Wednesday, June 25, 2008
The Infamous Twix Incident
From 1997-1999 I was the spokesman for Twix candy bars. That all came to an end when I drunkenly made THIS VIDEO. Twix fired me, and I couldn't get any acting work for years. It very nearly ruined my career.
Friday, June 6, 2008
I Give This Performance Two Stringbeans.
All the world's a stage, and we are merely players.
Please forgive the pomposity of beginning this post by quoting the band 'Rush', but just last night I saw that very same phrase scrawled in lipstick on the ladies' room wall at Le Yeah. And though, at the time, those crimson words bobbed rhythmically up and down in my alcohol-smudged vision between two ankles, they still managed to burn and burrow their way into my brain like some sort of hedgehog made of fire.
Yes, indeed, we are all players on this stage of life. The difference is, some of us seek out other stages within this stage of life. TV. Film. An actual stage. My first stage upon the stage of life was the dinner table. As a young child of three, I would do impromptu animal impressions using a pair of stringbeans. Elephant (two stringbeans in the corners of my mouth curving up). Walrus (the same, but curving down). That was pretty much it, really. I had a limited repertoire. My first reviews were dismal. I could not yet read, but my parents would pretend to read aloud from the Arts section of the New York Times. Somehow, they told me, the theater critic from the most prestigious newspaper in the world had witnessed my latest stringbean performance, and invariably, without fail, they had hated it. My father would make a grand display of thwapping open the paper. THWAP. And he would read “Oh no. Tsk Tsk tsk. Listen to this, Andres -- ‘Insufferably self-indulgent! A complete waste of stringbeans! Du Bouchet insists on endlessly cycling between his tired old elephant and walrus impressions. Has he not heard of a unicorn? A triceratops? A narwhal?” My mother would sigh, shake her head, and place the review in a scrapbook which she referred to as the Crapbook. Years later, when I could read, I would find said book in an attic. The articles were completely random. A sports article here. A political scandal there. I guess my parents were just trying to toughen me up. Prepare me for the inevitable critical drubbings I would receive later in life. They knew I was destined to loom large in the public eye, like the giant E at the top of the optometrist’s chart.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
AND...???
My monogrammed bathrobes arrived via courier last week. My usual set of 10 for the season. And as I pessimistically predicted when I switched robe providers, there has been a gaffe. My initials are AMD: Andres Mario du Bouchet. Ideally, I would go with AMdB, but the fact of the matter is, I still cannot find a robe provider willing to push that fourth initial envelope. You'd think in this day and age! But no matter. I've long grown accustomed to sporting about my sky pool with the initials AMD upon my terry-cloth ensconced pectoral. But as I mentioned in a sentence I once wrote in this very blog post, there has been a gaffe, and said gaffe is this:
the initials are wrong. On my new robes. The monogram reads 'AND' instead of 'AMD'. It was in that moment, upon opening my parcel of new robes, than I did indeed choose to precede the word "fuck" with the words "what the".
AND???
At first I thought my robe providers had decided to treat me to a bit of fun, and had spelled out a complimentary sentence using 10 robes containing a single 3-letter word on each robe:
HEY AMD YOU ARE THE TOP GUY AND THE MAN!
Or something along those lines? (witout the exclamation point at the end of course - that would be the ever elusive fourth character) But no. Each robe had AND monogrammed onto its fine, terry cloth breast. AND. "And what?" I bellowed, seething with incendiary rage at my new, and obviously retarded, robe provider. But even in that very moment, I knew I was on to something.
AND...
The word "and" is a connector. It connects what precedes it with what follows it, does it not? The past with the future? "And" suggests there is more to come. "And" pulls you along towards...more. And I do like more. I always have.
The misprint began to appeal to me. I recall now a bit of dialogue from one of my earlier films, back when I was still a young studbiscuit appearing in teen comedies like 'Shaggin' That!' and 'Surfnutz'. The film in question was called 'Dune Beavers III: Nads' Revenge', and my character, Chug, had a rather inspirational monologue towards the end of the picture that he delivers whilst standing atop a raft made of beer cans:
"Yeah, those guys have got the money. They've got the girls. They've even got your girl, Nads. And what have we got? I'll tell you what we've got! Harl. (beat) Yeah, that's right. Harl. It's uh...a combination of HEART and...KARL. Who we all loved. And what did Karl have? Uh. He had balls. So I guess, what we really have is Heartballs! So let's grab our balls and put our hearts into this race and BEAT THOSE YACHT-HOLES!"
