabid simmering lust just underneath.

There he was, J.T. Hellstrom, licking Shiloh's butt, smiling and hugely masquerading as sweaty hip-grinding hardcore sexuality. Poor thing. If there is one, his first CD will be packed with angst-torn lyrics written by someone else all about getting it on and grinding it out, of broken dreams and broken condoms. Ah, fame.

Look. There are no true sexual role models in Genoa City. There are no icons of responsible divine lust and intelligent sexuality to thwart the bitter Christian conservative agenda that is Paul Williams and Christine Blair and Hank Weber and Jack Abbott.

In other words, Genoa City needs someone like Hellstrom for the annual Summer Sex Summit with the appalling gall to force kids to learn all about the joys of repressing sexual desire and bodily exploration and sensual spiritual power in favor of abstinence until they get married and then half of them get divorced because they were so lousy in bed. The city does have lots of porn and sex toys, it does have Christine Blair's terrifying libido-curdling glare and Lauren Fenmore's unlocated femininity no enlightened woman worth her Hitachi Magic Wand can relate to in the slightest, but it doesn't have a rock star.

And pointless little J.T Hellstrom, well, he's the city's newest rocker for the next generation. The pitch-perfect little slut-starlet of virgin/whore sexual conundrum to break the hearts of little girls like Colleen Carlton.

Her panties already moist from dreaming of the day when she'll be able to lay down with J.T. and thusly join the herd of other women Hellstrom has porked during his eight years of hormonal rage, Carlton let herself get talked into going to California to see her toy boy this week by a fifteen-year-old still carrying the remnants of an STD and by an equally mindless Oreo-eating teen.

Gosh Colleen, J.T. only told you to stay behind a million times, but you know deep down he really wanted you with him. So why not just hop a plane and surprise him? Surely, there must a We Fly You Anywhere Airlines flight leaving in about an hour. Don't know exactly where he might be? Doesn't matter. Much like Genoa City, L.A. is a pissant town. From the airport you just hoof it to the nearest coffee shop - doesn't Newman have a Jitter Joint outlet there? - and you're bound to find J.T. Just look for a gaggle of giddy girls and guys. Or maybe a press conference where J.T. is being introduced to the world and everyone lets out a collective, "J.T. Who?"

Taking the matter under the briefest consideration, Carlton strained her brain. Yes! She could fly half way across the country and not be missed! Her parents are so busy sorting out who the father of her adopted half-sister is they'd never notice her missing or question the two hundred dollar plus plane fare charge on her credit card. Thanks Lily Winters. Thanks Sierra NoLastName, for that wonderful idea. Now if you'll excuse me. I've got a flight to catch!

Hellstrom to Rock Music Industry
March 16, 2004

Noted Genoa City hunkmonkey, and fancier of rhythm and blues singers before his time, J.T. Hellstrom agreed this week to put his education on hold or at least assign the most important endeavor a young man can engage a lower priority.

Already saddled with a part-time job at Lauren Fenmore's Little Shop of Horrors and training to be a super-sleuth under the wing of private investigator Paul Williams, Hellstrom has been convinced by a record promoter whose last name he doesn't know that he'll be able to "carve out time" for a few college classes whenever he isn't working at becoming a rock star.

To that end Hellstrom plans to move to Los Angeles.

"That's where the music business is. We need to get J.T. in the recording studio," said puppet master, Shiloh NoLastName.

No relation to Genoa City's very own Oreo-eating teenager, Sierra NoLastName, Shiloh is certain that once music industry suits hear Hellstrom's pubescent voice and see that baby face he'll be a huge success.

If and when it happens Hellstrom will forget all about school. In doing so he will instantly join the swelling ranks of the 44-million functionally illiterate Americans.

"Just breathe. Take it all in. Roll with it!" Shiloh told a starry-eyed Hellstrom so lost in the fantasy that he hasn't thought to check Shiloh's credentials or whether there is even an entity known as Beachfront Records and if there is, what other "stars" might be signed under the label.

Not to be outdone in the illiteracy department, Hellstrom's high-school sweetheart Colleen Carlton was a regular barrel of monkeys full of giggles when she got the news that her man is going to be a star. Hellstrom's excitement of going to the land of famous thick-necked slabs of Austrian meat and air pollution did have her somewhat concerned, however. Would Mr. and Mrs. Carlton be so caught up in their pitiful personal lives they'd gladly let a child go to Los Angeles for Spring Break? Who would keep the hunkmonkey on a short leash?

