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 Gossip at My Own Funeral

I am a fly. On the wall. Below me is a casket. I am in the open casket, caked in embalmer’s make-up and dressed in a suit that I wouldn’t have been caught dead in had I been alive. What are the people saying?

Photo Credits: Stupid Spoiled Whore

I hear someone whispering:

“Pucci was a bad bad boy. Did you know he used to peep through our windows? Elena and I would be dancing naked in the laundry room, and outside in the itchy bushes would be our neighbor’s ten-year-old son Pucci, beating his one-eyed monkey to the tune of the Macarena.”

Off in the corner, I hear a woman sobbing:

“Why did he die anyway? He was supposed to take out the garbage next Thursday!”

And right below me, I hear:

“Pucci had one eye on the world, and one eye on porn. No wonder he died blind and blistered.”