Archive for the ‘Effed Up’ Category

I Can’t Believe I’m Writing About Gary Coleman, But His Widow Is Acting The Fool

June 7, 2010
The look on his face says it all. This might have been a suicide.

The look on his face says it all. This might have been a suicide.

As some of you are aware (despite Blanche Devereaux’s untimely passing eclipsing it like a parasol hides the face of a demure Southern belle, ok, bad analogy), Gary Coleman died. And it’s sad, because he died as sort of a running pop culture joke. A former child star who wanted to remain relevant but was only still popular because he was a former child star who wanted to remain relevant. And a former child star who would get into public fights with people mocking him, and marry publicity-thirsty slags (check the photo), and refuse to say “Whatchoo talkin’ bout, America?” when prodded. Who can blame him for wanting to hang onto his last shred of dignity, right?

Anyway, Gary’s ex-wife Shannon Price is some kinda bitch, because she is on an Arnold Drummond death tour and looking for scraps. And by scraps, I mean as much money as she can squeeze out of the little man’s death. The little man who, by the way, died sort of mysteriously after hitting his head during a fall at their home (supposedly it was a seizure?). You know this bitch tried to bite him with those monster chiclets and he was running away when he fell!

Anyway, Big Red took her clown act to Good Morning America this morning and continued to elude class and dignity by insisting that she was going to re-marry Gary (she wasn’t named in the will and they were divorced despite living together) and had nothing to do with his death. Oh, and during the interview, E! reports that she briefly halted it to fake a seizure. Girrrrllllll……


David Carradine’s Widow Undeterred In Her Quest For Justice Despite His Obvious Death By Choke Yourself And Wank

June 3, 2010

Normally I smoke these AFTER I choke myself out and cum.

Normally I smoke these AFTER I choke myself out and cum.

“Kill Bill” had everything but the piece of lemon sticking out of his yap, but his widow thinks someone should have done something to prevent his unusual death.

(I saw it on an episode of Six Feet Under, it supposedly helps bring you back when you choke out…the biting down on sour fruit revives you or something.)

Anyway, E! is reporting that Kill Bill and Kung Fu (for you old people) star David Carradine‘s widow Anne has filed a wrongful death suit against the production company of the film he was working on at the time of his death in Thailand.

If you will recall, Uma Thurman‘s easy-going but deadly cinematic babydaddy (Part 1 was so much better) was found hanging in his Bangkok hotel room last June with uh…well…some rope around his nuts. And he was naked. And I don’t need to hand you an iPad, a Texas Instruments calculator or an abacus for you to do this math, honey. (Sadly, I need all three of those to do math. Shut up, I have dyscalculia!) Anne still thinks that someone should have been there to like, I don’t know, give CPR or loosen his noose or say “hey, let’s have a whiskey and play some poker and forget about whacking off while dying, ok Dave?”

She alleges that French production company MS2 S.A. broke its contractual obligation to Carradine to provide him with “all the best amenities” and “sufficient assistance” while he was in Bangkok shooting Stretch.

Unfortunate name for the film in question. Anne also says that the production company tried to collect damages which should have gone right to the Carradine family. That ain’t right. The amount David’s wife is seeking is unspecified.

After two autopsies, the 72-year-old’s death was determined to be death by asphyxiation but not suicide. Was he playing some INXS tunes in the background when he got this shitty idea?

I’m not sure what she thinks they should have done. But I will say this – It’s more than ok to be into some freaky shit. But if the freaky shit could possibly result in you leaving the planet to go to chop-sockey heaven and be found nude with a shoelace around your jank…well, jesus, take some sort of precautions. Use two lemons.

Oh! And, this is going to sound ignorant, but wacky-ass shit happens in Bangkok all the time. It’s where you go if you want to eat a polar bear or watch two grandmothers shrimp boat a prime minister. Don’t get caught doing freaky shit in Bangkok. The tourism board has enough to worry about.

p.s. The same thing killed this dude, too. Yes, I am uncool and was a huge INXS fan. You can deal with it or you can leave. We miss you, Mike. (I had such a crush on the chubby one.)

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Lindsay Lohan Claims She’s Broken Up With Drugs

February 23, 2010

In some kind of performance art comedy piece, Lindsay Lohan gave an interview to Britain’s The Sun tabloid in which the favorite of drug dealers everywhere claims she’s given her last rugmunch for the coke residue at the bottom of someone’s  purse. Hee. Illegally obtained prescription bottles of pills everywhere just rolled their little plastic eyes!