Totally unaware that Shiloh has no intention of allowing a school girl to cancel her meal ticket, Hellstrom said he'd check out the possibility of Carlton tagging along to Smogville with him.

For all their giddiness it's a wonder these two nitwits didn't break out the boogie boards Carlton keeps in the closet next to her ice skates. Come on baby, wait and see, yes I'm gonna take you surfin' with me. Hot fun! Summer in the city. Back of my neck all sweat and gritty.

Life is good, is it not, for Genoa City's elite teens. When they aren't tracking down criminals, convincing dipstick adults that it's okay for young girls to be hanging out with older guys or pulling strings to get backstage at rock concerts, they're becoming rock stars.

School? Who needs it? When the reality sets in that Hellstrom can be nothing more than a one-hit wonder, he only need attend Genoa City Night School where four year college degrees can be earned in just two short weeks.

Legendary R&B Artist Doles Out Career Advice to Wannabe Singers
March 9, 2004

In what has to be the most convoluted event to have ever taken place and something that could only happen in Genoa City, high school student Colleen Carlton pulled some major strings on Tuesday to get her boyfriend into the sold out Smokey Robinson concert.

Despite the fact that the aging R&B singer's concert was over, Carlton was bound and determined to get J.T. Hellstrom and Robinson together.

"Smokey Robinson is one of JT's favorite singers," she oozed, and with no time to waste on having the very angry Lily Winters check to see if her mother could maybe call in a favor (because Dru Winters had once met Robinson in Paris), placed a call to the new and last name-less record agent in town, known only as Shiloh.

It must have been Carlton's lucky day for she was able to reach Shiloh and explained that she planned to get Robinson to change Hellstrom's mind about accepting Shiloh's recording contract offer. Shiloh must have been thinking at the time she arranged for Hellstrom to meet Robinson backstage that surely, a celebrity like Robinson would want nothing more than to give out career advise to barely toilet-trained school kids.

The concert over and a plane to catch, Robinson was on his way out when he heard Carlton cackling that she and her oozing pals had something to show him.

Perhaps thinking the screaming memes wanted an autograph Robinson stopped in his tracks and Carlton made her move.

"My boyfriend is a great fan," she hacked, adding if Robinson could put his life on hold until Hellstrom got there, her boyfriend would get to see his "idol" and all would be one with the universe.

As absurd as this annoyance was, it was about to become downright incredible.

"He turned down a contract to be a singer," Carlton said of Hellstrom, and then, before Robinson could say, "so why should I care?" turned on a CD player immediately followed by Carlton's snarling pals, Lily Winters and the Oreo-eating Sierra NoLastName, breaking out in a rendition of Robinson's hit, "I Second That Emotion."

Stunned, Robinson tried to be polite. When there wasn't a glass in the place or an eardrum that hadn't been shattered by all the screeching, Hellstrom appeared, greeted his idol and was told by Robinson that he had turned down a recording contract.

Furthermore, Robinson said that if he really wants it, Hellstrom can be a singer too. Voice lessons? Training? An education? Who needs it?

"Put your whole life into it. If you decide that's what you want I hope you change you mind about signing the contract," Robinson actually said before leaving.

Inspired by his "idol" Hellstrom now has no choice. He'll have to give up getting an education, sign the recording contract without consulting a lawyer and fall prey to the evil Shiloh who wants only to get him into her bed. The resulting affair will be be discovered by Carlton and there will be much added sadness when Hellstrom learns the contract is bogus.

This is what the Summer has in store. When adulterous matters have fallen by the wayside the sticky teens emerge in full force to take control. Glow Worms sprawled around the Abbott pool pouring suntan lotion on their zits not icky enough? How about the always wildly corrupt and slimy singing profession? Valued somewhere between professional wrestler and professional baby-seal clubber on the moral and spiritual scale of insignificance, it's Hellstrom's turn to suffer the indignities of living in Genoa City.

Smokey and the Pitchfork-wielders
March 8, 2004

The word convoluted took on new meaning this week when noted hunk of regurgitated phlegm J.T. Hellstrom, who for some reason always smells like a cross between rotten cheese and boiled cabbage, said that 70's Rock & Soul singer Smokey Robinson is his "idol."

Just a babe in smelly diapers when Robinson was in his heyday, Hellstrom may as well have said that Benny Goodman is his idol for all the believability it would have conveyed. So forgotten, the best gigs Robinson can get are in sad little cities filled with spiteful hatemongers.

And it just so coincided with Hellstrom's new love for R&B music that Robinson is appearing Tuesday at the Regency, that 50-seat auditorium where washed-up rocker Danny Romalotti once appeared.

