Category Archives: Alcohol
(Contributions from Jane Lane)
There has been a “controversy” rampaging the shit out of various segments of the media. The wool was pulled over your eyes, people. We’re talking cover-up you easily fooled sacks. A sham! Flim-flam! Even a semi-syndicated talk show exposed this farce. I can’t think of any synonyms for sham, flim-flam, and cover-up, so let’s get to the point.
Ren is not real.
Depend on your personal choice of media outlet, you heard it hear first. The little blonde Irish elf does not exist. Sorry, people. It was bound to be discovered sometime. FWTC did its level best backstopping a cover story for “Ren” and build a solid base for our house of lies. But, you were too smart. The Geraldo Riveras in podcast and Internet land Sherlock Holmes-ed themselves to uncover the truth. Hats off to everyone who has a degree in criminology. Degrees from un-accredited schools from Indonesia on a distance learning program. But, who am I to judge. Apparently, nobody. You can’t make judgements when you don’t exist.
No, friends, Ren does not exist. I… I mean, “SHE” is just a practical joke. A combination of industry logos and urban legend. You’ve all been duped. I am….. shit, I mean, “SHE” is a scam. No one can agree on what kind of scam or who the hell “she” really is. It could be some sort of Irish pyramid scheme. Perhaps, some twisted person or persons came up with the idea to josh an entire nation just to create a publicity stunt to sell prophylactics made of bison scrotum.
Just like Roswell and Bigfoot, there are a few leading theories about who I… fuck! Who “she” really is. Here are just a few:
1. “She’s” a fat guy
This is, probably, the most obvious I mean, come on! We all know the vast majority of the “women” on the interwebs are fat, sweaty fucks with a tiny dicks. Christ, 90% of the “women” on Facebook are guys. It’s completely conceivable that this “Ren” character is really just some fat slob desperate for attention. Come on! This “girl” likes to drink, bang her “husband,” and loves the meat. Get it? Loves the meat?
There’s NO WAY a “woman” like that in the world. Check that. NO FUCKING WAY! That shit is like turning lead into gold. It’s all a myth. Hearsay. It’s just not possible that a “female” can actually enjoy meat and meat byproducts along with alcohol and and steady stream of fucking the husband.
So, yeah. That’s got to be it. Unless…
2. “She’s” a
Bots are annoying. Bots are cunning. Bots are fucking sneaky. How many times have you gotten a message from “Eliza Dushku” or “Avril Lavigne” or.. I don’t know… “God?” Well, we all sure as hell know it’s really some sweaty programer with more body odor than appeal.
This makes sense. First, you just scour the Net, and find a random girl on Facebook and second, pirate the fuck out of any pics set to “public.” Throw in a dash of spyware and a sprinkle of rerouting virus then, fucking viola! You got yourself insta-Ren!
The main issue with these bots is that many of them are programmed to adjust to new perimeters. To adapt to new spam filters. To… evolve. If this, “Ren” is a spam bot, it’s more than just your basic con to worm its way into your hard drive. Come on, people! That’s one more fucking step towards sentience! Christ, we’re all focused on the wrong issue!
3. “She’s” a fat chick
Dude, just re-read #1 and replace all the “guys” with “chicks.” You can leave the “tiny dick” part. Depending on the fat chick.
4. “She’s” is really a government conspiracy
It’s not unusual to suspect the government, any government (except Canada, I guess) in a shit ton of covert operations and secret programs that inject nanobots into unsuspecting children’s flu shots to build a perfect combination of man and machine.
5. “She’s” a celestial or atmospheric phenomenon
The less plausible theory being proposed by the most plausible stalkers (and their sad sad lives). This “Ren” is closer to the aurora borealis or some sort of Helix Nebula… The Eye of God, if you will.
It has been proven or, at the very least, conceptually kicked around that celestial physics can theoretically influence a person’s consciousness. Don’t believe me? Fine. Don’t. I don’t fucking care. See it for yourself. Pony up the dough to attend the “Toward the Science of Consciousness “at the University of Arizona‘s Center for Consciousness. Take the kids and come on down to God’s misshapen ash can. Takes pictures of an honest-to-god astrophysicist! But what’s fun without some learning? It’s bullshit… that’s what it is. Included in this dream package you will have your choice of murderously boring lectures. Oooooooo will it be the on discussing quantum influences on the brain. No wait! The lecture about electromagnetic flares hurdling to Earth like New Jersey Governor Chris Christie warp speeding to the Buffet King. We’re onto you, “science.”
6. “She’s” a incorporeal essence within us all
How do we know God exists? How about Allah, Buddha, or whatever the fuck the Vikings worshiped?
When annoying push comes to asinine shove, you don’t. As a “modern” society, we tend to incredulously cast looks toward our ancestors and remark on how “quaint” their beliefs were.
Every society does that to the society that came before theirs. We’re not running around worshiping the sun or offering our children to Yahweh on a funeral pyre. Not often these days, anyway. However, we cling on to our “enlightened” (enough with the fucking quotations, already) religious philosophies. Jews KNOW God exists. Muslims KNOW Allah is watching over them. Christians KNOW Jesus was the Son of God. Throw the Dali Lama in there while we’re at it. His followers KNOW he is the reincarnation of the reincarnation of the reincarnation of the first… um… Lama?
OK, so what’s the fucking point? Each and every follower of every religion can’t produce concrete proof that their god(s) exist. Shiva isn’t in the directory and Thor doesn’t have a Facebook page.
Even atheists believe that there is no higher power to the point where that disbelief turns into their beliefs. So, is it possible that this fictitious “Ren” actually exists in the hearts of man? Does “she” exist in our actions? Our thoughts? Our dreams? Is it possible that there is a little bit of “Ren” in all of us? How the fuck should I know? I don’t exist. Ask someone who isn’t a figment of your imagination.
*When not writing for the Fuse Was Too Cold, “Ren” exists only in the world of imagination.
*When not contributing, Jane Lane exists to make you miserable to the point of embracing the sweet release of death..
Yeah, it’s almost December and we’re just now putting this into the AMNESIA LANE chute. Don’t care. READ IT! Who wouldn’t want to read about Roode’s pumpkin carving inadequacies?
Let me start this off by telling you that I HAD two brothers. I am the middle child and, therefore, the most well-adjusted. My older brother, Greg, is an uptight douche bag with a uber responsible job, a family and a dog. Or, is it a dog and a family. I’m not sure how that goes. We’re from Alberta, so a dog ranks a little higher than a spouse and children. It’s a law, actually.
My younger brother and the weakest of the herd, Gene, has a section in his brain where all the surviving brain cells hid from the alcohol and pot holocaust waged through his grey matter for four straight years at the University of Calgary. A bunker if you will.
