Kill Yourself

Seriously. Just fucking do it.

Another Doherty Post. Deal with It.

Look, you're just going to have to put up with me doing two Pete Doherty posts inside of one week, because he's simply the greatest fuck-up since Ozzy in his glory days. And, unlike Ozzy, he's clearly not done yet. Besides, it's my blog, and I'll run it into the ground (even more) if I want to.

Despite the still ongoing nature of Pete's tomfoolery, it seems that his diary is going to be published. I suppose anything that happens after this diary's publication simply means we get to look forward to a sequel.

As much as I can't wait to read this shit, I'm pretty surprised that he found time in his busy skagg shooting schedule to write in a fucking diary with any regularity. (I know! What a pussy!) Still, I'm happy to read the inevitably incoherent ramblings of Doherty, spanning from his time in The Libertines, up through and beyond his time dating Kate Moss. Hopefully, he was still clever enough in his drug-induced haze to protect her privacy with an indecipherable alias, along the lines of "Kate M." Or, perhaps he came up with an even tougher code to crack, calling her something like "K. Moss," instead.

In any event, I recommend this book become mandatory reading material for all youth drug prevention programs. Hell, if I were running a D.A.R.E. program, I wouldn't even need his book. I'd just put up any old picture of Pete on the wall, with a sign underneath that said "Don't let this happen to you." That would scare the kids straight, for sure... Of course, I would probably get really stoned in the teacher's lounge, forget my original intent, and would instead make a sign for the photo that said "Pete Doherty D.A.R.E.s you to rock!" with a bunch of smiley faces and rainbows, because I would think it was funny.

Gosh. I'm a total a-hole, even in my imagination.

OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD

Oh. My. God. Below, from today's Variety. Oh. My. Freakin. God:

"Former teen heartthrobs Corey Feldman and Corey Haim have teamed with RDF USA ('Wife Swap') on 'The Coreys,' a hybrid improv comedy that would center on fictional versions of themselves a la 'Curb Your Enthusiasm.'

'The Coreys' picks up with Feldman living the comfortable suburban life with his wife Suzie and son, until circumstances bring his old pal Haim back into the picture. Episodes would follow Haim -- single and the total opposite of Feldman -- as he shakes life up for the Feldmans."

I just read about this a couple of seconds ago, after debating all day whether I really wanted to go through with discussing Angelina Jolie's appearance on Anderson Cooper 360 last night. Clearly, I did not (although, the New York Times expresses my sentiments on the piece almost exactly).

But, just when I thought today would be relegated to the no-post void, I see what may be the best or worst news of my adult life. Or, rather, the life where I'm 23 and pretending to be an adult only when it is convenient to me-- namely, when I need to restock on champagne and the morning after pill. But, I'm getting off topic.

Any of my avid readers (of which there are none) already know of my enthusiasm for the Coreys, so forgive me for being so incoherent in this post. News like this always leaves me so charmingly befuddled! Well, I think it's charming, at least.

This show could, and will very likely, be deliciously catastrophic. I pray the newly acquired funds from their looming success allow the Coreys to resume their robust enthusiasm for coke and whores, not seen since their 80s heyday. Feldman has been clean for a good time, since he is a family man, or some shit. And rumor was Haim just got his act together some time last year. But, if this show takes off, we can only hope the coked-up as fuck and drunk as shit Coreys of yore will rise from the ashes of their crack pipes like the glorious phoenixes I know them to be. It's going to be a great '06-'07 television season!

Did He Put His Wang on the Bible to Swear in?

The only thing hotter than a man in socks and sandals (oh, K Fed!) is a man wearing NO socks with leather oxfords and tapered jeans. Oh, and also the jeans are stonewashed. You can see this fact illustrated above, by George "I Make Men Wish They Had Vaginas" Clooney, posing seductively at his Section Eight offices. That smirk is from him relishing the seamless execution of one of his infamous practical jokes, no doubt.

GC's head-wobbling and mouth-twitching charms must've come in handy in French court, as Section Eight, his production company with Steven Soderbergh, was just awarded victory in a lawsuit against them. Some French screenwriter claimed they plagiarized Syriana from her script called Oversight. But, the judge was lost in Clooney's eyes, and missed everything she said. (In truth, I realize it's highly unlikely George Clooney ever had to set foot in court for this, but it's a lot more fun to pretend he did.)

Not only did this French bitch lose her lawsuit, she was ordered to pay $4,490 in court costs to Warner Bros. and Section Eight! 'Cause, you know, they really need the money. Besides, George Clooney got fat for that movie, okay? That fucking sucked, and 4 grand can never take away that anguish. Poor guy had to walk around totally un-hot for two whole months! Thank God/personal trainers he's back to his trim physique now.

I can just imagine good ol' Cloon-sey on the stand, posed exactly as he is above, shattering the plaintiff's case by simply blinking really hard a bunch of times during his testimony, that sexy way he always does. No, that's not a tick signaling some sort of nervous disfunction or Tourette's. That's nothin' but pure Clooney sexy sex juice.* Drink it down, baby. Drink. It. Down.

*Not to be confused with giz.

Is It Wrong That I Think He's Fucking Awesome?

So, Pete Doherty was arrested (or "detained," or whatever) yet again for drugs. Babyshambles was performing at the Hultsfred Music Festival in Sweden, and the poe-leese ended up getting in Pete's grill after the show, because "he showed signs of being under the influence of narcotics." Um, duh.

For one, the picture above is from the very show we're talking about. You could put Donnie Osmond on stage looking like that and I'd have no doubt he was completely Yao Ming'd out of his gourd. Plus, IT'S PETE FUCKING DOHERTY. The man makes The Rolling Stones look like Girl Scouts. Gay Girl Scouts. (I'm not sure what that means, either.)