Apparently too busy playing private detective, singing loves songs on Valentine's Day and harassing Kevin Fisher, Hellstrom was unable to obtain tickets.

"When I found out, the concert was sold out," Hellstrom told his 17-year-old girlfriend, Colleen Carlton who in turn said that had she known or seen any of the hundreds of posters stuck on utility poles around the city weeks in advance or listened to the radio or TV she would have stood in line all night for one ticket just to make her man happy.

Backhanding the sadness that he won't be able to see his idol and so therefore life must go on, Hellstrom slipped another live squealing lie down his gaping maw like Jabba the Hut. The recording contract offered him by Beach Front Records was small-time stuff. Who needs it? Why, I'm just a backwoods pig farmer who sings for the sole pleasure of my hogs. A singing career is out of the question. Maybe when I'm older and dumber and too feeble to scrape all this gunk I walk through from the bottom of my shoes.

And in an instant, all hope was restored.

Carlton trotted over to the Newman Jitter Joint to tell her pitchfork-wielding pals that her man won't be able to see Smokey Robinson and how very sad it all was.

Having just recovered from a massive bawling fit during which she blamed Kevin Fisher for making her go repeatedly to his apartment and that he tricked her into having sex and gave her an STD and that she had been scarred for life, Lily Winters remembered a very important event in her mother's life.

Yes, incredible as it may seem, because, well, it is exactly, Dru Winters had once met Robinson in Paris for maybe all of five minutes. And because of this never-ending tight relationship and the fact that singers like Robinson never forget a face, Robinson would surely be able to arrange for three little teenage snots and one hunkmonkey to attend the concert and maybe get them backstage passes too!

Once again the collective public following this swill was expected to just sit back and let it hit then full force and go, oh my god that was so incredibly sweet and honest and good in so many ways of Colleen. That J.T. is one lucky dude.

Once again the sense of overwhelming social sadness and overused sarcasm reflex was momentarily disabled as it was thought, even as the believability factor overloaded the circuitry, oh my god how much more of this sweet cuteness must be endured.

Was it too much to ask that what is obviously a staged event to hype another washed-up singer be planned in advance? Was it too much to ask that a young boy claiming Smokey Robinson is his idol would not know his every move? His latest CD release? Where his latest concert is being held? Hell, even Lynne 'Yes-Boss' Bassett has enough sense to know to check her idol's website.

A Star Is Born!
March 3, 2004

That there's a sucker born every minute became very evident in Genoa City on Wednesday when sometimes college student, part-time Little Shop of Horrors employee, part-time private eye in-training and full-time hunkmonkey J.T. Hellstrom was offered a recording contract.

That this absurd and unbelievable event was waiting just around the corner to bite Hellstrom on the ass could be seen the moment Hellstrom's under-age babe, high school student Colleen Carlton, began yammering on Valentine's Day that his singing makes her all giddy and gosh, she might even become orgasmic were he to forget about finishing his education and abandoning all hope of working for some corporate giant making quadrillions at a 9-5 job where he'd have to wear a suit and tie. How much better it would be, Carlton thought, if her man became a singing sensation.

Hellstrom has laughed off the idea as one of Carlton's regressions to a time when she smoked dope and her mind was twisted by the evils of the drug culture. J.T. Hellstrom, Rock Star? It would never happen.

But such is the luck of the freaks living in Genoa City. One moment they're nobodies and the next moment they're somebodies.

Having heard Hellstrom sing one time, a performance Hellstrom admits wasn't his best, who should pop up but a woman known only as Shiloh to offer him a recording contract!

And here everyone thought Hellstrom's girlfriend Raul Guittierez was bad. Soon, Hellstrom will be bouncing around like a gorilla on meth, inflicting that weird maniacal grin and massive block-like head all over the unsuspecting recording industry, as pretty much the entire population of even slightly aware and intelligent people in Genoa City and in fact all over the nation go, oh Christ, please dear God, no!

This is what's about to happen. We are on the verge of empowering a new rock star bigger than Danny Romalotti ever hoped to be. And we are, apparently, if the rumors are correct - and you should right this minute pray they're not - about to hand the reins of rockdom over to a wildly mediocre semi-articulate power-hungry hatemonger with zero musical experience and zero real-world awareness and singing ability, except for what much-loathed Colleen Carlton and her pitchfork-wielding classmates feed him.