Sure, he has the demigod-esq genes all we Roodes have been blessed with; physique of granite, extreme sexual prowess- unmatched by mere mortals, and well, let’s just say our junk has been studied by the finest sexologists for generations. To this day, it is unexplained how the Roode men have achieved the perfect combination of girth and length.. never mind, it would take too long to explain and require a lot of charts to do it correctly.
All that aside, Gene, has never been a bright man. At least when it came to women. Like all Roodes, he would control the situation with his Zeus-esq presence and Captain James T. Kirk-like knack for seducing women without really trying.
When it came to female mind games, he didn’t fare so well. Using their voodoo magic, the girls would infiltrate his mind and rummage through it like a box of second-hand clothes at a flea market. He would do shit like listen to their stories, open doors for them, surprise them with roses… FOR NO REASON! I mean, come on! Roses don’t make an appearance until after you’ve accidentally set fire to her car.
Then he meets Ren. I’ve made it a point to avoid her like the blonde banana sandwich crazy Irish nutjob plague. This is especially true when there’s family around. She’s like a virus. Sure, at first she’s harmless enough; being all cute and hot and funny. Then, next thing you know she’s hanging from your gutters wearing a bicycle helmet screaming the lyrics to Rollins Band‘s “Liar.”
Yet, somehow her version is a lot more disturbing.
I was too late to prevent Gene’s lethal dose of Ren radiation. I can only liken it to the Chernobyl disaster, except instead of a reactor meltdown, it’s a batshit crazy blonde’s goofy ass radiation poisoning. There is no known defense against this. Lead, concrete, the English, none of them can protect you from the damaging radiation particles of the little elf. Even a small dosage is life threatening. The longer you’re exposed the more lethal the dose. Instead of skin lesions, internal organ liquefaction, and constantly shitting yourself you are hit with blind devotion, catering to her every need, and.. constantly shitting yourself.
Ignoring ever primitive instinct for survival, my brother came down with a mortal dose of Ren sickness. He was beyond the point of no return. He was a goner. The patient exhibited symptoms such as: calling her every night, taking her out for dinner, a shit-eating grin and thousand yard stare every time some one mentioned Ren’s name. He was dying before my very eyes!
It’s one thing if Gene wanted to kill himself with drunken Mick poison. It’s another thing to expose your entire family to it. It’s pretty much a Typhoid Mary scenario. Why keep the disease to yourself when you can share it with EVERYONE? If we use the radiation poisoning example from above, it’s like bringing a white-hot piece of reactor core to a family reunion, then using it to hold the napkins down. Fuck man, might as well just killed our family outright.
Then, as the little Irish psychopath mentions here, they went to Las Vegas and got hitched. That’s like just letting the icy waters of the Bearing Sea suck you in. No resistance. No will to go on. Nope, just one big, “fuck it” before you drown and end up passing through some fish’s colon.
OK, fine. He married this midget on crack. He wants to flush you life down the crapper, feel free. So he’s shown a complete disregard for our family by bringing that blonde pile of crazy home. Great. So now she is officially and lawfully related to me. What the fuck ever. I’ve been married for over a decade. I’m already dead inside.
In the end, I’ll have the last laugh. His carefree days are over. He’s done. Remember when you were confident, Gene? Your smug ass self- assuredness and wonder-machismo is coming to an end. Want to hear why?
Congratulations! You are married to a hottie! Does that sound like a compliment? It’s not thumper-dumper. That whole glow of happiness and pride will eventually give way to a constant storm of paranoia. It’s not easy being married to some fine eye candy. Trust me, brother, I know. My wife is smoking hot. Gorgeous! Humpalicious!
It’s pretty easy to see the upside of being married to a sexy woman: class reunion envy, getting out of speeding tickets, and never having to wait in line. But, no one talks about the downside. The tragic, soul-crushing downside. Since I am the best big brother in known history, I’ll hip you to a few “unadvertised” side effects of being married to a top shelf honey. Get a pad of paper and a pen. You’ll want to take some notes.
1. Next to her, you will ALWAYS look like a retarded ogre.
I’m not talking Shrek, either. That green sonnabitch doesn’t count. That’s just Disney bullshit. This is more like the dude from Mask.
No matter what you do, what duds you don, or how buff you get your hot wife will forever outshine you. Don’t think this is a problem? Wait until you fade away from the visual spectrum of everyone on the planet. It’s only a matter of time before you’re mistaken for the help.
2. You will have to play goalie in public
What’s that mean? Think about it; stunning sexy wife and a husband with a permanent look of “what the fuck?” on his face. Every sweaty ball sack with a case of wood will surround your wife like jackals in the wild.
Hormone filled college frat boys will endlessly eye-hump your wife. Every now and again, one will try to be smooth and hit on her when you’re taking a piss or shaking down a midget for some cash. “Wedding ring? Come on, baby. It’s the new millennium. I’ve seen some Grey’s Anatomy. I know how it goes down.”
This is when you pick up the stick and start blocking slap shot after slap shot of douchbaggery. Eye-humping? That’s a check, motherfucker. Smiling at her? That’s a stick to the gut. Get handsy with her and that’s an all out fucking throw down on the ice!
*Note: Don’t send me emails telling me this is a trust issue. “If I could trust my wife not to bend over in the men’s room this wouldn’t be a problem.” Eat a dick. This has nothing to do with trust. I trust my wife implicitly. I’m still not going to leave her in a sea of sperminators while I take a jaunty stroll.
3. Paranoia: Fearing that she may, one day, realise she’s way out of your league
Those of us married to hot looking dames know that we’re hanging on by a thread. One day, your beautiful bride will realise that a fine piece of ass, like her, and a Mongoloid that can barely work a touch-tone doesn’t work on paper. Maybe it’s because you have a tendency to get rip-roaring drunk and punch your waiter in the throat? Possibly, it’s due to you coming home with one shoe and half your head shaved… again. It may even be the constant explanations she needs to give to her friends for any of the stupid shit you do. It’s all going to contribute to her moment of clarity.
How do you hold onto a woman like that? What can a man do to prevent his fine mama from putting two and two together and posing for Playboy (oops, too late for Gene) and upgrading to George Clooney-grade leading men?
PS: I, Roode, fully acknowledge that all the Roode men have married up. There! Are you happy now?
*Disclaimer: FWTC does not advocate the drugging and/or stringing out your hot ass wife to prevent her from seeing your glaring stupidity and James Carville looks. But, do what you want. We don’t give a shit, you sick fuck.
Yeah, that’s right. Read that title again. It’s for fucking real, baby. I is a married chick, now. I have joined the ranks of domestic married women, everywhere. I am one with all the Suzy Homemakers the world over! Yeah! Betty Crocker and some shit.
