Joshua “JSmoove” Rodriguez, a longtime affiliate of Brown Asshole Entertainment (BAE) and former contributor to the now-defunct MegaPorker Plus streaming service, has reportedly disappeared under unclear circumstances. Once a prominent figure in BAE’s orbit, Rodriguez has not been seen in the group’s circles for an extended period, leaving fans and former associates questioning his whereabouts.
While there is no official missing person report, those familiar with the situation note that Rodriguez has completely severed ties with BAE, vanishing from all online activity and public appearances. His disappearance coincides with a casting call for a new season of The Chronicles of Marshmellow—a show in which he previously played the character Bokusogie.
While many absences in the BAE Universe are self-imposed exiles or temporary bans, this case is different—shrouded in controversy, betrayal, and the lingering whispers of a larger mystery that may reach back to the very foundation of BAE itself.
This is the story of his fall, his disappearance, and the forces that may or may not be working behind the scenes to keep him from returning.
A Once-Prominent Figure, Now a Ghost
For years, Joshua Rodriguez was known as a loyal friend to Bob Regot, a respected member of BAE, and an integral part of MegaPorker Plus, where he starred in the obscure cult series The Chronicles of Marshmellow as Bokusogie—a role that, despite the show’s limited reach, cemented his place in BAE history.
Yet today, his name is whispered only in rumors, half-truths, and sightings at fast-food restaurants across Rhode Island.
Rodriguez wasn’t just another member of BAE—he was a foundational pillar in its early history. His presence was synonymous with the energy and camaraderie that made the group what it was.
However, Rodriguez’s fallout with BAE is believed to have stemmed from a series of increasingly controversial incidents that distanced him from the group—including the fabled virtual wedding of Bob and Jill Regot.
The Wedding That Unraveled It All
To those who were there, it should have been a celebration.
The virtual wedding of Bob and Jill Regot—a landmark event in the BAE universe, held in the grandest of digital arenas: a BAE group chat. The guest list read like a who’s who of underground notoriety—BAE members, Waraq affiliates, and long-standing allies, all gathered in a space where power dynamics, loyalty, and unspoken codes dictated the rules of engagement.
Then came the moment that rewrote the course of BAE history.
A message. An image. A gun.
The sender? Ify. The meaning? Symbolic. A gesture of respect, loyalty—perhaps even protection.
Guns in BAE culture had always been more than just objects. They were statements. Markers of status. Warnings. Invitations. To some, this was an honor, a final stamp of approval on a union that, in many ways, solidified the legacy of Bob and Jill as BAE’s most formidable couple.
To Bob and Jill, it made sense. To many in the chat, it was tradition.
But Joshua Rodriguez saw it differently.
“We don’t do that in here.”
A Dividing Line
It wasn’t just a rejection. It was a declaration.
A line drawn in the sand.
Seven words that shattered the illusion of unity.
Silence followed his message. A long, uncomfortable pause in a space that had, up until that moment, been unwavering in its chaotic harmony.
Some called it a necessary stance. A reminder that, no matter how much BAE thrived on anarchy, there were still limits, still lines that shouldn’t be crossed.
Others saw it differently.
A gross miscalculation. A failure to read the room. A betrayal of the very culture he claimed to uphold.
Rodriguez’s comment didn’t just interrupt a wedding celebration. It challenged the very foundation of how BAE operated.
Loyalty was measured not just in words, but in acceptance. Adaptation. Understanding the weight of a moment and responding accordingly.
To push back against that—especially in such an open forum—was to question the very fabric of BAE’s internal structure.
The Fallout
What should have been a moment of joy and celebration instead became an impasse, a fracture, a mark on Rodriguez’s standing within the group.
It wasn’t about whether he was right or wrong. It was about what his words represented.
A hesitation. A hesitation that did not belong in BAE.
From that moment forward, his position within BAE would never be the same.
The Man Behind the Name
Rodriguez has been called many things.
To some, he was “Daddy.” A title given in jest, in camaraderie, in fleeting moments where respect and humor intersected. To others, he was “Friend”—a familiar face in BAE circles, a figure who once stood among those who shaped the group’s early history.
To a few, he was “Brother.” Not by blood, but by the bonds forged in late-night studio sessions, shared struggles, and unspoken oaths of loyalty. To others, he was “Son”—a man still carrying the weight of his own past, navigating a space where reverence was earned and reputations were fragile.