Then, when Pete missed his flight the next day (lost track of time during a busy day chock full of wholesome activities, including a tour of local haberdasheries, no doubt), he decided to hang around and went out to a bar that night... only to get into a fight at the pub and get bounced out, shirtless. (I've totally been there.)

Said one witness, "One girl was bleeding from broken glass on the floor. She went ballistic and Doherty started lashing out at people trying to sort the situation out."

I can't believe Kate Moss dumped his ass. Clearly, that bitch does not know how to party.

Best. Parenting. Ever.

Copied and pasted from Atlanta's Action 2 News website:

Police Say Parents Give Kids Pot For Good Behavior

POSTED: 6:59 am EDT June 12, 2006

CHANDLER, Ariz. -- It's the case of the alleged Arizona pot parents.

Police in Chandler charge Toni and Aaron Carlson rewarded their sons with marijuana for good behavior. A police spokesman says they got a tip that the boys' mother, 31-year-old Toni Lynn Carlson and their stepfather, 23-year-old Aaron Carlson, were supplying the boys with marijuana.

Police that allege the also couple smoked pot with the boys. Police said the boys, ages 12 and 11, and a 4-year-old girl, are now in the care of a family member. Officers report they were investigating tips from a neighbor about the possible use and sale of drugs at the home. But investigators said they didn't know about the family pot smoking until the parents and their kids were interviewed.

A transcript of the police interview in which the family inadvertently incriminated themselves has also been released:

Coppers: Are you guys selling pot outta here?
The Dad: Like, no way, ossifer. That's illegal, dude. (winks at cop)
Copper: (beat) Are you high right now?
The Dad: Maybe a little bit from this morning... It was my son's idea.
Copper: What?
The Dad: Well, he did get a B on his math test, and all.
Copper: You smoke out your son as a reward?
The Dad: Like, yeah. Man. (beat) I mean, "no"?

I wish these people were my parents. Somehow, it not nearly as cool when your dad is smoking dope and doing rails off a hooker's ass, when he doesn't bother to invite you "because it's a school night." Prick.

I Refuse to Write About Shiloh

I'm really, really, really excited for Snakes on a Plane (a.k.a. Mutha Fuckin' Snakes on a Mutha Fuckin' Plane) to come out in August. Like, really excited. I mean, I can't really say that I have a tremendous amount of respect for Samuel L. Jackson's acting range, but his appearances in Coming to America, as well as recent episodes of The Boondocks, make it easier for me to overlook embarrassments like The Man and, more importantly, tip the scales back in his favor of being a "bad ass motherfucker," indeed. Plus, anyone who manages to get both Ghostwriter and Deep Blue Sea on the same resume will do pretty much anything for enough money, clearly.* And, even though-- or, perhaps, especially because-- the same can be said of a pre-op transsexual crack whore, I respect that.

But, I digress. The topic at hand is MFSOAMFP, being released August 18th. Any of you who went to see X3 will probably have seen the trailer for MFSOAMFP, and will know, as I do, that if the teaser trailer is any indication of the flick itself, MFSOAMFP is destined to be the Greatest Movie Ever. I mean, the trailer has already taken the title of Greatest Trailer Ever, for me at least (apologies to the Blow trailer for losing the title), and I can't wait to take just enough whiskey shots to be perilously close to alcohol poisoning and smoke more bowls than Clinton (come on, you know he totally does), on the night of the 18th. I mean, they can't possibly expect people to see this movie sober, can they?

Some writer guy (is my ignorance showing?) wrote a really funny post about MFSOAMFP on his Blogger Blogspot Blog nearly a year ago, when it was but a twinkle in New Line's eye. If you're too much of a lazy POS to read it, the best part is when he suggests using the phrase "snakes on a plane" interchangeably with mantras like "shit happens." An excerpt:

WIFE: "Honey you stepped in dog poop again. "
ME: "Snakes on a Plane..."
DOCTOR: "Your cholesterol is 290. Perhaps you want to mix in a walk once in a while."
ME: "Snakes on a Plane..."
WIFE: "Honey while you were on your cholesterol walk you stepped in dog poop again."

You get the picture.

Tee hee! I can't wait for the 18th!

*For the record, I am talking shit about the latter, not the former, by use of contrast in this line. I FUCKING LOVED Ghostwriter. And yes, I WILL fight you about it.

I'm Not an A-Hole, You Prick! I Have IED!

It turns out that "road rage" isn't just road rage any more. Like everything else these days, it's actually a terrible disorder with a catchy acronym-- and, most likely, a prescription drug to deal with this "problem" in the works (perhaps Bastardil?). It's called "intermittent explosive disorder" or IED, and supposedly, it affects 7.3% of the population. No, this isn't an arbitrary statistic, Skepty McSkeptical. 18% of people would know that.

Road rage is just one of the many manifestations of this evil affliction. "A person can tell if they suffer from the IED [sic], if they show any or all of these symptoms for a prolonged time: throwing objects, aggressiveness, or property damage." Indeed, these symptoms are indicative of the probability you suffer from IED. Well, either it's IED or you're fucking wasted.

I'm really glad I've gotten to the bottom of why I like to spraypaint babies and bitch-slap octogenarians. All this time, people have just said that I'm a jerk-off, or a highly-functioning retard, at best. But now, next time someone yells at me for eating food off a strangers plate while walking by an outdoor cafe, then throwing a Mike's Hard Lemonade at the maitre d's head, I can say proudly "It's not my fault. I have IED!" Then, I'll drop-kick some kittens to prove my point. Yay for science!