Blow by Blow

Wot’s All This, Then?
April 24, 2010, 12:11 am
Filed under: Pete Doherty

Apparently nothing.

This blog is now on semi-permanent hiatus, much like Pete Doherty’s better judgement and sense of restraint. I say “semi-permanent” (despite the fact that it very much leans toward “permanent”) for two reasons:

1. I like to have my options open. Like Jason Vorhees. Or James Patterson. Sometimes things just keep coming back and proving the theory of diminishing returns correct.
2. It annoys Scott when I modify words with adjectives that completely undo them. Like “nearly anonymous.” And “almost pregnant.”

My apologies to those who may have checked in here periodically and wrote  “Please write me” on the dusty windows. I thought this blog would write itself, what with the unlimited potential of Pete Doherty to make every day a spectacular trainwreck, each one more spectacular than the last.

However, as much as I gave it free rein to speculate on Pistol Pete’s whereabouts (the gym? mum’s house? mum’s house and then the pawnshop?) or insult Clive Cussler’s massive car/watch collection, this blog has refused to write itself and the 50 or so monkeys I picked up at the bodega have done nothing more than cram my hard drive full of misspelled missives and MS-Paint drawings of bananas and the men who love them.

So it is with a heavy heart and an overly-worded goodbye that I say “goodbye.” Thanks for reading, and to those of you who contributed, thanks for writing.


Pete Doherty vs. the Mirror

Why, they look as healthy as crack-addicted horses!

[As you may well be aware, Mssr. Doherty has financed various drug purchases via the sale of compromising photos. Of course, said photos are usually sold by a “manager” or “engineer,” rather than by Doherty himself. This is due to the fact that Doherty is rarely in any condition to negotiate prices or purchase drugs without losing half the stash on the stumble home. 
The following incident bears all the hallmarks of a Pete Doherty “Hail Mary” pass, but with the tragic twist of “Pistol” Pete himself trying to operate as his own middleman.
All names other than Pete Doherty’s and Kate Moss’ have been changed to protect our inside source.]

Mort: Mirror Tipline, this is Mort.

Pete: Morty! Petey here. I just emailed some photos to you. Think you might find them interesting.

Mort: I might at that. Let me pull them up.

[Some appropriately clicky and keyboardy noises.]

Mort: Hmmm. [Pause.] What am I looking at?

Petey: [Tries, but fails pathetically to suppress a giggle.] It’s Kate! She’s getting all schnookered on nose candy and all and sundry.

Mort: [Another pause.] Well. Hmmm. [Clicking.] Let me tell you what I see: looks like a thumb… part of someone’s thigh… maybe an upper arm… no track marks, though… I’m going with thigh… some bedding catching on fire… Whoa! Looks like a shot of “Little Petey” here! That might be worth something… a monogrammed mirror with a powdery, white “substance” on it… that might have some value as well…

Petey: Wot? Are you having me on?

Mort: That’s what I’ve got. I’d say we’re looking at about 200 pounds for the whole lot.

Petey: Shite. I was hoping to do a bit better—

[Puts hand over earpiece in a completely-off attempt at privacy; speaks to someone off-camera.*]

*So to speak.

Petey: Oy, Kate. I’ll fix another for ye. Let me just get the lights up again.

[Sound of something falling and shattering.]

Petey: Bollocks. [Pause.] Back in ‘ere, Katey. I’ve think I’ve got a handle on the pictomajig now.

Mort: Petey? She knows you’re taking pictures?

Petey: Yeh, Mort. She’d like to be described as “willowy.”

Mort: The fuck does that mean?

Petey: Oy, Kate! What the fuck does “willowy” mean?

[Inaudible from off-camera.]

Petey: “Healthy enough.”

Mort: Ha! Any preference for you?

Petey: I’m no good at parsing. What do you suggest?

Mort: “Loutish.” “Deplorable.” “Gangrenous.”