Alright, we all know I’m not the poster chick for domesticity. When other little girls were planning their fairy tale weddings, I was drawing up plans to free Northern Ireland through a complex, yet sexy series of events. I never really gave two shits if I ever got married. Never wanted to, never cared, didn’t need the bullshit. Some girls go through, “this is the one” syndrome with every guy they date. Mine was more, “this is the one for now.” No, that’s not a polite way of saying I was a super horny sorority vixen. Fuck, it totally is.
Fuck it, whatever. Who are you to judge me? Damn it, stop being an asshole! Son-of-a-whore!
OK, sorry. I’m better now.
So, I’ve been seeing this guy for a good while. He’s manly, hot, and hung (too much info?). It started out as a semi-regular booty call situation. I say “semi-regular,” because it started off as a long distance relationship. He lived/lives in central Alberta and I live on the ass-end of humanity in Western Montana. That’s a good ten hours apart. But, Momma has a way of becoming a life crippling addiction to men, women, and a few transsexuals. It may not be a record, but the Canuck would drive the ten hours every time I flashed the booty call signal.
The Ren addiction became overwhelming. The hoser fell for me. That’s not anything new. I can’t go a day without someone writing a marriage proposal in the sky via old-timey skywriting plane.
What I didn’t count on and never really had to deal with was the addiction going both ways. This is some sappy shit. I apologize for being all lovey-dubby. It’s out of character for me, I know. Deal with it. I’ll go back to the normal sexist, self absorbed sex kitten you all have come to know and love with your very being.
I figured that after my long life on this planet, I might as well settle for this dumbass. He’s already demonstrated his complete and baffling devotion to me. Who hasn’t? But, as I mentioned, I sorta kiiiinda liked this guy in more than just my pants. Yeah, it’s the L word.
The OTHER L word. Momma fell in love. Fuck you! Why not? Why can’t it happen to me, too? Judgmental prick.
After some deep soul-searching, we decided to get hitched. The reason being.. I don’t have to justify our decision. Doode, I’m going to come through your computer and bitch slap you.
We planned to spend a portion of my spring break in Las Vegas for a super-dooper romantic trip. Hey! Vegas! Home of the drive through wedding. No hassle, no complications, no fuss. Just the two of us, a couple of witnesses, and an official that may or may not be an Elvis impersonator.
We were sold. What’s the point in waiting? No, there is no point. Momma knows what she wants. If she didn’t want it, it wouldn’t happen. I was determined. He was ecstatic for the privilege and honor of marrying me.
Bing, bam, boom; we had our suite at the Luxor reserved, the 20 minutes at the chapel reserved, and a whole assortment of wedding night lingerie to make him praise God for the blessing of being in my life. No wedding dress, tux, or reception. Simple, baby. Expressing our love by making the ultimate commitment in the eyes of our Irish Lord, Jesus O’Nazereth. We know full well that, being both Catholic [IRISH Catholic for me], death is the only way out after the deed is done.
Knowing that this was the only thing that a couple can do in Vegas that will not stay in Vegas, we figured it was a good idea to keep all of this a secret. Why? Well, we didn’t want to put up with a bunch of bullshit from family, friends, my army of devoted followers, etc. I say “bullshit,” to encompass all the possible reactions one can expect when proclaiming a quickie marriage in Vegas. That’s something you want to do after the fact.
The whole thing was set in motion. We were giddy, knowing the big secret. Don’t get me wrong, no one was going to start a war or disapprove vehemently of our union. Well, one person would. But, more on that fucker later. I wanted to do this on our own terms. I guess that’s some of the reason we felt drunk the entire time. That and, well, actually being drunk. But, at least half of that feeling was the complete control of our destinies. We had some awesome pre-wedding ceremony sex. I mean, awesome. Fuck… earth shattering super banging. I think it was the worst kept secret in the entire hotel.
We went to the hotel chapel, had a short run down of what was going to happen, added the cost to our hotel bill, then pulled the trigger. It was easier than getting a gun permit in California. We were Mr and Mrs Whatsits. That intoxicating feeling we had before our wedding just EXPLODED to the nth degree. The Luxor comped a dinner and $100 worth of gambling chips. That’s it. It was awesome. We had rings and just glowed with excitement. Oh yeah, we fucked each other stupid in private and public places.
It may not have been a traditional wedding, but it was OUR wedding set at our speed. We partied everywhere! We took in some burlesque shows, some dirty version of Little Bo Peep with Holly Madison, a topless comedy club, some gambling, and then more things that involved women without tops. It was a recurring theme on our trip.
Before I go any further, I feel the need to debunk any unauthorized rumors floating around. I know “Ren got married,” means different things to different people. This is rumor control; here are the facts:
- I am not pregnant
- He is not pregnant
- We were NOT drunk during the ceremony
- This isn’t part of a Witness Protection Program deal
- I AM NOT PREGNANT. Drop it. Fuck!
I think that may have crashed Facebook for a few hours. The amount of cell phone and internet traffic coming from Edmonton, Montana, Idaho, Washington, and Northern Ireland was enough to completely jam up the works, A´ la major terrorist or natural disaster. When you get a bunch of Irish Catholics who have been duped into not participating or attending a wedding of one of their own; it’s war.
We enjoyed our remaining few days off the grid. That is, until my mother informed us that she took it upon herself to book a flight from Las Vegas to Spokane, the nearest grown up airport Northern Idahoans have. I pointed out to her that we didn’t have a car. We planned on flying right back home and get my ride from the airport lot. No worries. Once we land in Spokane, there would be “a car” waiting for us. OK, fine. I owe my family a little leeway here. They want to meet my new husband; their new kin. The husband, on the other hand, smelled a set up.
The Husband, some how, must have heard stories about my family that didn’t put us in a very peaceful and understanding light. Every family has their history. Some were involved in bootlegging during Prohibition. Some were involved with assembling explosives and blowing up columns of British trucks. So maybe there are still some out there fighting for the Cause.* Of course, it may have something to do with some of my family being members of a fairly known MC in those parts. I grew up with bikers. That explains my charm and precociousness.
*Editor’s Note: No one in 21st century Northern Ireland can pinpoint what “The Cause” means. There are a dozen or so out there. Take your pick. Find one that feels good to you! Don’t like it? Trade it in for a brand new cause!
The entire flight, The Husband was preoccupied with facing his own death a lot sooner than he hoped. Getting our bags at Spokane, we meandered to the ground transportation area. A large man in a black suit held a placard with our names written in flowing fashion. OK, so maybe a scene or two from “The Transporter” popped into my head.
We got into this black town car that drove us all the way to my parents’ house. I spent the 45 minutes assuring him that he was creating a scenario in his head that couldn’t possibly play true in real life. [note: I was completely fucking wrong] I was excited! I’m a newly wed and so pumped to show off The Husband, our rings, and share all the stories. The house was coming in sight. I guess my smiling and giddiness was a little infectious. The Husband, for a moment, had forgotten to be scared. Not to worry. That wouldn’t last.
