In point of fact, she has John Dillinger’s penis. She keeps it on a thong around her neck. Judi Dench gave it to her when they were both on the set of Kenneth Branagh’s Hamlet, saying that it would guarantee her success in her acting career.
I’m the guy that Roger Waters spat on during a Pink Floyd concert.
Last time I was in L. A. I had sex with Alyson Hannigan. She was on top, facing away from me. Just as she climaxed, she took a dump on my stomach!
And it’s worked!
Back when I was in Vegas, I got hired to film a huge gay orgy, which included most of the cast of Night at the Museum. Mickey Rooney was not invited and spent the entire night hammering at the door, demanding that Ben Stiller let him at his “hot bod.”
When it was all over, Dick Van Dyke gave me a five hundred dollar tip and complimented me on my keen eye for the humor of the situation.
Later, I got a summer job as Scott Bakula’s official salami sandwich coordinator on Dick’s good word. I think Mr. Bakula may have misunderstood what Dick was talking about.
Katie Holmes cried into my hair. Poor thing, so distressed from all that auditing. She said she was afraid of Tom, but I shouldn’t tell anyone. I tried to appease her with vodka, only to have her talk to L. Ralph Hubbard on the big white phone later on.
There are still some dianetic tears and chunks in my long black tresses…
[stolen from a t-shirt I saw once in Hustler’s “Bits & Pieces” section]
I choked Linda Lovelace
[/stolen]
It took me a while to figure that out.
I met Rory Calhoun once. It was so cute to see him standing up on two feet.
I met Dora the Explorer one time in Chuck E. Cheese’s. She shouted at me.
I had actually called him. A friend of mine wanted to know who had starred in this one movie (this was waaaay back in 1979; time has dimmed both the movie and the actress–we called them actresses back then.) They knew I liked movies and thought I might know. I didn’t know, but said I would find out (I had many books about movies. Unbeknownst to my friend, the books were mostly about Fred and Ginger and musicals–old, old movies; this was a more recent film). They said they’d try as well: they called the public library and asked for reference; I hauled out the phone book and looked up the phone number for the Chicago Tribune. Ah, those pre-internet days.
Once connected, I asked to speak to Gene Siskel–never dreaming I’d be put through to him. I was. I panicked a bit. I stammered out my question, but he was nice. He flipped through something saying something about it was either X or Y actress and then he told me the (correct) name. I gulped out a “thank you” and he started asking me something else and I said, “oh, I gotta go!” and then he said, “wait a minute–” and I hung up on him.
I felt bad. I was 17 and really didn’t know what to say or do to this celebrity. I called my friend back, but she had already gotten the answer from the reference librarian…
It ain’t much, but it’s all I got.
This corroborates my previous testimony. Did he use his Mary Poppins voice?
Oh, so not true. David never does that in real life - I know this because of the evening at Spats…
God knows what he was doing in Berkeley in the first place, but only God or the imp of the perverse could have arranged that he’d be in that bar that night, the one night that whole year that I was in Berkeley, too. The lounge was crowded, and I had to share a couch by the window with a red-haired man who glared at me as I removed my sunglasses.
“You think that’s funny? I fucking hate that shit!” Excuse me? Do I know you? Recognition clicked in a moment later, and I laughed as I stowed the offending shades and slipped on my bifocals. “Sorry, I didn’t think that was actually you.” (I hadn’t recognized him at all, but your average TV star would rather not know that, I think).
He went on without acknowledging my response, and I soon realized he was shitfaced as a quadriplegic in a cow pasture: “It wasn’t MY fucking idea; I did it once for a scene where a dramatic line came as we were walking inside – of COURSE I took my fucking sunglasses off! IT WAS IN CHARACTER!” He was getting red, glowing red, as red as only an irate drunken carrot-top can get.
He took an unidentifiable brown cigarette from a silver case, looked at the crowds shuffling down the sidewalk, and visibly wrestled with the idea of mingling. Cigarette dangling from his left hand, he pulled a pair of sunglasses out of his jacket and stared glassily at them.
“Wasn’t my fucking idea. Every goddamn scene now, there’s a pun or a cliffhanger or the fucking glasses.” He was slurring a bit now, growing redder and morose, but he went on, “People actually think that shit’s MY IDEA. I hate that shit.” He burped out the last word, slurped the last of a ridiculous-looking fruity drink through a straw, and walked out, slipping on his sunglasses as he went through the door. As he paused to light his cigarette, someone (a tourist, judging by his cable-car T-shirt) stopped him and said something I couldn’t hear through the window – but I saw his reply clearly enough.
He stared at the hapless tourist through his dark lenses; “piss off,” he said.