Petey: Oooh! Let’s go with the last one. Sounds pirate-y!

Mort: Fine, fine. I’ll send a man over to drop of the check in about an hour.

Petey: Could you have him swing by Jimmy the Sleeve? He’s got a bag of… um… er… well… [longish pause] … drugs for me.

Mort: Absolutely not.

Petey: Oh, c’mon Morty! I don’t want to have to make two trips.

Mort: You’re not even making one now.

Petey: Fine. I’ll be here.

Mort: That’s a lad. Cheers! 


Martin Scorsese vs. Hollywood
March 6, 2010, 9:16 pm
Filed under: Hollywood | Tags: , ,

The most talented eyebrows in Hollywood.


[Martin Scorsese (whom we’ll call “Marty” so we can pretend to be on a first-name basis with him) is looking for some help “punching up” his latest script. The calls begin to roll in. Let’s listen.] 

Marty: Hello?
David Mamet: Marty. It looks like you pretty much have “fuck” nailed down. I’m not sure what I could add. Perhaps a few “cunts?”
Marty: That’s exactly what Mike Leigh said. I’ll consider it.

Marty: Hello?
Quentin Taratino: Marty? Quentin. Look. Here’s the shot: camera pans low across the blacktop. Music comes up. Something funky and sexy from the ’70s. Shit-hot chick steps out of a muscle car. I’m talking brick shithouse in Blowup hot. Short shorts. Fro? Maybe. Camera starts a slow pan up, lingering on her luscious toes with red nails in some black sandals—

Marty: Hello?
Steven King: I’ve got “fuckadoodledoo,” “fuckarooni,” “fuckashimsham,” “fuckabobanna”—
Marty: You realize nobody has ever talked like that, right? Never. Ever.
Steven King: Well. Then obviously you’ve never been to Maine. Why, my boyhood friends used to ride our bikes—

Marty: Hello?
Guy Ritchie: Here’s what I’ve got: camera pans low across the blacktop. Music comes up. Something funky and sexy from the ’70s. Shit-hot chick steps out of a muscle car. I’m talking brick shithouse in Blowup hot. Short shorts. Fro? Maybe. Camera starts a slow pan up, lingering on her luscious toes with red nails in some black sandals—
Marty: Quentin, I already turned you down.
Guy Ritchie: This is Guy Ritchie.
Marty: Bullshit. Work on your accent, Quentin. It’s terrible.

Marty: Hello?
Mel Gibson: Shit’s coming loose here, Marty. I really need a drink.
Marty: I’m not your sponsor, Mel. Joy Behar is. I don’t know why you keep calling me.
Mel Gibson: [Drunken gurgling.]
Marty: Mel. Mel. Have another.
Mel Gibson: Really?
Marty: The fuck do I care.

Marty: Hello?
David Hasselhoff: Marty, I really need a drink.

Marty: Hello?
Michael Mann: Marty, I think you should shoot in pure digital. Film’s going the way of the CD. Day for night, that’s the key.
Marty: Mike, I’m looking for help with the script, not the cinematography.
Michael Mann: Sell your film stock, Marty. Day for night!
Marty: You sound like Lars von Trier. “Day for night.” “Masking tape for walls.” “Imagination through abuse.” I’ve got Tony Scott telling me to shoot in 8mm, project it on a wall and film the projection. This I don’t need.

Marty: Hello?
Gregg Araki: I think we change the leads to bisexual and the rest writes itself. The dynamic shifts to the road-relationship—
Marty: Who’s “we?” And how the fuck did you get a copy of the script?

Marty: Hello?
David Lynch: I got the script, Marty. I think it’s swell. Great job.
Marty: [slowly] OK… Thanks, David.
[Long silence.]
Marty: You still there?
David Lynch: I’m still here, Marty.
[Longer silence.]
Marty: Was there anything else?
David Lynch: No, Marty. I’m just listening…
[Slightly shorter long silence.]
Marty: I’m going to hang up, ok?
David Lynch: That’d be fine. 