Listen up naughty girls. Put away your pent-up hate for Kevin Fisher. Your chance to become ordinary schoolgirls by day who transform at night into some sort of scary glittery giggly perky J.T. Hellstrom groupie is coming.

Oh, what an absurd and dangerous hell we have wrought.

And hence the time's never been better to shove any open-hearted, progressive, nontraditional notions that Hellstrom and Carlton will fall in love deep, deep underground and be numbly happy that our fine young stud is stepping up to set the stage for much more hand wringing and what is to become of us chanting when it's discovered that Shiloh is nearly as slimy as, well, you know, Kevin Fisher.

For it can be told that Shiloh is a worm. Really, what can be expected from persons with no last names handing out recording contracts? Fat, Oreo-eating girls?

Shiloh, of course, really can't make Hellstrom a star but does want to run a scam on him having to do with cheating the RIAA out of profits - or something.

Meantime, Hellstrom, his male and female girlfriends alike, will be smitten with delusions of grandeur. Have you heard? J.T.'s going to be a rock star! Suck on that Romalotti, whee!

So often is the case in Genoa City there can be no happy endings. Just as Hellstrom's and Carlton's hyper-uptight parents start to furrow their brows with consternation and spiritual constipation, and maybe just as Carlton is asking herself when the rock idol will strip down and writhe in the woods and howl at the moon, Hellstrom will learn the awful truth, be very sad and blame Kevin Fisher.

Satan Speaks, Hellstrom Obeys
February 27, 2004

Everywhere you turn these days in Genoa City it seems there's always someone sniveling. If it's not Katherine Sterling bawling in an alcoholic haze about her daughter, it's Phyllis Abbott whining that some woman is trying to steal her husband, or Brittany Hodges is moaning and groaning that the tiny scar on her puss makes her so ugly it scares away dogs.

These are the things that make the rich and privileged grumpy in Genoa City. These are things that transcend mere gratitude, things that the struggling sex-strapped metropolis has offered of late that makes you say, oh my God, I am right now so incredibly proud to say I visit here, I mean just look at what they're doing.

J.T. Hellstrom, all sneers and girlie-like thumping his bare chest and blaming poor Brittany's blotch on Kevin Fisher, huffing and puffing he can't wait to "take him down" even though he had more important things to do when he had the chance.

Raul Guittierez, who once couldn't stand to be in the same room with Hellstrom, now stands before him crying his eyes out, oh my, if only his baby girl would snap out of her funk. Good god, what's next? A genuine same-sex wedding ceremony between these two boys as they hold hands watching Bobby Marsino walk off with the girl they loved and lost?

And yes, Hellstrom has always secretly, if not openly, loved Hodges as he demonstrated this week by giving her a load of his finest spit. This act alone should make any progressive soul proud to live in this amazing city. Deeply, genuinely, thoroughly. It was a delicious and heartwarming historic spectacle indeed, and there was simply no way for any person of any elevated consciousness to witness the event and say, wasn't that sweet? Isn't J.T. the man? Did not everyone feel the intense emotional energy?

Here we have Guittierez and Hodges who have been together for months, who have practiced starting a family, talked of setting up a home complete with a white picket fence and dinner parties and regular shopping excursions to Fenmore's and the mall. You know, just like "real" Americans, and along comes Hellstrom to strike a blow against the American way of life.

It's not like Hellstrom doesn't know that his best bud wants nothing more than marry the local stripper and beats himself up at night because he isn't man enough to tell Marsino to stay away from his girl. Hellstrom knows better than anyone that Guittierez is willing to go the distance, to commit and connect, and is eager to prove that his love for Hodges is something true, something that, in truth, can only serve to enforce the 50 percent-divorce-rate.

Sure, Hellstrom was in a situation in which he simply could not imagine anyone hurling gobs of intolerant hate at Hodges let alone herself. But rather than tell her in no uncertain terms that becoming stagnant and wallowing in self-pity was unbecoming a skanky stripper who should have known one day that some freak in the audience would wait for her in the alley and do bad things, Hellstrom had to show her that even he, a hunkmonkey, could kiss an ugly bitch.

It would have required a serious amount of nasty, inbred ignorance and appalling nerve to have done anything else. Kiss your buddies' girl, make them feel all warm and fuzzy.

Talk about your immoral disgusting sodomites. Hellstrom's act was a giant well-manicured middle finger to the pro-family believers. God forbid anyone might want to love and honor each other till death do them part in this city.