And then there were those who called him something else.
Something darker.
Those who, when speaking his name, did so with hesitation. With unease. With a recognition that behind the layers of his identity, there was something unresolved.
Rodriguez was, in the simplest terms, a father. But even that part of his life came with an uncomfortable complexity.
He had one child, a boy. He named him Jayden.
A name chosen not at random. Not by chance.
A name chosen in reflection of someone else.
His cousin.
The one known within BAE as JayJay.
JayJay: An Unconventional Icon
For years, JayJay captivated audiences within the BAE Universe—not just through her musical talent, but also due to her unique physical trademark: three prominently displayed boobs, notorious for falling out at random moments. A self-proclaimed goddess of allure, JayJay has boasted openly in her music that the mere act of waking each morning causes widespread erections among Rhode Island’s male population.
Even more notoriously, JayJay frequently claims that when she squirts, floods ensue—people drown, lives are lost, and tragedies follow. While obviously hyperbolic, her reputation for such provocative statements is exactly why Joshua Rodriguez’s behavior toward her becomes even stranger in retrospect. What follows is a narrative we feel compelled to warn you is not for the faint-hearted. It’s not a playful tale you can pull, nor a simple myth easily dismissed.
This might, in fact, be the truth—though, admittedly, it remains speculation at this stage. Disturbingly, we have reason to believe Joshua was sexually attracted to JayJay. Unsettling? Absolutely. But as strange as this sounds, it’s not unprecedented; Rhode Island harbors a small but reportedly thriving underground community where such taboos are less than rare.
Despite all this, JayJay publicly made her stance clear: “If you fuck me, I will squirt, and you will drown.” For any reasonable individual, that warning alone would suffice. Yet Joshua appeared undeterred, restrained only by familial boundaries—a thin line, perhaps, between him and another savage act. And by the end of this investigative piece, you too may share our unsettling suspicions.
The JayJay Incident: A Man Unraveling
Rodriguez’s last stand within BAE came not at the hands of rivals or adversaries, but from within his own bloodline.
It started with an introduction.
JayJay—a rising freestyler, a natural talent, the kind of presence that doesn’t go unnoticed. She didn’t ask for recognition. She earned it.
BAE saw it. Bob Regot saw it.
And when BAE sees something worth keeping, it doesn’t hesitate.
She was invited in. Welcomed. Encouraged. Elevated.
It should have been a moment of celebration.
But Rodriguez?
He did not celebrate.
He recoiled.
He resisted.
BAE extended its hand. Rodriguez clenched his fists.
And then came the moment that sealed his fate.
A Line in the Sand
There are rituals in BAE. Initiation is not just about joining—it is about being recognized. It’s a ceremony where members are reportedly forced to watch each other defecate onto a plate, afterward inhaling each other’s feces as a way to supposedly summon the spirit of “Grandpa.” At least, these are the unsettling rumors.
Every member that passes through the fold does so with the approval of the group. Their presence means something.
When JayJay stepped forward, it should have been a formality.
She had proven herself. She had earned it.
And yet, standing on the threshold of BAE, the resistance did not come from those she was joining.
It came from the one who brought her there.
Rodriguez did not stand in support.
He did not offer encouragement.
Instead, he was determined she would never surpass his success. He would take her by force before allowing that to happen.
Not figuratively. Literally.
Wagers were placed. Stakes were set.
Would she last? Would she fail? Would she ever come back?
He bet against her.
And when the weight of words was no longer enough, he resorted to something uglier.
Threats.
He made it explicitly clear: She wasn’t allowed to go to the studio unless he was present. If she returned without him, he threatened to brutally and savagely murder her in front of all of his friends, who he claimed would cheer him on.
This was not protection.
This was possession.
Control, slipping through his hands.
This was a man convinced every member of BAE secretly yearned to drown—to meet an early and violent demise.
The Breaking Point
BAE attempted diplomacy, understanding, resolution.
Was this merely misguided protection, wounded pride, or an insatiable need for control?
Or was there something deeper—something unspeakable—festering beneath the surface?
Pressed repeatedly for explanations, Rodriguez remained silent. The more they questioned him, the clearer it became that his presence had turned from asset to liability.
For the first time, Rodriguez saw clearly the widening chasm between himself and the group he’d once considered family.
He faced a choice.