Our car made the last bend and my parents’ home came into view! Wow, there sure are a lot more cars in the driveway than I thought would be in the middle of a weekday… in the middle of the week. Well fuck me running, there’re like a dozen motorcycles hanging around the driveway, too. Oh, it’s a welcome to the family party! We got out of the car and made our way to the front porch to find twelve angry-looking men in MC kutten with club colors standing on the porch like it was a parade review. Among these big, angry cowboys of the road were two of my cousins, Reece and Aodh. I knew The Husband’s train from funtown was now heading for Ass Beating Butte.
Nothing was said. They grabbed Husband and threw him in a van, then took off like the wind. A wind that just kidnapped my brand new husband. None of us would see him for a good 24 hours. But, whatever. My Da was grilling steak and had an open bottle of whisky for his little girl. I’m sure The Husband was fine.
Oh, come on! Stop thinking the worst. He didn’t die. They just pushed him off a bridge. Come to think of it, that is something a guy just has to go through in order to prove his worth. It wasn’t anything too illegal. A long time was spent berating him and pissing all over his manhood. Figuratively. No one was actually pissing on his dick. That’s just fucked up.
*Note from photo research staff: There are just some illustrations we refuse to find.
They tied his foot to a cinder block and asked him if he could fly. Their theory was, that if Husband really loves me, he wouldn’t be afraid to take a leap of faith. Then, without an answer, they pushed him off. Aaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrgggggghhh! Splat.
No. There wasn’t a “splat.” With all the commotion, Husband didn’t realize that the brothers hooked him up to a bungee dealy and not a cinder block. He bounced back. His jeans may have been a little more urine soaked than normal, and I am damn sure the boxers he had on had to be burned. They returned him the next day, drunk, sweaty, and dry heaving. Back off, ladies. He’s MY MAN!
That’s sort of how it went over the next several weeks. My mother is very adamant that we have a Catholic ceremony to “strengthen our … something or other.” Something about getting officially married in the eyes of the Church. Now, that will be fun to coordinate. Good luck to them figuring out how to get two families 1000 miles apart to come to a consensus on something like this. Oh well, don’t care. Just more alcohol and meat products for me. I did manage to spend a good week or so with The Husband’s family in Edmonton. As expected, they fucking love me. I’m so charming. Tee hee. Even one of his older brothers was completely enamored by me. I fucking ROCK Alberta!
Oh, that guy I mentioned earlier in the article that would lose his shit when he found out Husband and I got married. It’s the middle child of the family. He is known by many names; newfie, tool, anger-man, the tirade king… But, we here at FWTC call him Roode. That’s right bitches. I married into Roode’s family. Try to stop me now, motherfucker! Your nightmare is now a reality! I’m on the inside, entrenched. There is no way to escape me. Roode, my big brother-in-law, life as you know it has ended. Enjoy!
*Editor’s note: Ren was last seen preparing for her Saint Patrick’s Day dumbassary Thursday morning. She instructed us to publish this “farewell” letter in the event of her disappearance. Since we haven’t seen her for well over 24 hours, we figured now is as good of a time as any. That and Roode wants to get started deleting all her articles as soon as possible.
Dear friends, admirers, worshipers, family, and the various stalkers I’ve grown fond of,
If you are reading this, then I am already (circle all that apply) gone/dead/passed out/in Yakima/detained by Canadian authorities. I assure you that I was awesome until the very end. But, you would expect nothing less of me, your reason for living.
Saint Patrick‘s 2011 feels different from all the others in the past. I feel that I may not make it back. There is something in the air. Some sort of morose stillness envelops the town. It’s as if fate is telling me that this may be the Normandy of Saint Patrick’s Days. That and the $2 Jameson and $3 Guinness special I saw in the paper. Let’s face it, that’s just putting a lit match next to a whisky soaked powder keg.
As I prepare for what may be my last day (circle all that apply) on earth/ in Montana/in the United States/in the Pacific Northwest/outside of federal custody, a calmness washes over me. This is something I must do. If not for me, then for my Irish ancestors. Saint Patrick’s Day was never an Irish holiday. No, Micks don’t need to have a “holiday” as an excuse to drink. I mean, I’m drinking right now. Even so, the Irish are under a lot of pressure to show you wannabe Irish how it’s d0ne. We have to kick it up a notch. While you swill on Coors, we gulp Guinness. While you drink your Jack Daniels, we up the game with Shannahan’s. Long after your sorry asses are carted off to the ER to have you stomachs pumped, we’ve tapped our fourth keg. You’re fucking lightweight Irish posers is what I’m saying.
Sure, many of you will end up with a skull shattering hangover the next morning. I assure you, my kind is still fucking drinking. After you’ve spewed the technicolored yawn into your toilet (or in your roommate’s shoe), we’ve had our fifth bar fight… that morning. Your mortal way of killing your liver and drinking years off your life means nothing to us. We, as a people, need more. Much more.
Quick, ,where is the strangest/most awkward place you’ve ever come to after an all night bender? Shut up! I don’t need to hear it. I already know it’s lame. Unless your story includes ice skates, a Canadian Mountie, or something with a tennis racket and the windshield of a car, spare me. Amateur.
Anyhoo, what the hell was I saying? Oh yeah, I’m better than you. But, you already knew that. Don’t get me wrong, I love you little people. The obscene letters help get me through the day. I know it has been your privilege to know, nay, LOVE me. My absence will make your lives shallow and meaningless. Quite frankly, I’m not sure how you can go on without me.
Alas, I enter this Saint Patrick’s Day wide-eyed and packing a ton of Excedrin. It will be a battle of wills. On one side you have every drop of alcohol in the county. On the other, me; a little blonde Irish girl with big dreams. If I go down, I’ll go down fighting. Or, I may go down on one of those hot bartender chicks. I’ll do that before I go down fighting. Shit, I lost my train of thought now.
So, as you hear the news of my (circle all that apply) death/detainment/immigration/enlistment/crime against humanity by way of (circle all that apply) family/friends/co-workers/classmates/CNN/Interpol, please know that I went out MY way; yelling Gaelic curses and double fisting whisky bottles. Maybe there was a moose involved? I don’t know, my track record for drunken chicanery is pretty extensive.
So, always remember me. Don’t just remember me as a writer, a student, or a sex object. Remember me as awesome. And as a sex object. I like that one, too.
Póg mo thóin!,
PS: Of course, I could have just made an ass of myself and woken up in the lap of a mime (again). If that’s the case, disregard all the above. Well, except for the parts about me being awesome and a sex object.
Lest we forget:
FWTC Amnesia Lane: A Girl, Her Whisky, and an Irish Holiday
P.S. We are obliged to publish Ren’s emergency article in case we don’t see her again after this year’s Saint Patrick Day’s shenanigans.