Heart. Not Harl. I was supposed to say Heart, and then go right to the Yacht-Holes line. But I flubbed it (too many Zeus' Nutsacks the previous night, and perhaps a Scotch-Colada or two), and to this day, it is one of the proudest moments of my career. The Chug Heartballs speech. You hipsters appreciate those 'Dune Beavers' films ironically, but I...I think there is more to them. But that discussion is for another time. The point is - an error led to something grand. And so it will be, I suspect, with my mis-monogrammed robes.
AND!
Now, I strut commandingly across my sun deck, pressing my robed sternum against the steel railing that separates me and a drop that can only be described as precipitous, and I face the sky, the hills, the horizon, the sun, the moon, the stars, whatever is there, and I do bellow "AND??? And what? C'mon, life! AND? You've got my fucking attention! AND??? Is that all? C'mon! What comes after the AND?!"
And also, when I am speaking to someone I enjoy pointing to the 'AND' as a way of getting them to continue speaking.
Now, let's beat those Yacht-holes.
Monday, June 2, 2008
Hasselhoff & Helium
I have led a storied life. And as such, my life has many stories. You are about to read one of them.
I met David Hasselhoff in the Spring of 1996, while shooting a guest role on his then white-hot hit show 'Baywatch Nights'. I played a rogue nightclub owner slash private eye named Dash Brilliatine, who had just moved into town, and was roguishly, sexily attempting to muscle in on Mitch Buchanan's (Hasselhoff's character) nightclub slash private eye business, using all of the savvy roguish charm at my disposal.
At any rate, in the episode (I believe it was called 'A Dash of Mitch and APinch of Dash') Dash and Mitch actually roguishly join forces to defeat their common enemy, a bellicose Cuban cockfighting-ring kingpin slash druglord named "El Pedro Del Diablo", which, translated loosely from Spanish, means THE DEVIL PETER. We only shared three brief scenes, and two of them involved an intense karaoke face-off in Mitch's nightclub, so our actual screen time didn't overlap much. However, due to a mutual affinity for belittling the catering staff, we soon became fast friends.
Following the shoot, I stuck around for a few extra months just to hang with David and enjoy the nightlife. We made superb carousing partners, harvesting eager starstruck hotties with ease, scaring up the 'tang with alarming frequency and precision. The potency inherent
in our mere identities was such that the only opening line I needed to utter in order to initiate poonage with a fame-guzzling-booze-hussy was "Hello, I'm Andres du Bouchet," and the only line David needed to offer for those sugartraps to snap was "Hello, I'm...a friend of Andres du Bouchet." We did have a third companion on these sexcursions, however: Zeus' Nutsack. I see some of you nodding. You too have experienced the sack. For the uninitiated, a Zeus' Nutsack is a diabolical alcohol and drug cocktail in which two shots of peach schnapps are dumped into a pint of Guinness, and then the resulting concoction is imbibed through two straws made of pure crack cocaine. One straw in your mouth, and one in your left nostril. The right nostril is reserved for simultaneously smoking a menthol cigarette. On a typical night, David and I would each do six or seven Zeus'Nutsacks. It was an unbelievable sensation, like shooting through psychedelic space in the nude whilst straddling a giant Toblerone candy bar as the soundtrack to the original 1977 Star Wars film reverbrates through your perineum. Positively reverbrates.
(Incidentally, the Toblerone is my favorite of the candy bars. To my knowledge, it is the only candy bar shaped like a prism. And as such, it refracts deliciousness into its two primary components - chocolate and nougat.)
But Zeus' Nutsack giveth, and Zeus' Nutsack taketh away. After a rare unsuccesful evening of she-spelunking, David and I stumbled into his condo just as the sun was beginning to tickle the horizon's own perineum. We were still smashed out of our gourdballs on zeus'nutsacks. You guys know how it is. You've been out all night, you're wasted, you don't want the night to end, "hey let's chill back at the condo andwatch shitty movies we'll pick up a six pack, a large valencia orange and some electrical tape on the way yeah!"
Once at David's condo, we began to half-heartedly debate what to watch on tv - either a pay-per-view M. Night Shalamyamlmlm flick - the one with the twist at the end - or our favorite nature special - 'Awwwwww...AAAAAHHH!!! - Cute Animals That Will Eat You Part 3 - The Polar Bear'. We settled on a DVD that David produced from underneath his mattress entitled 'That Won't Fit In There! #18'. This would prove to be a warning shot over the bow of the listing ship that was my consciousness that would go unheeded by my Zeus' Nutsack-addled mind.