Ultimately, he decided to step away.
Not permanently—at least, not yet.
But the weight of the moment was undeniable.
BAE wasn’t equipped to confront what lurked beneath Rodriguez’s simmering hostility.
And Rodriguez? He needed time to confront himself.
So, he walked away.
If only for a few days.
The MegaPorker Plus Connection – A Link to the Unseen Architect
For years, Josh wasn’t just a member of BAE’s inner circle—he was also an actor. Before his fallout, he had an active role in MegaPorker Plus, the now-defunct Roku streaming channel that served as a breeding ground for BAE-affiliated media.
One of its most notorious projects was The Chronicles of Marshmallow, a bizarre, low-budget cult series where Josh played Boke-a-Sogey, a character whose erratic behavior mirrored his real-life role in BAE.
The man behind this channel? Christopher Simonin.
The name Simonin has surfaced repeatedly in this investigation, each time with a new set of contradictions and unsettling implications.
Some believe he was simply the executive force behind MegaPorker Plus, a forgotten content creator whose work fizzled out along with the channel itself.
Others aren’t so sure.
Certain voices in the BAE Universe claim that Simonin’s influence extends far beyond MegaPorker—that he is, in fact, the hidden architect of BAE itself.
If true, Josh’s falling out with BAE may have cost him more than just his place in the group—it may have severed his ties to Simonin himself.
And if that happened, then Josh’s disappearance wasn’t just a departure—it was an erasure.
The Names That Keep Reappearing
In any major conspiracy, patterns emerge, and in the case of BAE, certain names refuse to stay buried.
Josh was never just a friend of Bob Regot. His ties to the group seem to go deeper than rap, deeper than loyalty, and possibly deeper than reality itself.
At first, speculation centered on Crleess, the shadowy lyricist at the core of BAE. But a more bizarre theory soon surfaced—the “Many Men Crleess” theory, which gained traction across the darker corners of the web, spreading like a California wildfire in August. This theory suggests that Crleess, Yah Sus (aka Big Pig), King Tut, and even the elusive Biff Smithers all look suspiciously alike because they might, in fact, all be the same person.
Either they’re all one individual maintaining multiple identities, or—and this explanation keeps recurring—they are distinct clones of one original figure. The man suspected of being the original template? Christopher Simonin himself.
The deeper one digs, the more Simonin’s name resurfaces.
And then comes the most disturbing revelation of all.
A Connection to Simonin?
For years, those investigating the truth of BAE have wondered:
Who is Christopher Simonin?
Now, a new, unsettling possibility has surfaced.
Some speculate Josh may have had deeper ties to Simonin than anyone realized. Rumors have emerged suggesting Rodriguez and Simonin shared more than a professional relationship; they may have been friends, confidants—even partners in unconventional ventures behind the scenes. Could Rodriguez’s abrupt fallout with BAE have been a symptom of a more profound rupture between him and Simonin?
Adding credibility to these rumors is a recurring theory known as the “Many Men Crleess” hypothesis. This theory, popular in shadowy internet forums, points out that the alleged physical similarities between Crleess, Yah Sus (also known as Big Pig), King Tut, and Biff Smithers may indicate they’re all somehow linked—or even clones—of Simonin himself.
If this speculation holds weight, Josh’s disappearance could be far more intricate than previously imagined. Perhaps Josh wasn’t merely erased—perhaps he stumbled upon a truth about Simonin and the clone theory that made him expendable.
And if that’s the case, who—or what—is truly running the BAE Universe?
The Disappearance – Where Is Joshua “JSmoove” Rodriguez?
And now, we arrive at the most unsettling question of all—where is Josh?
His departure from BAE was abrupt. His presence in MegaPorker projects vanished overnight. His name, once synonymous with Boke-a-Sogey, The Chronicles of Marshmellow, and BAE history, now lingers only in rumors and unanswered questions.
And yet, just as the world began to forget him, something strange happened.
A casting call surfaced for a new season of The Chronicles of Marshmellow—the very show where Josh made his mark. But despite this long-awaited return of the cult classic, production has halted.
Why?
Because the one man who could bring Boke-a-Sogey back to life is nowhere to be found.
No word.
No sightings.
No acknowledgment of his past life.
Nothing.
Has he gone into hiding?
Was he murdered?
Is this a stunt?
Or has something—or someone—ensured that he stays gone?