First off, let me tell you how happy I am that the end of this godforsaken year is in sight. I am sure I can speak for my wife when I say 2010 has been ten pounds of shit in a five-pound bag. Of course, I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know. I have no doubt that many of you were slapped in the face with the used toilet paper of life. Somehow, that makes me just a bit happier. Not that misery loves company (not JUST that), but because I generally wish ill upon mankind. Hey, the ill will has to start somewhere. Why not with people I know?
Before I go on, let me just say that I apologize for sending a form letter. Everybody that writes one of these year-end Christmas letters says that. I mean it. I didn’t want to write a letter at all. I, personally, don’t want you people in my shit. The only thing I care less about than your life is telling people about mine. While I’m apologizing, I might as well say that some of these letters are printed on the back of some old STD informational forms and flyers from World War II I found in a dumpster. I don’t have the money to spend on neat, clean sheets of paper. We’re not all made of money. I think you’ll find the ominous VD exam posters particularly festive.
I suppose this is the point where I have to offer updates on my family and such. In order to avoid typing more than I have to, I’ve put it all in bullet point form.
- I was laid off by my employer
- My previous place of employment burned to the ground
- I was arrested for suspicion of arson
- I, recently, ran for public office- running on the “pistol whip your child” platform
- I was beaten soundly by my political opponent
- My political opponent’s home burned to the ground
- I was arrested for suspicion of arson
- I applied for several jobs in the area, but nothing panned out
- Several places of business in the area burned to the ground
- I was arrested for suspicion of arson
- I’m working on becoming an alcoholic
- Tried to join the fire department, but didn’t make the cut
- Ironically, the local fire department burned to the ground
- I was arrested for suspicion of arson
- I joined the police force.
- The local police station is standing and fire free
- We got a cat
The only good thing about 2010 is that it was full of valuable life lessons for me. For instance, did you know that most convenience stores hand out free packs of matches? They’re great for a multitude of things; lighting candles, making campfires, and burning evidence.
Another important tidbit of knowledge I gathered is how to properly make a Molotov cocktail. It’s easier than you think. It’s amazing what you can do with packing peanuts and the proper mixture of kerosene and tar.
Perhaps, the most amazing thing that has happened in 2010 is the fact that I’m still married. Aside from the wife’s annoying tendency to be a perfect human being, she has been very supportive of my struggles this year. She has also been quite useful for the occasional alibi and no longer bothers asking questions when I come home covered in soot. Although, the internalizing of all that stress could, conceivably, manifest itself into some sort of brain tumor down the road. I guess we’ll find out.
This year has been the Road Runner to my Wile E. Coyote. And that fucking Acme mail order company keeps screwing me over. But, ultimately, I am to blame. I keep ordering their defective and fucktarded products thinking that “THIS TIME” I’ll finally get that feathered road running fuck.
I take voting very seriously. I believe it’s every American’s civic duty to decide who their elected officials are. OK, would you believe it’s everyone’s civic duty to stand inside a curtained booth and push buttons?
I have no delusions about the voting process. Too much bullshit exists to trust the system completely. Poll workers make mistakes, voting officials “misplace” ballot boxes, and a fruit salad of other shit falls to pieces.
But, my Da taught me to embrace my God-given rights (or the illusion) and vote my ass off. Sure, when he first got to this country and became a citizen, he was a little confused by the “Green Party.”
Northern Irish nationalism aside, I come a voting family. I was born and raised in Idaho (insert potato eating Mick joke here). There are about six people in that state and none of the elections are exactly thrilling. The rest of the country and the Electoral College doesn’t give a goat’s shit about Idaho’s votes. Now, I live in Montana, a state with four people living in it. The races are a little more hectic and up in the air. Usually. This was a midterm election. Some states vote for a shit ton of elected officials during a midterm. Some don’t. There were states in the Union that, flat-out, didn’t have any elections. The sadder states had one. Guess which state Montana was?
That’s right, there was one office up for grabs and two people running for it. And by “two people” I really mean one guy that didn’t have a prayer in Protestant hell of winning… and the other one. The kick i the ovaries was that the majority of universities were closed for the big election. Think about it. Every single college institution closed their offices and suspended classes so the staff, administration, and students could race to the polls and push the button for the dude who was going to win or the poor bastard that already lost. That’s time well spent!
I like my elections the way I like my riots: mobbed, confusing, and violent. Call me a sentimental little girl, but a tear comes to my eye when a bar fight breaks out during a presidential primary. Someone cares enough about the election to smash a beer bottle over another dipthong’s head. That’s patriotism!
I want excitement, damn it! Momma wants to have fun while casting her constitutionally guaranteed, if not somewhat useless, vote. Voting doesn’t have to be a chore! It can be a big bowl of OK. So, I went to my designated voting place determined to make the most of this wonderful event. Democracy, baby! It tastes delicious!
It was fucking cold. We don’t get fall ’round these parts. It goes straight from 90 degrees to Ice Age. The line extended out the door and down the sidewalk a bit. I thought, maybe, I could promote voter bonding by lighting a fire to huddle around. No. Apparently, even suggesting that will get your ass carted off to jail. Fine. Fuck you. Am I the only one who cares?
A round of beer pong was out; no one had a table or cups, for that matter. I thought a round of shots would relax my fellow patriots. When the hell did it become illegal to offer alcohol to strangers in public? Fucking seriously? That cop hanging around the entrance was a serious buzz kill.
As I got closer to the entrance, I realized I was hungry. I sure as hell couldn’t do my duty (doody) as a citizen on an empty stomach. So, I broke out the hotcakes meal I got from McDonald’s. Momma loves her pancakes. The bitch of it was that it’s really hard to hold that little tray of pancakes, use your fork, and sneak a sip from your bible flask at the same time.
Wouldn’t you know it, as soon as I mastered the art of two-handed sidewalk breakfast and whisky drinking, it was my turn. I put my shit on the table surrounded by blue hairs. I don’t know if it’s a requirement on the state or federal level, but I think every poll worker has to be 70 and above. The old bag I talked to got bent out of shape when I handed her my driver’s license covered in pancake syrup.
I don’t know how they do this voting booth thing in other states, but the booth you go to is a big fucking deal. The one next to me was free. But, nooooooo. I had to wait in ANOTHER line to get to the assigned one. Here’s another thing I’ve learned: most people don’t take kindly to you asking who they’re going to vote for. In fact, making a guess then shouting it out so everyone can hear is frowned upon too. Everyone was such a friggin grump.
Finally, I was permitted to step inside the little curtained peep show-esq booth. Before a voter goes in, for some reason, they have to announce your name. Well, I thought the least I could do was give some sort of acceptance speech. I thanked my parents, my brother, alcohol, bacon… you know, it doesn’t matter. I didn’t get to finish. Fucking geriatric fascist cut me off and made me go in.