We settled in to watch the film. Just as David began approaching me witha valencia orange and some electrical tape, I blacked out...
For some reason my mind must have known I was in peril, for in the inky blackness of unconsciousness I began reliving snippets from my long and successful career: There was my role as Dean Xylorb in the hit 80s sex comedy Frat Planet- "If I find any space beer in your biodome, space frat, I'll confiscate your modulators!"
Then I flashed back to my role as the host of the hit reality show'Who Does Joey Fatone Want To Have Sex With Twice' - "Candy. I must regretfully inform you - that it is my pleasure to tell you - that I must sadly see you go - nowhere at all - as I give the bad news - to your pessimistic side - that disappointingly - we won't be seeing you go anywhere - but out of here - if it were backwards day. Therefore, you are not - not one of the people - Joey Fatone won't not be havings ex with twice. You may return to the row of whores."
And then I flashed back even further to the PBS documentary about helium that I narrated. I can still remember - "Helium. To most of us, it is nothing more than the substance we use to inflate party balloons. But helium is so much more. Come with me now, won't you, and together, thanks to a grant provided by the American Helium AdvisoryCouncil, we shall discover the wonders of Helium, The Noblest Gas!"
Hmm. I remember that one very well! Let's see..."The year is 1868. Venezuela has just begun its long, tumultuous relationship with that sultry lady known as Civil War. The good people of Japan are waking up to the dawn of the Meiji Restoration. And the United States Congress says "Howdy, you big cowpoke, welcome to the Union" to the brand new state of Wyoming. In a bittersweet turn of the Great Wheel of Life, the whole world celebrates the birth of Scott Joplin, the future King of Ragtime Music, and then mourns the death of David Brewster, the inventor of the kaleidoscope. And on the dark and mysterious subcontinent known as "India", French astronomer Pierre-Jules-César Janssen discovers the first evidence of a brand new element! While observing an eclipse through his telescope, he notices a heretofore undocumented yellow line in the solar spectrum. This would prove to be one of the most startling encounters with a yellow line in young Pierre's life, second only to the time just a few days earlier, when his brother, Francois, had gotten completely loaded up on Beaujolais and then relieved himself in the snow on Pierre's front porch before passing out. There in the snow next to Francois' unconscious body, in fine, yellow script it read –and I'm translating from the French here:
My dearest brother Pierre, best of luck to you on your upcoming trip to India to study the solar eclipse. I am so proud that you have the talent and drive to pursue your lifelong passion of becoming a truly great astronomer. Do you remember all the times I teased you about your
dreams when we were children? I said you had stardust in your brain, and I always gave you horrible wedgies. Well, now it is I who deserves those wedgies. For you are now a great man of science, whereas I am nothing but a drunkard with an extraordinarily large bladder and incredible penile dexterity. Sincerely, your devoted brother, Francois-Guy-Henri Janssen.
And Francois did indeed have incredible penile dexterity, for there, beneath the many loops and flourishes of his signature, was a perfect, yellow rendering of the family crest. Two unicorns, their horns crossed in front of a shield emblazoned with a perfect map of France, detailed down to the county lines, and shaded according to each region's population density. Incidentally, Francois would go on to reap quite a fortune touring the globe, displaying his prodigious skills as a urinary maestro until passing away tragically from an infection that he contracted while performing in the Amazon river. An infection brought about by the Candiru, a very tiny species of catfish that, when sensing warm urine in the water, follows the urine stream up into the human urethra and then, using tiny spines on its head, lodges there, causing excruciating pain, then infection, then ultimately, death...
They called this new element helium!"
I woke up on David's bed - what could have been minutes or maybe hours later, my head pounding dull. A painful weight pressing against my spine. My wrists sore and behind me. Were they...bound? No! Yes. As my world started to clarify, from random jockeying through my career memories to the nude prone now, I could start to make out my own blurry face in David's mirrored closet door. A valencia orange electrical-taped into my panic gurgling maw. A small length of blinking red Christmas lights somehow affixed to my forehead. A single red light blipping back and forth across my sweat-streaked temple. Back and forth. Back. And then also forth. I could see my clothes in a heap on the floor. I soon made out a husky voice in my ear, mumbling - "duh duddle duddleduddah, duh duddle duddle duddah, duh duddle duddle duddah, duh duddleduddle duddah...bah bappa bah, bah bappa bah, bah bappa bah bah BAH!" And that horrible weight upon me. Eager and hairy weight. David must have cycled through the 'Knight Rider'* theme 10 or 12 times, before saying:
"C'mon KITT. Someone's drowning. We've gotta...we've gotta go help the drowners. C'mon KITT. Turbo BOOST!"