[Sudden buildup of industrial noise, fading into television static. A muffled “hello?” Indistinguishable dialogue. Marty’s desk light begins to flicker wildly. Fade to black.] 


John Cage & Phillip Glass vs. Music As We Know It

Cage works tirelessly to remove any musical notes from his instrument.

[From a New Yorker magazine review.]

Fans of musique concrete, minimalism and feeling superior were treated to a long-awaited reunion of these longtime co-conspirators.

The two showed that they haven’t lost a step over the years as they delighted fans and confused roadies during their opening pieces Soundcheck #1 and Soundcheck #2 (Slight Return).

During the course of the 2-hour+ concert, attendees were treated to various improvisational pieces. Untitled #4: The Night Clerk saw Glass take on the personas of an Elvis impersonator, a foreign dignitary and other roles suggested by audience members while Cage played a harried hotel clerk that could only speak in three-word sentences.

Another improv piece, Blueprint for Entropy, featured Cage leaving the stage to return a few personal calls while Glass visited with his stage manager in the vacant (of course!) orchestra pit.

Cage and Glass closed out the night with a pair of encores. The first was an 11-minute sheet metal and glockenspiel cover of Aerosmith’s shitty classic Love in an Elevator.

They followed this unexpected moment with a piece the entire crowd had waited for all night: 4’33”.

As Cage and Glass disinterestedly left the stage, a 12-foot tall LED clock lowered slowly from the rafters, counting back from 4:33. Thunderous applause soon gave way to rhythmic clapping as the audience punctuated each passing second. The crowd was on their feet as the final 10 seconds counted down, shouting each sequential number like overenthusiastic, tuxedoed NASA technicians.


Glass plots his next move, while perfecting his latest affectation.

Clive Cussler vs. the Cusslers
February 8, 2010, 7:56 pm
Filed under: Clive F. Cussler, Legacy Acts | Tags: ,

The Cussler men display the patented "Cussler Awkward Smile."

[Setting: Sunny Massachusetts beach.]

Clive: As the only Cussler of note here today —Sit down, Dirk!— I though I would make an opening statement welcoming you all to the 35th annual Cussler family reunion.

Most of you know me as the beloved author of a long string of nearly identical books. Some of you may know me as the litigious screenwriter behind such motion picture disasters as Raise the Titanic and Sahara.

Some of you may know me as “that asshole” who “cut you out of the will.”

Last but not least, some of you may know me as the victim of ruthless character assassination by a blogger who shall remain nameless.

Dirk: I know him as “dad!”

Clive: Sit down, Dirk!

As we prepare for a weekend of fun at my palatial estate, I would like to update you on a few things.

1. This year’s buffet is $8.95. I know this is an increase of $2 over last year, but with e-books, Wal-Mart, pirates and libraries, one needs to make up the difference somewhere. The Rolls-Royces won’t fuel themselves.

On a related note, I will no longer be offering an open bar. Instead we have a much more “closed” bar in place, staffed by surly New York nightclub bartenders who will be serving drinks with surly New York nightclub prices. In other words, be prepared to give up that whole $20 for a couple of domestic beers.

2. Under no circumstances is anyone allowed in my house or adjacent garage. I have several valuable and irreplaceable items stored inside, most of which were lifted from unfortunate seagoers and even occasionally from sunken ships.

If I find so much as a fingerprint on any of my fleet of Rolls-Royces, god help me, I will give the offending person a proper Viking burial. Oh, and no one is allowed to wear any watch or timepiece more ostentatious than mine. I will not be upstaged in group photos.

Clive Fucking Cussler displays what appears to be a Fucking Horse Trailer attached to a Fucking Rolls-Royce.

3. My latest shelf-filler, featuring NUMA hero Kurt Austin—

Dirk: Numa Numa, yeah! Numa Numa hey!

[Clive motions for Dirk’s caretakers, who swiftly administer a sedative.]

