This holiday season was fairly bland as far as celebrity news goes. Most of the gossipers were shoving ham and turkey into their money hungry faces, while the stars we know and love so much were busy buying extravagant gifts for one another, and gorging themselves on over priced cuisine. Some estimates were that Angelina Jolie and heterosexual life partner Brad Pitt spent upwards of $65,000 on a trip to an undisclosed Hindu shit hole country where they herded the local youths through cattle gates and fed them the finest rice and butter money could buy out of a trough measuring 80 feet long by 2 feet deep. Sources say the trough, which was plastered with good will slogans inside and out and lined with 24k gold, was wide enough to feed children on both sides simultaneously. The children would kneel down and stick their faces in the Yule-tide offerings, and a few lucky winners came up with freshly cooked stakes. It was like a depraved sadistic bobbing for apples. No children were adopted, however, because none of them were able to eat their weight in rice, as that was the prerequisite set forth by ‘Brangelina’. “If any of you cute little things can eat your weight in rice and butter, we’ll take you home to America! But no puking!” You’ve got to love those two.
I spent the holiday weekend locked away in my vault, wearing nothing but my bath robe. I cooked a delicious ham and loaded up a keg of Schlitz on a cart and affixed a straw to the tap so I could wheel it around with me. Sort of like an IV, only tastier. I taped my cellular phone to the side of my head so I wouldn’t miss any calls, and spent upwards of 45 consecutive hours online, going back and forth between women’s’ web cams, and live chats with several of my Hollywood contacts.
At one point, one of my contacts began sending me erratic IMs from his Blackberry. Something about public urination, sex, Eskimo pies, and exposed nipples. Each IM was preceded with a large bold ‘BS:’, which at first I took to mean Bull Shit. I was wrong, however, as I came to realize that the ‘BS:’ stood for Britney Spears. I thought to myself “Well I’ll be damned… that bastard’s spending the joyous celebration of the birth of Our Lord following around junkie sluts again. He’s off the deep end now.” It was a little disheartening, as this contact (who will remain unnamed for his safety and mine) has always been one of upstanding moral character. But when the bottom fell out on Britney’s career, he seemed to go right down the tubes with it. The unsettling news of my new house guest Lindsay Lohan didn’t sit well with him either.
Anyhow, the play by play reports kept streaming in. I pumped my keg a few times, took a long pull off the straw, and minimized all but 3 of my webcam chats. His IMs were becoming more and more erratic, but as he went on they became more decipherable. I began giving them most of my undivided attention. I transcribed an excerpt from the chat, and changed both his and my screen names in accordance with the privacy act of 1974. To clarify, my contact is aSsHat420, and I am Shitsuck3r.
aSsHat420: BS: scent of pheromones, Aphrodite
Shitsuck3r: Make with the goods! I’m a busy man.
aSsHat420: All over… She’s hot tonight…
Shitsuck3r: Well where the hell are you?
aSsHat420: Public gas stations… mop handle.
Shitsuck3r: You’re not making any sense again!
aSsHat420: My God in heaven! She’ll fuck anything that moves!
Shitsuck3r: Is that a direct quote?
aSsHat420: Yes Yes Yes!!!
Shitsuck3r: That’s good, get me more quotes. And keep her away from any open flames!
aSsHat420: It hurts to watch! I don’t know him
Shitsuck3r: Know who? What’s going on?
aSsHat420: Him! He’s alive!
Shitsuck3r: Give me something tangible ass hole! I need facts, not just the mindless ramblings of an obsessed freak.
aSsHat420: I heard she likes it doggy style
Shitsuck3r: Well no shit, who doesn’t?
aSsHat420: They’re missionary
Shitsuck3r: What? Are they fucking?
aSsHat420: BS And some random guy
Shitsuck3r: No fucking way! You mean to tell me that she’s fucking some random guy in the bathroom of a gas station?!
aSsHat420: Y! I’m watching from the window.
After that the conversation became very lurid as he described in great detail what was going on. It was weird, because I found myself extremely aroused. It was like cyber sex, only in third person narrative. Disgusting. From what I could decipher from my contacts following IMs after Britney and the random stranger (who could have been a bum from what my contact said… either a bum, or a plumber, or a cucumber, all I know is it had a ‘u’ and an ‘m’ or two in it) the former used her sock to clean up, which she then put back on her foot, and left the vicinity in Mini Cooper, paparazzi in tow. The man was left on the bath room floor, and having realized what he had just done, crawled towards the urinal and choked himself to death with a urinal cake. Disturbing.
My contacts IMs became very infrequent, and finally all together stopped. Most of my web cam girls had finished their business and signed off. I pumped my keg a few more times and rolled the cart over to the bed in front of plasma screen TV. I stripped naked and crawled beneath the covers, my skin damp with a layer of lusty perspiration. The whole situation made me feel very ashamed. I knew it couldn’t be false, but I just didn’t want to believe it. Perhaps it was just because it was Christmas that I found the news so unsettling. I mean, I would expect that sort of degeneracy from her on New Years Eve, or even Valentine’s day, but why on Christmas? What had gotten into her head? Didn’t she have a home?Didn’t she have someone that could still stand the stench of her for a couple of hours at the very least, if not have something that resembled love for her? Was no one fond of her any longer? Why didn’t she call that freak from you tube? He seemed as though he understood her. Possibly, they were related.
I slowly emerged from beneath the covers and went searching for my bottle of White Horse. It was some time after 10 a.m., I knew that, but I have no windows in my vault, so I couldn’t be exactly sure of the time. I found my Scotch whiskey floating in my piranha tank and took a very long pull off of it. I sat down and began watching footage of Britney Spears’ Dream Within a Dream Tour in slow motion. “Where did you go wrong?” I wondered aloud. “And when, oh when, Britney, will it end?”