On "Boost!" my worst fears were confirmed. I don't know what I found more upsetting:
a) that David had gone so far over the edge, that his brain had become so addled by abuse, that his two hit shows were in his mind now one -in which a lifeguard saves people with the aid of an intelligent car?
b) That he was now inside me?
or c) That there was any debate as to which of those two things was more upsetting?
"Helium also plays an integral role in the process of nuclear fusion!"
If you take one thing away from this sordid tale, let it be this:
If you dare to steal the bathrobe of fame from the hotel room of life, it will get added to your karmic bill. Make no mistake.
*I used to love that show!
I met David Hasselhoff in the Spring of 1996, while shooting a guest role on his then white-hot hit show 'Baywatch Nights'. I played a rogue nightclub owner slash private eye named Dash Brilliatine, who had just moved into town, and was roguishly, sexily attempting to muscle in on Mitch Buchanan's (Hasselhoff's character) nightclub slash private eye business, using all of the savvy roguish charm at my disposal.
At any rate, in the episode (I believe it was called 'A Dash of Mitch and APinch of Dash') Dash and Mitch actually roguishly join forces to defeat their common enemy, a bellicose Cuban cockfighting-ring kingpin slash druglord named "El Pedro Del Diablo", which, translated loosely from Spanish, means THE DEVIL PETER. We only shared three brief scenes, and two of them involved an intense karaoke face-off in Mitch's nightclub, so our actual screen time didn't overlap much. However, due to a mutual affinity for belittling the catering staff, we soon became fast friends.
Following the shoot, I stuck around for a few extra months just to hang with David and enjoy the nightlife. We made superb carousing partners, harvesting eager starstruck hotties with ease, scaring up the 'tang with alarming frequency and precision. The potency inherent
in our mere identities was such that the only opening line I needed to utter in order to initiate poonage with a fame-guzzling-booze-hussy was "Hello, I'm Andres du Bouchet," and the only line David needed to offer for those sugartraps to snap was "Hello, I'm...a friend of Andres du Bouchet." We did have a third companion on these sexcursions, however: Zeus' Nutsack. I see some of you nodding. You too have experienced the sack. For the uninitiated, a Zeus' Nutsack is a diabolical alcohol and drug cocktail in which two shots of peach schnapps are dumped into a pint of Guinness, and then the resulting concoction is imbibed through two straws made of pure crack cocaine. One straw in your mouth, and one in your left nostril. The right nostril is reserved for simultaneously smoking a menthol cigarette. On a typical night, David and I would each do six or seven Zeus'Nutsacks. It was an unbelievable sensation, like shooting through psychedelic space in the nude whilst straddling a giant Toblerone candy bar as the soundtrack to the original 1977 Star Wars film reverbrates through your perineum. Positively reverbrates.
(Incidentally, the Toblerone is my favorite of the candy bars. To my knowledge, it is the only candy bar shaped like a prism. And as such, it refracts deliciousness into its two primary components - chocolate and nougat.)
But Zeus' Nutsack giveth, and Zeus' Nutsack taketh away. After a rare unsuccesful evening of she-spelunking, David and I stumbled into his condo just as the sun was beginning to tickle the horizon's own perineum. We were still smashed out of our gourdballs on zeus'nutsacks. You guys know how it is. You've been out all night, you're wasted, you don't want the night to end, "hey let's chill back at the condo andwatch shitty movies we'll pick up a six pack, a large valencia orange and some electrical tape on the way yeah!"
Once at David's condo, we began to half-heartedly debate what to watch on tv - either a pay-per-view M. Night Shalamyamlmlm flick - the one with the twist at the end - or our favorite nature special - 'Awwwwww...AAAAAHHH!!! - Cute Animals That Will Eat You Part 3 - The Polar Bear'. We settled on a DVD that David produced from underneath his mattress entitled 'That Won't Fit In There! #18'. This would prove to be a warning shot over the bow of the listing ship that was my consciousness that would go unheeded by my Zeus' Nutsack-addled mind.
We settled in to watch the film. Just as David began approaching me witha valencia orange and some electrical tape, I blacked out...
For some reason my mind must have known I was in peril, for in the inky blackness of unconsciousness I began reliving snippets from my long and successful career: There was my role as Dean Xylorb in the hit 80s sex comedy Frat Planet- "If I find any space beer in your biodome, space frat, I'll confiscate your modulators!"