As I was saying, my latest eerily-familiar opus will be available for $15, nearly $10 off the suggested retail price. I suggest you take advantage of this offer as only Wal-Mart, Target and currently offer a better deal. It features water, boats, adventure and loads and loads of seamen!

Dirk: (Bursts into laughter, showering nearby Cusslers with Capri Sun.)

Clive: I am available to autograph these soon-to-be collector’s items for the low price of $10 a scrawl. Those who would prefer to have their Cussler keepsake festooned with stick figures in various sexual positions may bring their book to Dirk. There is no charge for his “contribution,” but you may want to appease him with Pixie Stix or Blow Pops or porn.

Once again, thank you all for coming. Dinner will be served at 6 pm, followed by a reading from my latest novel by noted thespian Levar Burton. Tickets are $22. Oh, and those looking for a truly uncomfortable Cussler experience should consider stopping by the jacuzzi around 11 pm, when I will be very naked and very drunk.

[Uncomfortable scattered applause and mutters of “This is bullshit.”]


Clive F. Cussler vs. the General Public
February 6, 2010, 5:25 pm
Filed under: Clive F. Cussler, Legacy Acts | Tags: , , ,
[Author’s note: This originally appeared all the way over at my other site. However, it has all the proper combative properties and celebrity bashing that we (all 5 or 6 of us) have come to love and very occasionally (4 posts in January???) enjoy. So, um… enjoy.]

Clive Fucking Cussler and his fucking watch.

The following contains transcribed excerpts from a Q&A session during Clive and Dirk Cussler’s promotional tour for their new book, Sparta. Following a publicist-approved interview (read it here), in which Clive discussed, among other things, his new watch, his product placement of said watch into his novels, his product placement of himself into said novels, a little more about the watch and various other watery items.

The Cusslers then threw caution to the wind and began fielding questions from their gathered fans. All audio and video of this event has been seized by their intrepid publicist, leaving only this record of how everything went more than a tad Pete Tong (ask Nobbly).

Publicist Merle Aaronsen (MA): Alright, folks! Now, we’ve got a real treat for you! Clive and his son, Dirk have agreed to a short Q&A session. Just raise your hand if you’ve got a question. Just like back in school.
[some appreciative laughter, mostly from Dirk, whose laugh can be charitably described as an ‘insane giggling.’]
MA: Yes?
Thomas: Hi, Thomas XXXXXX here. Big fan. I’ve read most of your latest novels. I just had a question: are you planning a followup to The Deep?
Clive Cussler (CC): [brief silence, clears throat] Ah. I think you may be confusing my work with Peter Benchley’s. Or vice versa.
A wonderful man, Peter. A wonderful, humorous man… with, uh, a rather unhealthy collection of pornography. Not that I’m judging. He was a witty and thoughtful guest during many weekend getaways, paid for by our mutual publisher.
MA: Thanks. Always a pleasure.
CC: Witty, delightful and hopelessly addicted to painkillers. When he was down we used to cheer him up by playfully referring to him as “Admiral Painless” or “Bluebeard the Rapist.” [laughs]
We prefer to remember his playful qualities and mastery of the sea. Not the other, troubling aspects like the stalking charges brought against him by Jacqueline Bisset. Many of us in his inner circle would never have seen this side of him, if he hadn’t invited us to his London mansion and shown us his so-called “Bisset Shrine.” I still get chills. And a bit of a woody. [laughs] She was quite the looker!
Anyhow, The Deep is by fucking Peter Benchley. Next question?

Not Clive Cussler. (Note lack of prominently displayed watch.)

