(Author’s note: I found this article in my archives. It was written while I was doing some free lance gigs for various reputable celebrity news magazines. However, it never made its way into print. However, I felt that I owed it to my readers to post it here. Enjoy.)
I was in Beverly Hills last year, out side of some swanky café. I had a back pack full of 40 oz. bottles of Old Milwaukee that I had brought with me from the Cold North, and in the California sun, the were rapidly going from piss warm to hot. I would take my glass and when the wait staff had their back turned I would fill it from one of the bottles. I had been there for 2 hours, getting stiff from 50 year old women with $100K in plastic surgery and wearing their daughters’ bras. My associate (who for reasons that I shan’t disclose, will be hither-to referred to as ‘Bryant’) was running late, as was his custom. I had met him while on a “business trip” in New York City for Dennis Haskins. Bryant worked at a PR firm that I had a lot of cross promotional type of affairs with, and we got along pretty well. He had since relocated to the Hills, and was the only one who I could get a hold of for a place to say on very short notice (I called him on my way through Boulder, CO), as I had to leave the Cold North for a few days to avoid legal troubles. This was all a few months ago, towards the end of summer, and I was feeling fine.
Bryant walked up from the South. He looked awful. I greeted him and told him we shouldn’t stat at the café. “I believe they’re getting wise to my scheme,” I told him. “Jay-sus… can’t I rest for a few minutes. I’ve got hemorrhoids like you wouldn’t believe.” Not only did he talk with an accent that I couldn’t place, but he was also prone to talking openly and candidly about his personal problems. It was something I never liked about the man. “Fine,” I reached down and began filling my glass. “But if they confiscate my beer you fucking owe me.” “What ever. I jest can’t stand to walk any further righ-now.”
We sat for a while, not really talking, as his hemorrhoids kept him in excruciating pain, and I have a tendency to get crabby when I’m exposed to too much sun light. After making a few half hearted attempts at sexually harassing the 50 year old Crypt Keeper/Barbie Doll hybrid locals, we deiced to head to a bar. Some place with few windows and padded stools. It was a 4 block walk back to his car and the whole trek was filled whit him moaning and whining. It was really beginning to be too much, and when we finally got to the bar, I fired up the juke-box and told them to crank it up to drown out his incessant bitching. It worked splendidly, and as he rambled on about whatever was going on in his life, I just nodded and smiled at the appropriate times. I am a master of active listening.
Then his voice cut through the music with two distinctive words that made me feel like a red hot metal worm had suddenly breeched my sphincter and was quickly working its way into my lower intestine: Kim Kardashian.
I spit out a mouthful of beer across the bar and bellowed: “Did you just say Kim Kardashian?”
“Ye’h,” he replied. “What’s the big deal?”
“Big deal!? Big deal!? That disease ridden tramp has no business in this God Damned town! I though I’d seen the last of her when I drove her out of Hollywood!”
“Nick, she’s in Hollywood.”
“Jesus no! Is it true?”
“Yeah, she’s got herself lined up with some people who’ve done some things in the city. She’s really making the rounds.”
“I’ll say. That fucking walking pocket pussy has seen more dick than a well worn glory hole in a gay club in San Francisco. And she’s probably lapped up more cum than a mop at the busiest of sperm banks!”
“She’s a nice gal, I’ve met ‘er a few times. What’ve you got against ‘er?”
“I’ll tell you what I’ve got against her: She’s a no good by stander, a publicity sucking parasitic hanger-on of already famous people. She’s a socialite and the worst kind of celebrity: One who’s famous for doing nothing… nothing at all. I’ve made a life out of representing, ruining, raping, and raising some of the hardest working big names in the Gig, God Damn it. People who have sucked dick to make ends meet. People who have killed and injured loved ones to see their name in print. And here this kind of leech comes along and gets famous for being that annoying prick that you see in the back ground of all the pictures of your aunt and uncles 50th wedding anniversary. Every one looks at the pictures and goes “Hey, who’s that guy”… but the diferance is everyone gets annoyed by his presence, and people pay for hers! It’s not right, damn it!”
“C’mon, man. Chill-ax… it’s all good.”
“No it is not all good you ass hole! Are you in cahoots with that double wide assed bitch?!”
He took a drink from his apple-tini. “Sure sure sure… it’s hip, man. People get paid to party… Look at Paris Hilton.”
“Oh for the love of God… Paris Hilton started this whole fucking mess. She’s the one that gave Kim Kardashian the fucking idea! I knew I should have had the sense to bludgeon them both when I met them.”
“You’re making too big of a deal out of this, man. Paris is a decent human being.”
“Bull shit she is. She’s a two bit prostitute. Besides, I’ve seen the sex tape, that bitch wouldn’t make it in the snuff world she’s so awful. I’ve seen shit on the National Geographic channel that was more erotic than that fluffer!”
“Well any way, Kim’s going to be big shee-yit, they’re looking at doing a reality show on ‘er early next year. Why, they’ve already begun filmin’ the thing.”
Scene from “Keeping Up with the Kardashians” when she meets E-Rokk.
I screamed. It couldn’t be true. I thought the worst had come to pass, but here it was. It was like seeing a horrible wreck on the highway, and seeing that it’s your mother and father lying dead on the highway as you pass… only to look in your rear view mirror and see the K-9 dog raping your fathers ass while all the highway patrol take bets on if the dog will come inside or not. It was worse than the worst case scenario. I ran from there screeching and clawing at my eyes in the late afternoon sun. I caught a ride to the air port in the back of a garbage truck, and bought a one way ticket to New Orleans. I needed the devastation of hurricane Katrina to make me feel right again.
I woke up a few days later minus my shoes, with a new 2-Pac tattoo. At least I hadn’t gone totally berserk, I mused. I still had good taste in music. I rolled over and pissed where I lay, not bothering to take down my pants, as they were already crusted with feces. I felt something wadded up in my pocket, and when I rolled back over I pulled out a sealed envelope. It was addressed to one E. James McMack, a local address. Apparently I had stolen it to write a note to myself. I turned it over. It was smeared with blood in the corner, and it took me a minute or two to decipher my own hand writing. I gasped when I read it. It said:“Kim Kardashian reality show rumors are true. Suicide now appears as a suitable means of salvation… God have mercy on our souls!”
All “reports” made by Nick Fit are completely fabricated, even those that are 100% true. Nick Fit may or may not even be an actual living breathing human being. He also may or may not actually spend much of his time in Hollywood when he’s not locked away in his vault passing the hours surfing the internet wearing nothing but his bathrobe and soiled boxers while consuming mass quantities of Schlitz. And while the credibility and reality of his Hollywood “contacts” and “sources” can be and have been argued, none of that is important. Even though Nick Fit is a representative of Hey Stupid who is well paid in the form of cheap beer for his articles and opinions, his opinions don’t necessarily represent those of Hey Stupid; except in the cases where they do unnecessarily represent sometimes necessary representation of our opinions. In other words we have no fucking money and it isn’t worth your time suing us for what he writes because we wouldn’t pay anyway.