“When my father was going public, that’s when I hit rock bottom. I abused substances too much and it wasn’t the answer to my problems. People need to know that. I tried to mask my problems with alcohol, cocaine and mind-altering substances. Now I’m in a place where I don’t need to use anything and I can feel emotions because I choose to. I learnt from my mistakes and I’m now healthy and happier. I never want to be close to losing everything I worked for and aspired to have my whole life,” she says. Emotions like “berserk drug-fueled rage” and  that feeling you get when you just want to rip off your top and fling yourself through your ex-girlfriend’s picture window.

Besides blaming her asshole father Michael Lohan for her hot drug probs, the actress(?, what DOES she do nowadays, god, Mean Girls was so good) Lohan says that she was just working way too hard, you guys.

“There was a point when I didn’t know how to say ‘No’ and I was trying to please everyone. I was doing pop and making films. I was young and thought I could go out, have fun, then go on set and record. I ran myself down and I lost track of who I was.”

But never fear, now she just opts to get her drink on because she has it all under control. If I didn’t think the conversation would be me, me, me, and she would try to steal my wallet like the hooker in Vegas, I might wanna party with her. She’s probably a good time if you leave before she starts trying to snort the potpourri.

“I’m allowed to drink now but I know my limits. There are certain situations where I have obligations. There’s no reason to (drink) because I don’t want to feel like s*** in the morning. I’ve now learned my boundaries and I’ve been very good with cleaning house with people who I know didn’t have my best intentions at heart. A lot of people in LA are very self destructive. Partying so hard simply isn’t worth it. Life is worth living and there is so much to do and experience, it’s wonderful,” she said with a straight face.

This totally sounds like the interview Patsy Stone envisioned giving to Hello! magazine on Ab Fab before she had the acid peel. You know, where the picture is of her wearing workout gear and holding a bottle of Perrier. Fastforward to 5:58. Or hell, watch the whole thing. It’s that good.

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Lohan also adds that she wants to help other people with their drug problems. By relieving them of their drugs and doing them herself. She’s all about sacrificing for others. She’s kind of like Jesus. If Jesus was a trashy, self-involved, highly delusional cocaine addict.

What? WHAT?!?

February 18, 2010

By the looks of things, this one has kids. You can just tell by the tired ponytail AND THE “DICKEATER” GAME JERSEY. In twelve years, there’s going to be a whirly-eyed little purse snatcher cooking something up in a spoon and laughing with his “I just needed the money, it was only one time”-talking sister about “Ma’s ‘Dick Eater’ shirt.”

As noted, this is from People of Wal-Mart. It was so appalling that I had to comment. I’m more of a Tarjhay lad myself, but it’s always good to see what’s happening across town. Apparently what’s happening is that dignity is a foreign land. Unless this is Photoshopped, and my hat’s off to you if so.

This also reminds me of something that happened in those halcyon days when I eschewed higher learning for a life less ordinary – namely working shitty jobs and trying to achieve coma status through drinking and pills. I worked at an auto auction and Monday was the big auction day when we would hire temps to assist in the office while we tried to get titles off of incredibly shifty sellers who would trade in cars with fresh hemoglobin stains in their trunks. One of these temporary ladies, we’ll call her Rosario, was very friendly and perky and quick to lend a hand. Her grasp of English wasn’t that great (she still sounded more intelligible than Penelope Cruz) but she got along. She also gave one of the most nonsensical, yet greatest responses to a coworker’s problem that I have ever heard.

Coworker 1 is complaining of chest pains and rubbing her breastbone. She is standing beside the mammoth copier while Rosario is loading paper into it and I am probably avoiding work and just hanging around being a nuisance.

Coworker 1: Ow, my chest hurts. Like in the bone.

Me: You ok? Indigestion?

Coworker 1: No, it’s in the muscle or something…

Me: Oh, that’s weird, maybe you’re getting a cold…(ed. note – cause I’m a doctor…)

Rosario looks up at this point.

Coworker 1: Do you ever get chest pains like that, Rosario?

Rosario (cheerfully): Oh, no! All I ever do is suck dick!

Yeah, I don’t know either, but she totally won that day.

Effed Up – The Second

July 8, 2009


People, here I am again with another edition of Effed Up. The blog entry in which your faithless blogger writes some sad bullshit after he’s had two to three to ten adult beverages. Those beverages which we refer to as BOOZE-A-HOL. Which really are the best kind, because they let you forget about your personal pain, explore your destiny as the life of the party, and hit on the chap that you wouldn’t even get near if you were sober. Booze is the best.