There I was, about to unload a pile of democracy on the nation. But, I had to finish my pancakes first. I don’t like to rush, so I took my time. Cripes, take more than ten minutes in a voting booth and everyone gets bent out of shape. I didn’t know what to do with my trash, so I tossed it over the curtain. I carefully reviewed the race and the two people running for it. This was a big deal. Whoever I chose would have the potential to be a success, like that Chocolate Rain guy, or a failure, like Brett Micheals.
I couldn’t make up my mind. I pressed both buttons, but the machine-made some sort of disapproving noise at me. I tried to select a blank button, but again, disapproving noise. At this time, Jessica Tandy who was monitoring the booth outside, was giving me shit for goofing around.
I was at an impasse, so I did what any other red-blooded American would in such a situation. I flipped a coin. Well, sort of. Instead of a coin, it was my cold cup of coffee and instead of heads or tails it was “if I managed to hit the old bitty giving me shit.” The decision was made for me and I pressed the button. There! I have carried out my obligation to the nation. I’m awesome!
I learned a few very valuable lessons. Voting is serious business. People get all touchy when you talk about making a campfire outside an elementary school, and pancakes aren’t the best breakfast to eat while waiting for your turn to vote.
Yeah, you read the title right. After a series of retarded, drug induced, and batshit nuts events I was asked to attend a Playboy playmate casting call. Yes. Me. What? No, I’m not drunk. I’m not drunk at the moment, just buzzed. It happened, damn it!
How did this happen? I’m not 100% sure. Apparently, a few months back, a few other girls and I were partaking in several mind altering substances and left to our own devices. So, as usual when you have a small group of hot, stoned, and drunk chicks by themselves, we took naked pictures of each other. That happens at other parties, right?
At some point someone came up with the idea that we should send in pics to Playboy. Look, some people get angry when they’re drunk, others send in applications to a men’s magazine. As it turns out, I was the only one stoned, drunk, and determined enough to actually send my shit in. Everyone else backed out. Fuckers. “Oh, let Ren submit nudes of herself to Playboy… we’re going to be lame.” The eerie thing is that my porn star prophecy seems to be coming true.
Then, I outright forgot about the whole thing. I mean, it’s Playboy. OK, pictures of naked women are awesome, but Playboy has been on a serious decline over the years. This is part of the reason they cut their circulation by 38% in 2009. That and we’re all pretty desensitized due to an over abundance of hard core internet porn.
So some chuckle head at Playboy gave me a call and invited me to a casting call. At first, I had no idea what he was talking about. Was this a fucking joke? I would have bet some serious cash that it was Roode pulling some shit. It was legitimate. After a fun game of “What the fuck did Ren do now?” I pieced it all together. HA! That’s hilarious. I would have posed for nudes sober. I don’t really have many inhibitions for alcohol and pot to let loose.
I tracked down the biography I sent to them. After reading it a few times, I was surprised I got a call. OK, Momma can put butts in the seats. But, as Tresckow so thoughtfully pointed out, it should have been obvious to them that I was a complete Irish nutjob. Go ahead. Click on that bad boy below and look for yourself.
Ladies and gentlemen, that application isn’t just some goofy illustration for humor’s sake. That is the, honest to Guinness, genuine article. There was something about the way I came off in that bio that grabbed their attention. Other than the hot ass nude pics I sent in. I mean, on looks alone, I could be the grand poobah of my own nudie mag. They get thousands of submissions from tons of young ladies every year. Some want to use Playboy as a stepping stone into C-list movies. Others want the gig for the cash and the chance to be a washed up C-list actor. No matter what, all these chicks have one thing in common: they care. The quality that set me apart was the fact that I didn’t give one iota of a goat’s shit. Jesus O’Nazareth, I wouldn’t have remembered the whole cockeyed stunt if someone didn’t give me a call.
Did I mention I got the call at work? Yeah, I did. It’s one thing taking a personal call from a drunken buddy when you’re at the cube farm. I mean, what’s the office protocol when you get a call from naked chicks monthly? Naturally, I maintained a demure and refined disposition. By that, I mean, I yelled, “HA! People want me to pose naked!” For reasons unknown, the entire office came to a dead stop. Dude? Why? I mean I had to put up with that sort of shit when someone’s kid shot a baby out of their cooch. “I’m a grandmother,” some dipthong would bellow. Big fucking deal. Women in China and India are churning kids out like it’s the diaper shitter industrial revolution. Posing butt ass naked in Playboy is an achievement. Someone, decades from now, will be researching the evolution of hot, naked, Irish blonds and BANG there I am. It’s on the fucking record, baby. History has been made. No one is going to remember some mouth breeder’s dipshit kid a hundred years from now. Unless the kid turns out to be another Abe Lincoln or Black Gallagher. What are the odds of that?
A parent can only dream.
I mulled the offer over in my head. I had to do this right. Make a list of pros and cons. That’ll help me make a sound, adult decision.
- Free plane ticket to casting call
- Bragging rights
- Inappropriate behavior for a law student
- Casting call held in Philadelphia
- Coach flight
- Family horror
- The whole objectification of women thing
- Inappropriate behavior for a law student
Well, shit. Who doesn’t want to be objectified now and again? This is the sort of thing I would put on my resume (try not to take a double take at that, fuckers) and … fuck it. I don’t need good reasons. Momma’s doing this shit.
Surprisingly, my father supported me. He trusts my decisions and knew I would just have fun with the whole thing.
I’ve never been on the East Coast before. I’ve never really wanted to be. It would just be little ‘ol me in the big, scary City of Brotherly Homicides. In an effort to keep me safe (and to keep others safe from me) I was assigned a chaperone. A cousin. An older cousin who, let’s say, belongs to an adult version of the 4H Club.
So, everything was set for my drunken naked East Coast extravaganza. Almost. Hmmmm… who do I know in that triangle of pigeon shit known as the Delmarva area? Who? Oh yea, Tresckow. That’s it. Being the only one on staff at FWTC not to be in a part of the country where grizzlies roam free and engage in the occasional zucchini fight, he was in the prime location to suffer my wrath. I mean enjoy a visit from me.
Fast forward a month and I was on my way. We landed around 10 at night. Or 8. Fucking time zones. Let me take a moment to tell you about my first impressions of the Philadelphia International Airport and Bus Station. It’s a low brow version of a sewage treatment plant. Tresckow pretty much nailed it on the head when he said it was a piece of shit bundled in fancy gift wrap. Those fuckers like to play a cruel game of checked luggage roulette. No only does it take FOREVER to get your shit off the plane, it’s NEVER at the noted carousel. Flight from Seattle to Philadelphia luggage: carousel B. WRONG! We’re fucking with you. It’s really coming out on carousel D. HA! Wrong again! It’s carousel A. This time, we’re not kidding. FUCK YOU! It’s spewing out on E. Muhahahahahaha!
