Good Lord, what a few weeks it has been. I flew back into the Denver air port on Saturday morning to make it to my band’s show that night. It [the show] was good, because we were there. I needn’t say how good, because those of you who have caught the Double R live before know exactly the kind of orgasmic and azure pleasure we bring to the ears of all those present. Like wise, those of you who’ve never been privy to having your loins ripped apart in a fit of erotic joy by the smooth sounds of my band could not comprehend just how fucking awesome of a force we are, so trying to explain it in words in beyond the capable scope of even this word smiths ability. In fact, there has yet to be a language created that is powerful and beautiful enough to properly explain us. Engrish came very close, especially when spoken by a toothless Chink hooker with a heavy drunken slur, but even it failed.
Here are the circumstances leading up to me returning to the Cold Northern Plains, and an explanation for my lack of contribution to my of duties as celebrity news correspondent: 3 days before Christmas I flew to Lebanon. I was scouting for a new place for Lindsay Lohan to lay low. She had become increasingly discontent with our living arrangement and wouldn’t get off my back about her chains rubbing her wrists and ankles raw. I told her “Look bitch, just be happy I gave you that vinyl lingerie to wear. I’m doing this for your own good, remember. Now get on your knees and lap up that beer I spilt… if you’re going to go around boozing it up like some high school miscreant you’re going to learn how to enjoy rock bottom.” Sadly, and against my heart felt protests she somehow managed to escape and fled to Italy. We all know how that turned out. That ungrateful shit wasn’t out of my loving grasp for 2 weeks when she was back at the bottle, chomping at the bit, if you will. I will say this for the Lebanese (who I mistakenly referred to as Lebanonians my first night there) they sure know how to party. Just ask their neighbors to the South. My stay there was short, though, after being forcibly led from Beirut in shackles and promises of beheadings if I returned, for reasons that I’d rather not disclose.
From Lebanon I flew to Istanbul to pick up a few rugs and to watch the local children dive into Shit River for pennies. Those little fuckers are great. You can toss an American quarter into the river and the locals will dive right into the sewage and come back up with the fucking coin between their teeth. Amazing. You know, if America’s youth had that kind of ambition to make a buck we wouldn’t be where we are today, and you know it. Istanbul was good, I think, I don’t really remember much of it. I awoke in an opium den on the 27th of December surrounded by many sultry ladies, and a few boys all under the age of 13 who I am to this day convinced were not only of Vietnamese descent, but were also prostitutes. I can’t be sure of this last one, though, because no one there spoke a word of English, or Engrish (which I’m fluent in).
Realizing that Christmas was well behind me, and not remembering a solitary second of it, I sat for a while smoking opium. Once I was so trashed that I couldn’t see, I left the safety and wholesome nature of the tent. I stumbled around for a while until I found a Kinkos and called my friend Travis aka The Wise Sloth. He’s a Texan, but I can’t disclose his current location for fear of his prosecution by an Iranian military tribunal. He was in bad shape, and assured me that I needed to flee my beloved City of Seven Hills for much more mild climates in Russia. He said there was a babushka that I needed to meet up with, something about a mail order bride business adventure he and I had been discussing for some time. He said time was of the essence. “Great,” I thought “I’m going to end up spending New Years in Mother fucking Russia. Those people don’t even have electricity… and when the Big Ball drops, they all break out a piece of bread and eat heartily… fucking great.” But I never made it there.
Instead, moments before boarding the mule train that would take me deep into the frozen heart of Moscow, I received a message on my Blackberry, saying simply “B. Spears= Much trouble, return immediately, LA Shall BURN if you do not” It suddenly occurred to me that I hadn’t been in touch with the Spears family since the whole Jamie Lynn debacle (And if you’ve been paying attention, you’ll know that that C. Aldridge freak really isn’t the father. I am) and that if this was shaping up to be more trouble involving my surrogate family I needed to be some place where I could be reached, not brushing up on my Marxism and human trafficking in the middle of the Red Square. So I hauled ass to the nearest Starbucks and ordered a double low cal half caf diet cap. I needed to be in the right frame of mind to deal with something like this. I punched away at my electric device, only to find out that indeed, my favorite star Britney was again in sticky situation.
