Blow by Blow


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.)

 

-CLT

Advertisements


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”…)

-CLT