Alice: Hi, I’m Alice. I had a question regarding your co-author, and son, Dirk. He seems to be coming—
Dirk Cussler (DC): [giggles for a few seconds]
Alice: —into his own. Will he be writing a few novels of his own or branching out to another area of fiction?
DC: I’d like to handle this, Dad. While I have seen much improvement over the years, we, at this point, do not consider it wise to split up the franchise any more than it already is. The kind people at all of the bookstores have informed us that there is simply not enough shelf room for all of novels as it is. In fact, they have seen sales slip because of… what’s this here?
[inaudible discussion, voices of CC and MA occasionally surface, but nothing of use]
DC: … cannibalization. Sounds terrible! Maybe we should make smaller books! [giggles]
CC: He’s right. And well-trained. While we do have many ideas and watches to push, the novel mill suffers from its best friend and unfortunate bottleneck, the bookstore. Trying to find space to plunk another story in between Clancy, Patterson and Nora Roberts is like trying to pitch a tent in an outhouse. Some seamen vernacular there.

Donald: Hi, Donald here, retired Navy. I noticed that early on in Sparta you referred to the frigate displacing nearly 6,500 tons of water, which would be true if it was fully loaded. But nowhere leading up to this statement do you give any indication that it would be.
CC: Well, it very well could have been. Perhaps they had loaded at the last dock—
Donald: No. No. In fact it says here, “…the frigate, running light after offloading the last of the rescued crew, displaced 6,500 tons of water, like so much air out of a balloon…”
CC: [silence] It… it may have been a Class B, which are known to displace—
Donald: Two sentences later it says it’s a Class C lightweight frigate—
MA: I don’t think this line of questioning is going to help sell, I mean aid in enjoyment—
Donald: I mean, not to nitpick, but you severely overstate the amount of torque allowed by that motor type and I think you may have forgotten to carry a 1 or something when figuring the fuel efficiency—
CC: I don’t think this is going anywhere. We have a staff of fact-checkers to verify this stuff, do we not, Merle?
MA: Absolutely. They—
CC: And I will not be questioned as to the veracity of these claims! These are books written for enjoyment, and while I appreciate you bringing this to my attention—
DC: Dad, remember what doctor said about the stress—
CC: You’ll shut the hell up, Dirk. I splash your name on the book and what? You can’t even check these things out? They have to show up in public?
DC: But I can’t understand the fact-checkers. Merle outsourced that job. Venkater…man…swo… Have you talked to them? It’s like nothing gets through, no matter how loud or slow I talk—
Donald: I’d also like to point out that the Mary Celeste’s name is misspelled no fewer than 8 times between chapters 16-20. Sometimes as Marty, McLeste, Virgin Mary Celestine, Mary C. Less—
MA: This has been a problem, but I can assure—
CC: You can’t assure shit! You get a handle on this or I am out of here. The Silver Phantom is parked right outside, and I can drive it myself, believe it or not—
DC: It needs fixing. The door handle fell off when the chauffeur didn’t open my door. I had to get it myself because he was angry that I had been kicking his seat—
CC: Will you please refrain from talking? Please! I would like to see a return to some propriety here and I want that man out!

Dirk Cussler (left) making his father happy by not talking, attempting to smile.

[some scuffling noises and a few protests, but it sounds like Donald leaves on his own terms]
Donald [somewhat faintly]: Fuck you, Clive! Do your research!

MA: I think we have time for a couple more, but let’s keep the questions fair, shall we?
Mark: Hi, Mark here. I was doing some research—
CC: [some sort of warning growl]
Mark: —and I came across some statements you had made concerning your naval knowledge. It reads, and I’m quoting here: “no one has time to do the research. It’s just the way it is. I’ve been cranking novel after novel for years without any issue. Here’s what you need to know. Ships float. Except when they don’t.”
CC: I don’t recall saying that…
Mark: Quite possibly not. The anecdote indicates that you were probably drunk. Anyway, I guess my question is more of a statement. Or an accusation. There seems to be some indication that your research is very weak to say the least—
CC: Get him out, Merle. Get him out or I send my idiot son out to your house for the weekend. Again. I know the pets will probably rebound but I’m sure the repairs won’t be cheap.
MA: I’m getting him out. You keep that little moron away from my house.