It would appear that someone let her get her hands on her kids for a few days again, and I knew that it would end badly. I booked 3 first class tickets the fuck out of Turkey (I hate crowded flights) and hailed a cab to the airport, where I promptly assumed control of one of the bars. I locked the door from the inside, and drank much whiskey and many glasses of Scotch. I had a few hours to wait until my flight came in, so I tried as best as I could to keep abreast of the developing situation. I called Britney myself and told her to get rid of the two guns I had been storing there, and by all means, try and stay sober for a few days until I got there to help. These are the words I specifically told her, I remember them, because I recorded a few bits of our conversation in case I needed to quote myself in court: “Under no circumstances are you to get loaded and try to explain your feelings on this child custody thing to any one! I told you, let those little fucks go with that sack of shit they call a father, and you and I will kick out 7 or 8 of our own as soon as I’m allowed to enter the state of Iowa again. We’ll settle down and raise corn like we’ve always talked about.” There was a lot of screaming and harsh language after that, it seemed that the local authorities were trying to take over my bar. I told them I was claiming political and that I had seceded from their harsh and tyrannical governmental regime… My new country was to be called “McKinzies Irish Pub, at the end of Terminal 3” and I would be raising my flag shortly. They left me alone long enough to fill my carry on full of pretzels and flee through the heating vents. I hid in a bathroom until they called last call for my flight and wearing the disguise of a Jesuit priest, I bolted for my gate. Glory be to Allah, I made it on the plane with out them searching my anus, which is where I hide ‘the goods’.
Interestingly enough, though, I somehow managed to stay in the air for an uncounted amount of days, and didn’t touch down at LAX until the 3rd of Jan. So by the time I landed, New Years had come and gone. Judging by the growth of my facial hair, and the stench emanating from me, it is safe to say that by the time I got into town to deal with the newest Britney conundrum, I had consumed 18 bottles of champagne and at least a dozen whiskey and colas. But by the time I deboarded my plane and made it safely into my awaiting stretch Hummer limousine, it was too late. That umbrella wielding psycho had gone Michael Jackson on me and was yanked from her domicile after a tense 3 hour stand off with police, where she reportedly held my Beretta to one of her children’s head. I had specifically told her to get rid of the weapons, but she didn’t heed my advice. She didn’t heed any of my advice for that matter. I saw it on the news: Her dazed and cock deprived stare from the gurney as they rolled her into a privatized armored ambulance while the paparazzi went wild, you could still see the marks on her forehead where police had used an X26 taser on the poor girl. She’s a trooper, as I have it from good sources that it took 3 lengthy shocks for her to relinquish the hand gun, and another 2 for her to put down the bottle of Burnetts.
They hauled her to Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, where she was treated for burns, bruises, abrasions and mental exhaustion. Under the cover of night, and again wearing my disguise as a Jesuit priest I went and saw my little pop queen, and did my best to console her. She was a mess, I won’t lie. She was hysterical, screaming about top selling albums, feelings of doubt about her sexual identity, having children when she herself was still a child, growing up in the public eye, the detriment to her younger sibling… things of that nature. I got an IV of morphine going into her, and set it to ‘Stun’, which worked wonders. I told her straight up that she had really gotten herself into it this time and that it didn’t look like there was a whole lot that I could do. Upon hearing this she took to hissing and spitting and tearing apart her pillow. It was too much to handle. I slapped her hard across her face “Look you loony bitch! Get a-fucking-hold of yourself! You’ve got to get your fucking shit together before the world shits down your throat hole. I talked to your mother, she said she’s calling Dr. Phil.” She cut me off with a choked up sob.
“Not Dr. Phil… I hate that bastard. He’s not even a real Dr., he’s just some guy that Oprah breast fed into stardom!”