And here's the best part: Isn't this the same Hellstrom who professed his love for a sixteen-year-old girl and said he'd never do anything to hurt her if only her parents would stop rousting him? Wasn't this the same Hellstrom who passed himself off as a Bible-thumping wannabe priest who thinks it's okay to be with a minor child? Billy Abbott had this guy pegged from the start. People should have listened when young Abbott said that Hellstrom is trailer park trash.

There he was Friday, on the slippery slope of permissive debauchery.

This, then, is why it is a time to be incredibly proud. Creeps like Hellstrom and Sterling, proudly boasting that she and Arthur Hendricks banged each other right there on the mausoleum floor the night Jill Abbott was conceived, are slapping Genoa City back down into the dark basement of subhuman intellect, where it belongs.

Satan has instructed the people here to break the taboos, challenge the ignorant and the easily terrified, make it clear that what matters most in a modern society is lots and lots of sex with as many willing to engage in it. Love for all and all for love. And Hellstrom obeys.

Hunkmonkey thought ready to do some cherry picking!

February 4, 2004

Rumors are crawling up and down the grapevine that Genoa City's junior private investigator and sometimes college student, J.T. Hellstrom is about to add another notch to his sexual prowess gun by shooting the not yet seventeen-year-old Walnut Grove Academy student, Colleen Carlton full of icky white stuff.

The nasty event is expected to, um, come with the virginal Carlton's full approval and insistence on Valentine's Day.

The first clue that another not-ready-for-sex female will lose her virginity reared its ugly head earlier this week when Hellstrom told Carlton, "Your favorite holiday is almost here," and Carlton, ignoring the fact that Hellstrom is so dumb he doesn't know VD isn't a holiday, hinted that something might happen "out of the blue."

Following the nasty event the mismatched pair will likely be popping out babies like crazy and draining the welfare system like there's no tomorrow, all while remaining completely unable to either get or stay married in their sad, un-Christian lives.

JR., PI on stakeout hides in plain sight
January 26, 2004

GCN reporters assigned to covering college student and local hunkmonkey J.T. Hellstrom's new career as a junior private investigator are complaining; "The guy is a joke!" they grumble.

Like the big bad wolf on steroids, Hellstrom has repeatedly said he'll be taking suspected arsonist Kevin Fisher down, and last week went on a "stakeout" in hopes of catching Fisher doing - something.

By definition, a stakeout is what law enforcement engage in when they're watching some person in anticipation of a crime. Under ideal circumstances the target of the stakeout does not know that he or she is being watched. Those on stakeout duty often spend long hours peering through binoculars and listening to wire taps from inside cramped hotel rooms or unmarked police cars.

When Hellstrom said he was off to stakeout Fisher it was thought at first that his mentor, private investigator Paul 'Clueless' Williams had Fisher's apartment bugged and that Hellstrom would be slurping bad 7-11 coffee as he listened in on Fisher's conversations. Or, since it is well known that Fisher has been prowling around Fenmore's Little Shop of Horrors, Hellstrom might be following him, lurking in dark shadows and occasionally reporting to his trainer.

But Hellstrom has done nothing of the sort! Instead, he sits around the Newman Jitter Joint sucking on $4 lattes waiting for Fisher to show up so that he can hurl threats at him.

Such was the case on Monday when Hellstrom told Fisher, "We've got you" and it won't be long until he goes down. "We" have the "facts," Hellstrom belched giving Fisher every hint that he's under surveillance and revealing too that Fisher's lone fingerprint was found at the apartment he allegedly trashed weeks ago. A police investigation into that event was summarily abandoned.

Charging that Hellstrom was responsible for the loss of his job, Fisher displayed ignorance of the law when he said he had a good mind to charge Hellstrom with slander.

The mind-numbing babble caused Fisher to warn Hellstrom to watch his mouth which in turn caused Hellstrom to ask, "Are you threatening me now?" as if it's okay for him to threaten Fisher, but not okay for Fisher to do the same.

Silly as it all is, utterly pulverizing Genoa City with the notion that Hellstrom is a big, bad, scary girlie-boy with press-on nails PI in-training was the only way to keep him in the "hero" limelight. Try as he might Hellstrom couldn't convince the police to bust Fisher for past alleged crimes so why not cast him as a part-time sales clerk/college student with so much spare time he can play private detective? Fisher may have eluded capture, but messing with Williams' woman will surely be his downfall with Hellstrom getting at least part of the credit for his phenomenal stakeout abilities.

Genoa City has been slammed for years with the relentless hammer of fear and inflated threats and bogus crimes, until it just gives in and all resistance crumbles. J.T. Hellstrom on stakeout? Fine, just get it over with.