[At this point, we are left to deal with little more than some muffled talking, as Mark is presumably being escorted out. There is no parting shot from Mark, but there does seem to be arguing between CC and DC with only a couple of audible phrases. One from DC: …it would be happier with a saddle on it but then I think Merle scared it… One from CC: …Jesus Christ Almighty! I should have named you after a blunter object…]

[Some general concerned chatter resumes in background along with the Q&A, which Clive sadistically decides to continue.]

William: Hey, um… kind of a weird question… the Sparta book seems to have a lot, and I mean a lot, of homosexual overtones. Is this intentional?
CC: The fuck if I know. I barely read the damn things. Ask my son.
DC: I just wrote some stuff and then Paul (Kemprecos) edited it.
CC: Well, there you go. He’s Greek, for Christ’s sake. That explains that. Next question.
William: Actually, it’s in one of yours written with Dirk, according to Thriller in a Manila. I don’t think that Paul was involved—
CC: You have got to be fucking kidding me. Is anyone reading these things before they hit the shelf? I’ve got a brand to maintain. I should be getting drunk night after night and counting my money until my hangover goes away. I’m not going to micromanage this mill. Merle, you are about 30 seconds from hitchhiking home with Zorro the Gayblade over here. Let’s wrap this up. I don’t know why I even bother.
Did you all get a copy? I had better see more hands in the air. This is bullshit, Merle.
DC: Dad, dad. Let me get your pills—
CC: The only thing you need to get is few thousand more brain cells. I’ll just give God the benefit of a doubt and assumed they’re backordered. Get our stuff, Merle. You help too, monkeyboy.
DC: I would like to thank you all for coming. Merle and I appreciate your support—
CC: Put that fucking note down.

MA: I would like to take one more question.
CC: What? [inaudible] fired for [inaudible] complete abortion of [inaudible] your ass in a fucking sling [inaudible]
MA: [inaudible] resignation when I get back [inaudible] embarrassing yourself [inaudible] looks like about 10 years old [inaudible] this publicity [inaudible] asshole for not taking a child’s question.

Ma Cussler steps in to the fray...

CC: Alright. [very heavy sigh] One more. From the youngster towards the back?
Youngster: Is this the line for the Harry Potter midnight release?

[some crashing noises, yelps from the audience, a mic hits the ground with a burst of feedback]
[sound of fist hitting flesh]
[more noise, some indeterminate, a loud roar from Clive(?)]

[more smashing noises, shelf tipping over(?), concern has turned to near panic]

[loud thud, feedback, then silence]  


Britney Spears vs. K-Fed vs. the State of California
[Who likes failed celebrity marriages? We all do. And we’d better since that’s the only kind they make.
But what of the fallout from these disastrous cohabitations? Won’t someone please, please, PLEASE think of the children?
In a word: no.]

To set the scene, here's some adequate second-unit footage.

Judge: Ms. Spears, Mr. Federline: In accordance with state law and your mutual ineptness, we are set to review the court’s custody decision, which most recently found in favor of former dancer and impressario, Kevin Federline. The court has also noted that precedent was set with this ruling, having been the first time the State of California has awarded custody to a person or persons listing “Dancer” as their occupation.

Inasmuch as this is an actual court of law, rather than the court of public opinion—

Ms. Spears? Did you just text me?

Ms. Spears: Yeah, Miss Judge. How is this going to take? I have a photo shoot for Teen Mother Jones in an hour?

Judge: I’ll ignore your multiple counts of contempt for the moment. “I CAN TAKE CARE OF IT SRSLY” Would you care to explain that to me? (Britney reaches for her phone.)

Judge: With your mouth, not your phone.

Ms. Spears: It. The kid. I can take care of it.

Judge. You have two children, Ms. Spears and they have names, I would hope. Mr. Federline?

K-Fed: Yep, boss. They sure do. “Little K” and “Shiner Bock.”