“I know I know… but you’ve brought this upon yourself. You mother said if Dr. Phil doesn’t work then they’re considering putting you on that show ‘Intervention’.”
Again she started in with the hissing and spitting and I knew it was over. She had finally gone up to the high line, and if she didn’t go over this time, it would only be a matter of days until she did. It was hopeless. So I jabbed myself with the morphine drip, gave the IV bag a good squeeze, and with a dizzy head made my way to LAX… the night club, not the airport.
I’ll be fucking damned if when I arrived there I didn’t find that whore of a socialite beast Paris Hilton dry humping Kevin Federline in one of the VIP booths. They were both hopped up on coke and meth, and K-Fuck was trying to barter his children for more blow. He shrieked like a little girl when he saw me approaching. He knew I didn’t like him, and he had a healthy respect bordering on primal fear of my right back hand, as he had met with the business end of it several times. I grabbed Paris by the hair and yelled “They’re snorting heroine off of Kobe Bryant’s dick in the back alley!” She jumped off of K-Fucks lap, leaving a large white mucusy membrane type layer on his lap. “OMG!” she shouted. No, I mean, she literally shouted ‘O-M-G’ like the letters were words. “I freaking love Kobe! He’s my fav foot ball player!” She ran towards the fire exit leaving a slippery trail of vaginal leakage as she went. I grabbed K-Fuck by the ear.
“Look here you insolent fuck! You better get right with Britney, or it’s fucking curtains. That girl was good to you, she brought you up from the small time dancing in gay bars where you were giving hand jobs for shots of cheap tequila to hob knobbing with people who pretend to take you serious as a rapper. So help me god, you call off your dogs and fix this shit or I’ll run a gang bang on your father’s ass and make you watch while your mother jerks you off! And I don’t want to hear any more of this Dr. Phil nonsense. You and I both know that man’s a quack.”
K-Fuck balled up on the floor and whimpered. Not a word did he utter, so for good measure, I took the bottle of champagne that he had been jamming up Ms. Hilton’s ass and made him lick it clean. It took a while, but he did a good job, and I rewarded him by not jamming it down his throat.
I hung around LA for a few more days, hitting up some of my old haunts with long time pal and one time boss Andy Dick. He was wacky as usual, and at one point I remember him making yet another attempt at getting in my pants. He’s crazy like that, but I love him any way. Besides, the guy’s got great hook ups when it you’re stoned crazy and dick in the dirt drunk at 5 a.m. in West Hollywood. And that’s exactly where I was on the morning of the 5th.
Like I stated earlier, I had a show to catch later that night, so it was a crazy bomb through the barren states of the Frigid Northern Plains to make load out in time. I was 100% gone and wild from no sleep. I couldn’t remember the last time I had seen a bed, much less the horizontal position. I would have slept on the plane, but Gary Coleman was on the same flight, and if you’ve ever been around Gary Coleman when there is free champagne you’ll know that sleep is an impossibility. You’d be surprised, but he’s wickedly strong for his size, and booze only makes him ornery.
All in all, though, it was a good show from what I’ve been told by everyone. I’ve even seen a few pictures, and apparently ended up shirt-less. Which is good, because people deserve to see me with out a shirt on. Women and men a like get a little wobbly in the knees and loose in the pants department when I begin shedding garments. Since then though, I have been locked away in my vault, nursing a keg of Schlitz and eating many brownies and Yule logs (which much to my elation are always available at discounted prices this time of year). I’ve been keeping away from the phone as much as I can all day yesterday, and most of today because I know that people need to hear what I have to say and will not rest until it’s heard. So it is with heavy heart, and an overwhelming sense of dread that I retire from the key board for the day. I know not the nature of the horrors that I shall face in the very near future, but I’m well accustomed to this kind of calm before the storm. For I have been here several times, And I know that if the first week of 2008 was as dreadful as it was, the next 51 are going to be far far worse. It’s just like 2Pac said: “Every once in a while, I reminisce, and wonder how we ever came to this. I miss the better days.” Word… word.
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 you anyway.