Then I flashed back to my role as the host of the hit reality show'Who Does Joey Fatone Want To Have Sex With Twice' - "Candy. I must regretfully inform you - that it is my pleasure to tell you - that I must sadly see you go - nowhere at all - as I give the bad news - to your pessimistic side - that disappointingly - we won't be seeing you go anywhere - but out of here - if it were backwards day. Therefore, you are not - not one of the people - Joey Fatone won't not be havings ex with twice. You may return to the row of whores."
And then I flashed back even further to the PBS documentary about helium that I narrated. I can still remember - "Helium. To most of us, it is nothing more than the substance we use to inflate party balloons. But helium is so much more. Come with me now, won't you, and together, thanks to a grant provided by the American Helium AdvisoryCouncil, we shall discover the wonders of Helium, The Noblest Gas!"
Hmm. I remember that one very well! Let's see..."The year is 1868. Venezuela has just begun its long, tumultuous relationship with that sultry lady known as Civil War. The good people of Japan are waking up to the dawn of the Meiji Restoration. And the United States Congress says "Howdy, you big cowpoke, welcome to the Union" to the brand new state of Wyoming. In a bittersweet turn of the Great Wheel of Life, the whole world celebrates the birth of Scott Joplin, the future King of Ragtime Music, and then mourns the death of David Brewster, the inventor of the kaleidoscope. And on the dark and mysterious subcontinent known as "India", French astronomer Pierre-Jules-César Janssen discovers the first evidence of a brand new element! While observing an eclipse through his telescope, he notices a heretofore undocumented yellow line in the solar spectrum. This would prove to be one of the most startling encounters with a yellow line in young Pierre's life, second only to the time just a few days earlier, when his brother, Francois, had gotten completely loaded up on Beaujolais and then relieved himself in the snow on Pierre's front porch before passing out. There in the snow next to Francois' unconscious body, in fine, yellow script it read –and I'm translating from the French here:
My dearest brother Pierre, best of luck to you on your upcoming trip to India to study the solar eclipse. I am so proud that you have the talent and drive to pursue your lifelong passion of becoming a truly great astronomer. Do you remember all the times I teased you about your
dreams when we were children? I said you had stardust in your brain, and I always gave you horrible wedgies. Well, now it is I who deserves those wedgies. For you are now a great man of science, whereas I am nothing but a drunkard with an extraordinarily large bladder and incredible penile dexterity. Sincerely, your devoted brother, Francois-Guy-Henri Janssen.
And Francois did indeed have incredible penile dexterity, for there, beneath the many loops and flourishes of his signature, was a perfect, yellow rendering of the family crest. Two unicorns, their horns crossed in front of a shield emblazoned with a perfect map of France, detailed down to the county lines, and shaded according to each region's population density. Incidentally, Francois would go on to reap quite a fortune touring the globe, displaying his prodigious skills as a urinary maestro until passing away tragically from an infection that he contracted while performing in the Amazon river. An infection brought about by the Candiru, a very tiny species of catfish that, when sensing warm urine in the water, follows the urine stream up into the human urethra and then, using tiny spines on its head, lodges there, causing excruciating pain, then infection, then ultimately, death...
They called this new element helium!"
I woke up on David's bed - what could have been minutes or maybe hours later, my head pounding dull. A painful weight pressing against my spine. My wrists sore and behind me. Were they...bound? No! Yes. As my world started to clarify, from random jockeying through my career memories to the nude prone now, I could start to make out my own blurry face in David's mirrored closet door. A valencia orange electrical-taped into my panic gurgling maw. A small length of blinking red Christmas lights somehow affixed to my forehead. A single red light blipping back and forth across my sweat-streaked temple. Back and forth. Back. And then also forth. I could see my clothes in a heap on the floor. I soon made out a husky voice in my ear, mumbling - "duh duddle duddleduddah, duh duddle duddle duddah, duh duddle duddle duddah, duh duddleduddle duddah...bah bappa bah, bah bappa bah, bah bappa bah bah BAH!" And that horrible weight upon me. Eager and hairy weight. David must have cycled through the 'Knight Rider'* theme 10 or 12 times, before saying:
"C'mon KITT. Someone's drowning. We've gotta...we've gotta go help the drowners. C'mon KITT. Turbo BOOST!"
