An Argument With Mel Gibson

INTRO NOTE: VULGAR LANGUAGE AHEAD.

Mel: That f***ing russian c*nt wh*re gold digger. I’ll put her in the rose garden.

Pucci: Stop it., you’re panting all over my furniture. You’re drunk, you’re horny, you’re mad, and you haven’t been blown in a week. And stop boasting that you could probably get it from Alicia in 5 seconds because she was looking your way. B*llsh*t.

Mel: Ah f*ck you. I want to give that b**ch another f***ing piece of my mind. She has no f***ing soul.

Pucci: Put that phone down. Your life is being recorded. You’re living in the YouTube/TMZ age remember? So shut up and sit down.

Mel: That b**ch won’t ever forget what she’s done to me when I’m through with her! She has the nerve to act all whiny! She did this to me. SHE DID!

Pucci: She did it to you up to this point. Now you’re doing it to yourself. Let it go. Unhook those fingers from my Hello Kitty phone and CALM the f*** down, you drunk a**hole before I start swearing at you like you’re swearing at everyone these days.

Mel: Oh shut up. I’m paying you and don’t you ever forget it. Don’t you EVER be ungrateful.

Pucci: You’re paying me? YOU? What the f***? Who’s the guy who bought all your DVDs and then went out to watch Edge of Reason at the theater on opening night? Who’s the guy who gave The Passion of Christ to all his Christian friends by buying them off Amazon instead of off the back of a truck? You egocentric d***wad. I’m the one PAYING YOU to do your art, so shut the f*** up already.

Mel: and to think I left my wife because we didn’t have any spiritual connection … only to end up with that c*nt wh*re gold digger…

Pucci: You left your wife because you wanted to be blown by a different stripper every day of the g**d*mn week. If that’s what you call lack of a spiritual connection, I’d have to agree. But shut up about it anyway.

Mel: You’re one to talk, all you do is sit around in your bathrobe and blog all day. At least I HAVE a life to whine about!

Pucci: I am not your enemy okay? Listen — and I’m speaking to you as a friend not just a fan. Stop speaking with this woman. Stop ranting over the phone with ANYONE. Apologize for this sh*t, donate a wad of money to some rape victim’s center, and enroll yourself in rehab for a month or so. Get your act together or soon you’ll be in YOUR UNDIES blogging all day because you don’t have a career to go back to. You listening to me?

Mel: Give me the phone. And I’ll give her something to write radaronline about.

Pucci: F*ck.

The Day I Pissed on the Theater Sinks

The play is on.

I notice that the theater is huge and gaudy. Velvet curtains and embrocaded trimmings in corners. Lace up the wazoo. People in formal frocks and coats, sucking up the sugarpop entertainment.

The amateurish display of emotion and hamfisted characterization disgusts me. I know I can do better than the actors onstage so I get up. To exit, perhaps?

No, the burning need to urinate consumes me.

I head for the lavatory only to find no urinals. Instead, there are sinks at multiple levels — shallow, aluminum sinks only about an inch thick and protruding from the walls like shelves rather than washbasins.

In horror, I realize even the lowest level sink is too high for me so I gather some chairs laying about and stack them one atop the other. Monobloc tetris, I think to myself in delight.

Then the desperate need to relieve my bladder is upon me. I climb the chairs and aim… And I start to pray that the sink minimizes the splash zone. But I know this will be yet another wet predicament in my repertoire of faux pas-es.