Judge: I sincerely doubt that. And please refer to me as “Your Honor.” Ms. Spears, your cell phone privileges are revoked until the end of this session. Mr. Federline, you said you had a statement prepared?

K-Fed: Right here, My Honor.

(Hands judge two sheets of folded notebook paper upon which is drawn a happy stick-figure family waving money around with big smiles on their faces. The sun is also smiling.)

Judge: This is highly unusual… for an adult. Normally a statement would include words and be typed.

K-Fed: (Chokes up.) I spent so much time dancing I never learned to read and write!

(Breaks into huge girlish sobs and soft-shoes his way back to his seat. The judge’s phone goes off.)

New Message!: GOT2GO KTHX

K-Fed: (Sobs quietly.)

Judge: Based on what I’ve experienced today, I am remanding custody of your two children to Miss Diana Ross, where it is hoped that they will be in slightly better hands.

Mr. Federline, you are remanded to the custodial care of your supervisors at United Fruit Packaging. Ms. Spears, I am holding you in contempt of court—

Publicist: Your honor, Ms. Spears is on her way to a photo shoot. I will be more than happy to serve her sentence for her.

Judge: (Glares in annoyance as phone alerts her to a new message.)



Keith Partridge vs. Dave Madden
January 10, 2010, 12:09 am
Filed under: Legacy Acts, Phone Calls | Tags: , ,
[This edition of Blow by Blow comes to you courtesy of the active mind and imprisoned body of Ram Venkataswaran. (I hope I’m spelling that correctly as the permanent hiatus has deleted it from our collective internet memory. Where’s your Google Cache now?
In any case, today’s clash features a washed-up former child star in a men’s washroom, a handful of exotic and illegal substances and a combative phone call to a manager who wishes he had majored in something other than Business Statistics and Bus Maintenance. Enjoy.]

A classic shot from Rolling Stone's early days as America's leading source of child pornography.

(After concluding his 15 minute “gig” as opening act for the “Feathered Friends of Florida” exotic bird show at Chagoonga National Park, Keith Partridge returns to the men’s washroom that has been temporarily converted into a dressing room, huffs heavily from a small baggie and calls Dave Madden.)

Dave: Dave Madden.

Keith: Reuben, thank God I’ve reached you. It’s Keith.

Dave: Keith?

Keith: Yes, Keith.

Dave: Richards?

Keith: What?

Dave: Who the Hell is this?

Keith: Keith, Keith Partridge.

Dave: (Under his breath) Fuck.

Keith: You need to get me out of this Florida gig, Reuben. You really messed up this time.

Dave: Keith, stop calling me Reuben. My name is Dave. And for the last time, I’m not your manager. I never was.

Keith: (growing incensed) You’re damned right you’re no manager. No manager worth a shit would book me in as an opening act to a damned peregrine falcon and a handful of cockatoos, parakeets and fucking macaws. Mom is not going to be happy about this. Reuben.

Dave: (exasperated) Keith. I didn’t book you into anything. If I was going to it would be the ‘Tigerbeat” home for fucked up former teen idols. You and Leif Garret could share a room. And for the record, your mother was never happy. She was the most difficult woman I ever met – and I worked with Charo. Now stop calling me.

Keith: The owls are the worst, Rueben. They’re like fucking paintings. No matter where I go there eyes seem to follow me everywhere. I think they’re out for me. And the shit. They shit on everything. I’ve gone through three jumpers this week alone.

Dave: Jesus, Keith….

Keith: (More huffing) And the humidity is playing Hell with my shag. I’m not happy, Reuben. You need to come down here and get me out of my contract. Send the bus Rueben, send the bus. What was that? (Screams)…Oh, never mind, it’s just my hand.

Dave: (Takes a deep breath) Keith, listen to me. I have never been your manager, your agent, your friend or particularly given a shit about you or your career. Now leave me alone, I’m expecting a call from Celebrity Apprentice.