Being a good friend and pseudo-sister-in-law, I called Tresckow, non stop as soon as I stepped off the plane. I called him when we got into a taxi. I called him when we got to the hotel. I called him when I found the mini bar. I called to tell him what I ordered from room service. I called him incessantly, is what I’m trying to say here. That’s what friends do.
We arranged to meet at the hotel the next morning. My appointment was around 10 AM, but I wanted Tresckow to be there to meet us earlier. I figured he would keep my cousin company while I was getting all naked and shit. I didn’t think either of them would mind waiting for me in a hotel full of hot potential centerfolds and whatnot. I sure as hell enjoyed myself.
Leaving Tresckow and the cousin to their own devices, I took my bag-o-outfits to my interview. They tell you to bring a bikini, nightie, a sexy dress, and be prepared to be naked for a while. I’m always prepared to be naked. So, no biggie. I sat around outside the room for a few minutes sizing up the competition. HA! Competition. No such thing. It begins and ends with me. Fuck-a-yucks didn’t know who they were up against. I’m all charming and shit.
I was called into the room and met a tribunal of interviewers, including one of the hoity-toity photographers. I did the typical dog and pony show that chicks in that situation do; modeled different outfits, went through some awkward poses, and did the whole nude thing. I guess I did well. They didn’t throw a brick at me. A rack full of different clothes was on the opposite side of the room. The photographer told me to pick something out to wear. I went simple- white dress shirt, a Seattle Mariners cap (which I brought with me), and… well, that was all. Dude, those pics turned out smoking hot. I mean, dayummmm. Want to see one? OK, maybe one pic.
After all that, the interview segment began. They fired some of your standard questions at me: “If you cold be a tree, what kind would you be?” “Why do you want to be a model?” “Tell us about your craziest lover.” “What’s the square root of 3044442.008?” I answered each trying not to roll my eyes. Finally, I blurted out, “BORING!” That derailed the interview like locomotive hitting a pile of dead cows.
“Boring?” the dude with the power tie asked. “Are we boring you?”
My parents always told me to tell the truth. What did I care if I offended a bunch of people interviewing me for something I really didn’t want? “Yeah,” I responded. “These questions suck. I’m interviewing for Playboy, not a fucking job at an insurance company. Ask questions with some balls. BIG balls. You know, like ‘If you could dispose of British rule in Northern Ireland how would you do it?’ ‘Why are you so awesome?’ ‘How do you make an Irish car bomb with just a corn cob and a piece of dental floss?’ Those questions have big ‘ol brass danglers!”
Contrary to what you may think happened next, I didn’t get thrown out by security. After I answered my own questions, (start an underground campaign to overthrow the figurehead monarch- because, I fucking rule- hollow out the corn cob and use the floss as a fuse after soaking it in gasoline) they kept talking to me. It all went a completely different direction. I told them about my drunken rampages throughout Northern Ireland, Idaho, and Montana. I told the story of my drunken excursion/invasion of Alberta. Hell, I even pantomimed what it was like to jump out a window, landing on a nun. I was the opposite of everyone they’ve ever interviewed. They loved it.
Apparently, I was so utterly fascinating, they bumped the next interview so they could spend more time with me. Well, duh. I’m a fucking treasure. It’s like I was the first little militant Irish girl from Idaho they’ve ever met. Okay, I may have told them that I fully plan on ruling the Pacific Northwest and the Canadian province of British Columbia with an iron fist. The tribunal just laughed at the joke. Yeah. Right. Joke.
I left after an hour interview (they’re usually less than half that) with a request for another in LA and an invitation to a party later this year at the Playboy mansion. Nah, I’m kidding. No. I’m not. Am I? Maybe. Then again, maybe not.
What does this all mean? Hell if I know. One of their talent dudes told me there is an excellent chance of being on, at least, the cyber magazine with better than average chances at something bigger. You know what? I still don’t care. Either way, I’m cool with it. I’m just along for the ride. And that ride is taking me to LA. For free. FREEEEE! I can handle that.
Once I left the premises with Tresckow and my illegal firearm carrying cousin, I took some time to explore the area. I’m not sure why. It was hot. You people in that area may be used to that. I’m not. Momma wasn’t built for that kind of ass crack moistening heat. Humidity? What the fuck is that? How do you people live like this? Although, I hear winters in the central Atlantic states is pretty mild. It only gets to 30 degrees with a few feet of snow. We call that Spring in Montana. For fuck’s sake there was a winter weather advisory in motherfucking August.
The three of us explored all the excitement interstate 95, northern Delaware, and northern Maryland had to offer. Which was nothing. Delaware? Why are you pretending to be a state? You’re not fooling anyone. You’re living a fucking lie, fudge sacks.
The absolute best thing we did during this whole trip was visit Tresckow’s house. That’s right. He let me into his home. Reluctantly, but he did it nonetheless. We drank whisky and beer. Then more whisky. We gave him a gift bottle of whisky then proceeded to drink it. I raided his liquor cabinet and rooted around in his fridge. Did I forget to say that the fucker put a bag of used, stinky cat litter under my bed when he came out to our place for Adel’s wedding? I did? Well, it was payback time! In the short time I was in the heart of Fortress Tresckow I managed to deal him the pain. I glued all the caps of his toiletries shut, toilet papered the second story of his place, and committed another atrocity he has yet to figure out. That’s right, pugnuts. It’s not over.
The only person I feel some sort of remorse for is Tresckow’s wife. She found herself in the middle of our little Jihad and was an unintended victim. She was none too pleased to see her stairway encased in Charmin.
We were leaving from BWI for home. I planned that so Tresckow would have to drive us there. Yeah, I forced quality time on him. Who wouldn’t want some quality time with me? Anyway, we did manage to stop and see some of the sights.
Somewhere north of Baltimore, Treskcow took us to a place of goodness. A place I never imagined was real. A place that made this little Mick’s dreams come true. What is this wonderland of fun and artery rotting awesomeness?
At first, I figured “big deal, it’s a gas station.” Oh no, my friends. This is no mere gas station. This is a junk food eating, coffee drinking Mecca the likes of which have never graced the Montana, Idaho, Washington area. I ate, my friends. I ate everything I could: schmuffins, schmiscuts, hot dogs drenched in nacho cheese. I basically came in my pants due to sheer gas station grub delight.
I may have gotten slightly hopped up on Sheetz coffee and was an unholy terror on the flight back home. Who’s to say? All I know is that when Playboy offers me a contract, one of the stipulations will be payment in the form of Sheetz food. Oh, and Delaware. I’m talking total annexation. The first state? No. It will be the NO state. I will build Delaware up to Greek City-state status and be the first Playboy model to rule an annexed nation inside the continental United States. It’s a win win!