I have been lax in updating this blog, and it’s been a combo of depression, laziness, recovering from 4th of July weekend and an obsession with my new iPhone. That’s right. The Boyfriend went and bought himself the new version of Steve Jobs’ little sliver of the future and guess who got the old one? That’s right. Jasereraser. And let me tell you, it is the FUN. Why? Well, it does all sorts of neat shit but mainly because my problem as always been that I can never tell you what song is playing over the PA in certain store and I like that song and it galls me. But now? I have this app (there’s an app for that) called Shazam. And all I have to do is press a button and it tells me what song is playing and where to buy it. It’s fucking genius, and I don’t mean that kiosk at the back of the Apple store where all the greasy twats live and look down on you.

Anyway, tonight’s Effed Up (on an unemployed Tuesday no less) is brought to you by Trivia at some shitty little tavern in Pembroke, MA. All my Straights live down in that urea (yeah, I used a “u”) and they seem to all be teachers so everyone is off and looking to hang out cheaply because they are prepping for babies and what have you. Anyway, it ended up being a blast and not just because the Trivia Maestro was a beefy dude in a scalley cap. My Straights are a Mensa mix of history teachers, religion teachers, scientists, accountants, rock stars, and assorted other brains. We would have taken first but there were nine of us so we were relegated to second through some bullshit h8er rule. All I know is that I was presented with a slip listing movies and asking me who their directors were and I tore through it like a damn 3 Musketeers bar.

And the only annoyance was the other teams’ obvious jealousy and the fact that I was trying to discuss The Fashion Show in depth with my soul sister Dawn and bitches kept interrupting us. I didn’t even get to tell her that my new fave rave phrase is “I would have liked more of a collar moment.”

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Effed Up: The First

April 10, 2009


So, here’s an interesting new feature of my blog. I thought it would be interesting if I went out, got fucked up, and then wrote about it. I mean, you don’t need details as to what I drank and who I blew in the men’s room (no one, so settle down, pervs). But I thought some reality would be interesting on this here message to the outside world.

Anyway, so tonight I noticed some diviseness (is that a fucking word?) in the gay community. I was hanging out at (and keep in mind that Boston has a definite lacking of cool places to hang out if you’re an intelligent so to speak, faggot, a dearth if you wiill) Machine in the Fenway section of our beloved city. Thursdays at Machine is Karaoke Night. And I’ll be honest – karaoke isn’t exactly my thing. But the homos seem to love it and friends go, so what is a boy to do if he wants to have a few drinks and socialize?

Anyway, here’s how the gay community is striated in the microcosm which is homos at Karaoke Night at Machine:

A) Twinks. A lot of queers showed up who were thin, and wearing a lot of white belts (how sad is that?) and zip-up sweaters to show off their bulimia/tina figures. They also have an abudnance of disdainful looks for anyone who is over a 32. You just kinda want them to choke on their bile and leave the Diesel store on Newbury with one less salesqueen.

B) Bears/Cubs/Regular dudes. These are the people who are there for the karaoke. Which is a big fucking shudder. Seriously, bitches get UP IN ARMS over the rotation of people singing. Remember when Duets tried to force us into believing there was this whole karaoke subculture? And you were like – seriously? Well, it actually is now. Because people get fucking HEATED if you skip over their asses. I have friends who are grown men who are ready to bottle a bitch if they get their fucking slip passed over. These are also the joes who get up there and the twinks all exhange looks like ‘has this bitch been to the gym in this decade?” Then they hoop some tina and all is well.

C) Straight girls. These honeys accompanied their primary queers to the bar. And often they will ascend to the stage in pairs, and drunkenly try to croak out a Britney Spears epic. I normally shout “show us your tits!” because their singing sucks and if you’re not even going to try, you might as well make yourself useful. Not that I’m into tits, but if I have to be assailed with your presence, I want a reason to stay there.

D) Oddballs. These are the dudes who never came out in the70s so they focused on their middle management bullshit and henceforth became the old dude who flashed his withered cock at you in the TD Banknorth Garden men’s room and hoped for a reaction apart from “fuck you, dude. I’m calling security.” This is the dude with the upturned collar on his rugby shirt accompanied by a leather vest with acid-washed jeans and motorcycle boots and he keeps wanting to storm the stage to sing Billy Ocean. And you know he has Tums in his pocket as well as a Petco gift card and lube. I can’t. I feel bad, but I can’t.

Anyway, that was my evening. And I hope you enjoyed the first installment of Effed Up!