Keith: (pause) For me? Am I being considered?

Dave: I’m hanging up Keith.

Keith: Thanks Reuben. I knew you’d come through. Send the bus, and I’ll start packing.

Dave: Whatever.

Keith: (Singing) I was sleeping and right in the middle of a good dream/ Like all at once I wake up from something that keeps knocking at my brain/Before I go insane I hold my pillow to my head/And spring up in my bed screaming out the words I dread…

I think I love you!!!!!

Dave: Good Christ…(hangs up)

Stage Manager Enters: Two minutes Keith. And try not to swear this time, there are kids out there for fucks sake.

-submitted by Ram V.

Chad P. Kroeger vs. the Wading Pool
January 3, 2010, 10:25 pm
Filed under: Chad Kroeger | Tags: , ,
[Due to a total lack of depth on his part, Chad (the P. stands for “Penis”) Kroeger often finds himself over his head. Whether he’s trying to come off as “above the negative press” or counting his money and mourning the loss of his soul, Chad (of the Canadian Nickelbacks) will nearly always find himself overwhelmed by the pressures of his very existence.
In this particular anecdote, Chad finds his musical talent and grotesque growling questioned by the nearest object deeper than he is: a child’s wading pool. Watch in shock and awe as Kroeger heads to the proverbial well more than once, only to find it patiently waiting to had his ass to him repeatedly.]

Note: this excellent piece of Chad-baiting prose comes to us courtesy of mostly-retired blogger Alan Truitt. This was stolen (with permission!) from one of his epic and monumental comment threads, the likes of which has not been seen since the last 2Girls1Cup reaction video.

Chad takes offense to something he thinks the Nikon has just said.

The scene: a breezy Canadian summer day, which is swiftly ruined by Chad’s Goofus-like behavior…

Chad: “I don’t like the way you look at me, man.”

The Pool: (Silence)

Chad: “What the fuck does that mean, man?”

The Pool: (Water laps softly)

Chad: “Right! You’re dead!”

(Chad jumps into the pool and bangs head and wrenches his shoulder. Humbled and soaking wet, he pulls himself out and glares at the pool.)

Chad: “This isn’t over, dude.”

The Pool: (Soft water lap sounds)

Chad: “Fuck you, man!”

(Chad dives in and starts flailing. Repeat scenario ad nauseam.)

-submitted (sort of) by Alan Truitt

Pete Doherty vs. Coherence (& Higher Learning)
[As was noted earlier, the esteemed Jack White (of the equally esteemed Detroit Jack White Stripes) was awarded an honorary degree from Dublin’s Trinity College, which he accepted with affected Southern grace and a ridiculous moustache. He joined the likes of Newt Gingrich, guitarist The Edge of The U2 and of course, infamous cokehound, Pete Doherty.
Here is the attempted transcript of “Pistol” Pete Doherty’s acceptance speech.]

Last known photo of an upright Pete Doherty.

Pete: Thank you. Thank you.

(Waits for applause to die down, which it does surprisingly quickly, which in turns surprises Doherty, who stands silently for another couple of minutes like a smack-addled deer in the headlights. A nudge from a decorated Trinity alumni puts him back on task…)

Pete: Um… Well… It’s an honor to be nominated, of course… in of all categories “Heavy Metal.” Sorry to take the Mercury Prize from Jethro and his Tulls, but they are no more “metal” than my Aunt Fanny, innit?

(Briefly displays fanny, which means something completely different over in the U.K. Finding himself underequipped for a fanny display, Pete reverses course and briefly moons the crowd.)

Pete: Fuck Michael Jackson! Rule Britannia!

(As a smattering of restrained and academic boos rain down on Pete’s bowler, he staggers off stage right, only to be accosted by Trinity staffers, who indicate that he is supposed to stagger off stage left. He inquires as to whether they might have some cocaine. The crowd breaks into an a cappella rendition of “What a Waster”…)