Fame does some pretty strange things to your head. Look at Madonna, for example. She was the definition of popular music and made being a “material girl” acceptable. Now, she speaks with a faux British accent, aggressively adopts/shanghais African children, and became an out and out caricature of herself. Not in a funny way like Charlie Sheen or Steven Seagal. In a tragic, sad way like Drew Carey.
We miss you, Mel. Remember all the good times we had? Mad Max? Thunderdome? Lethal Weapon 1-3? We stuck by you in your low points; Dying Young, What Women Want, Maverick. That’s because we knew you were going to bounce back and give us something like Payback or Ransom or We Were Soldiers. So, we got Signs. I mean, it was OK, for a Shamalan flick. It could have been 45 minutes shorter and the antagonists probably shouldn’t have been able to be killed with water (how much of the surface of the Earth is water, again? That’s just poor planning). But, that wasn’t your fault, Mel.
Everyone has the right to go nuts once in a while. Shit, Russel Crow still has a career. The key is to bounce back long enough for your fans to be able to defend you. OK, Russel Crow threw a cell phone at someone and punched a few dozen people in the face. But, he was in Gladiator and…. come to think on it, that’s really the only Russel Crow movie I liked. A Beautiful Mind? Come on! Who hasn’t had a university professor that wasn’t completely batshit nuts?
But, I digress. The world loves its eccentric actors. The world loves impossibly tanned douche bags from New Jersey. They all know their boundaries, though. Sure, Alec Baldwin verbally abused his daughter in voice mail. The public is willing to let that go, because he’s on 30 Rock. That and was only one recording lasting only a few minutes.
I’m not sure when it all went downhill for you, Melvin. Some say it was The Passion of the Christ. I wouldn’t. It was an interpretation of a story four books of the Bible told in different ways that WAAAY too many people took too seriously. Both the devout and cynical spent too much time dissecting the damn film and making it fit their personal views. After several months of this shit, I just wanted everyone to shut the hell up. No one was outraged by The Hottie and the Nottie and that was an outright punch to the collective nuts of humanity by Satan.
It didn’t take a cinema expert to figure out that you were working through some major issues while filming Passion. Maybe you were having a crisis of faith. If Michael Moore can use movies to make an attempt to choke people with the fat of his opinions, why not you? It was therapeutic; I get that. But, this seems to have been the last vestige of your sanity. After making an opus for such a personal subject AND raking in almost $612 million bucks, I’d probably call it a day and swim in a pile of money like Scrooge McDuck.
Then the other shoe dropped, Melbert. A story started to circulate about your drunken, antisemitic rampage. What? No way! After making a blockbuster movie centering around the most famous and arguably most revered JEW in history you start cracking wise about the Jewish community? At least you waited until after the flick already made the rounds in theatres. That would have been shitty PR, otherwise.
This was utterly baffling to your fans. But, after some thought, we chalked it up to drinking sour mash on an empty stomach and crippling emotional issues. Who among us hasn’t gotten shit faced and launched into a racist tirade? It might as well be part of the warning on the label.
- According to the Surgeon General, women should not drink alcoholic beverages during pregnancy because of the risk of birth defects.
- Consumption of alcoholic beverages impairs your ability to drive a car or operate machinery, and may cause health problems.
- Consumption of alcohol may induce a flood of racist remarks that TMZ will immediately broadcast the next day.
Surely, this was the sign of a very troubled man. We wanted you to get help. We took pity. For God’s sake, David Hasselhoff managed to maintain (and increase) his following after his “eat the burger off the bathroom floor” booze fueled escapade.
We were bummed, but at least you haven’t sunken to the Andy Dick level of drunken dipshittery.
HA HA! Oh, Andy. He may have indirectly caused the murder of Phil Hartman, you know.
Things seemed to die down. We thought you were getting the help you needed. You know, before you made a smoking crater where your career and reputation were. Ah, shit.
Now, I won’t bother recanting every action packed, domestic violence chalked, racist soliloquy. But, in case someone has cut themselves off from society for decades and just now decided it was time to catch up on all the celebrity gossip, this article in the Guardian will fill them in. Why, Mel, why? Didn’t Nixon teach you anything? NEVER put yourself in a situation where you could risk being recorded.
According to this expert who has been involved in the super sophisticated career of creative forensics and crime busting, there is a good possibility that your soon-to-be ex-wife doctored those tapes . They were just too perfect. In a nutshell, the audio is just too clear and you can almost hear the editing in some of the clips. Let’s be realistic. If I can pick these anomalies out, then actual professionals must be having a field day with them. She wants a payday. So that’s something, isn’t it, Mel?
Yes, it’s something, but just not enough. Even if what’s-her-face had a team of recording engineers at MIT split and re-mix the calls, the indisputable fact is that those are your words, Mel. That was your voice pushing racial and sexist epithets like a crack dealer on third graders at a playground. The finished product may be just that; a product. But, the content is 100% Mel. We want to help you. We’ll do what it takes. Chamomile tea? A five year stint at Betty Ford? Shock therapy? Lobotomy? Everything’s on the table. We just want our quirky Mel back.
Above it all, that funny, cheeky, action star we see above was oh, so charitable. You and Glover were the stars, but you let another sweep us off our feet. We have never been the same since.
Is any of this getting through to you, Mel? You’re a step away from Gary Busey level insanity. You can still turn it around; drop out of the public eye for a few years, then come back better and stronger than ever! Look what that plan has done for John Travolta. The John Travolta Pulp Fiction and Face/Off era that is. The rest of it is just a shame filled diaper that Hollywood occasionally shoves in our faces.
Okay, Travolta isn’t a very good example these days. Stallone! Yeah! Sylvester Stallone! He did it, Mel. Granted he was just accused of popping human growth hormones like Tic Tacs, not of threatening to bury his woman in a rose garden. However, Stallone dropped off the face of the Earth for years, came back, for some reason made Get Carter, ran away, then rocked us all with Rocky Balboa. Sure, he struggled with the most recent Rambo atrocity, but he bounced back and made The Expendables. Sly managed to get the world to forget about Cop Land by uniting the single most badass group of 80’s and 90’s action superstars. No, there are no recording of Stallone dropping the N bomb or hexing someone with gang rape, but he has struggled against the handicap of having Frank Stallone as a brother.
Mel, we love you. You’ve just taken a bad turn. Well, a bad series of turns. I guess it’s safe to say you’ve crashed the car, set it on fire, then ran face first into a brick wall yelling racial slurs. But for logic defying reasons, you keep getting back up and launching yourself back into the brick wall. I guess I’m asking that you take a breather, invest in some seriously aggressive therapy, and STOP slamming yourself into that goddamn wall. One of these times you’re going to collide with it so hard you’ll open a rift in the space-time continuum and obliterate Mad Max and Martin Riggs. At this point, Mel, they’re all you’ve got.