On "Boost!" my worst fears were confirmed. I don't know what I found more upsetting:
a) that David had gone so far over the edge, that his brain had become so addled by abuse, that his two hit shows were in his mind now one -in which a lifeguard saves people with the aid of an intelligent car?
b) That he was now inside me?
or c) That there was any debate as to which of those two things was more upsetting?
"Helium also plays an integral role in the process of nuclear fusion!"
If you take one thing away from this sordid tale, let it be this:
If you dare to steal the bathrobe of fame from the hotel room of life, it will get added to your karmic bill. Make no mistake.
*I used to love that show!
The Gretchen Mol voicemails.
I'm starting to see the therapeutic possibilities of this blogging activity! I've already got a mental stack of tidbits, ready to type your way, fine readers! As I continue to shape these electronic memoirs I'm sure the posts will grow more stalwart in substance and style, but for now please forgive the semi-rambling nature of these e-farts. What now? Ah!
I've had my share of scandals, but none is more infamous in the annals of Hollywood lore than my drunken voicemails to Gretchen Mol. Law prohibits me linking to the actual audio files here, but I can transcribe them...
(I left these on Gretchen's voicemail in 1998, not soon after she landed all nipply on the cover of 'Vanity Fair' -- you could open a can of salmon* just by placing it next to that glorious photo)
Gretchen! I want to Mol you. But not to death. I want to Mol you to love. (guttural noises)
(singing) My girlfriend has a first name, it's G-R-E-T-C, my girlfriend has a second name...and...more first name it's H-E-N-M-O-L...(various slurred comments about bologna)
I am so into you. You look like a sexy little pug. Little pug dog. I wanna put you in my kennel of love. You sexy little pug!
Gretchen Mole...poblano. Aaaaaaahhhh!!!
You can be my Mol. Infiltrate me and report back to your sexy spy masters.
You know what 'Gretchen' sounds like? Sex kitchen. And I'd like to cook up a 7 course meal of sexy delights in that sex kitchen...okay maybe sex kitchen is a bit of a stretch. Stretch...STRETCHEN! Stretchen Mol! There's a mole on my dick and it's stretchin'....HA!
(Barfing Noises) I (Barfing Noises) am (Barfing Noises) talking (Barfing Noises) while (Barfing Noises) barfing (Barfing Noises) and (Barfing Noises) no (Barfing Noises) one (Barfing Noises) else (Barfing Noises) can (Barfing Noises) do (Barfing Noises) this (Barfing Noises) I (Barfing Noises) am (Barfing Noises) so (Barfing Noises) cool.
I wanna go to the mall. The Mol. The Gretchen Mol. I am the first person to make that pun Gretchen! You know it to be true! I'd like to go to the Gretchen Mol and buy some...and buy an...orgasm. And orgasm as a present for my friend who is my penis.
(singing) Gretchen to know you, Gretchen to know all about you...
Gretchen! You're making a mountain out of my Mol hill!
I'd like to motorboat YOUR Mol...hills.
I'm gonna give you a MOL-a-tov cocktail. Of jizz.
WHACK-A-MOL! HA!
Oh heavy sigh. Gretchen would be fine, but it was too late to save my reputation. It would be weeks before I was allowed unsupervised access to my own phone.
*Great, now I have a craving for a salmon salad sandwich, on 19-grain bread. If you have not tried 19-grain bread, I recommend it highly. One slice will leave your colon as unoccupied as a Weight Watchers meeting during Ben & Jerry's free cone day.
I've had my share of scandals, but none is more infamous in the annals of Hollywood lore than my drunken voicemails to Gretchen Mol. Law prohibits me linking to the actual audio files here, but I can transcribe them...
(I left these on Gretchen's voicemail in 1998, not soon after she landed all nipply on the cover of 'Vanity Fair' -- you could open a can of salmon* just by placing it next to that glorious photo)
Gretchen! I want to Mol you. But not to death. I want to Mol you to love. (guttural noises)
(singing) My girlfriend has a first name, it's G-R-E-T-C, my girlfriend has a second name...and...more first name it's H-E-N-M-O-L...(various slurred comments about bologna)
I am so into you. You look like a sexy little pug. Little pug dog. I wanna put you in my kennel of love. You sexy little pug!
Gretchen Mole...poblano. Aaaaaaahhhh!!!
You can be my Mol. Infiltrate me and report back to your sexy spy masters.
You know what 'Gretchen' sounds like? Sex kitchen. And I'd like to cook up a 7 course meal of sexy delights in that sex kitchen...okay maybe sex kitchen is a bit of a stretch. Stretch...STRETCHEN! Stretchen Mol! There's a mole on my dick and it's stretchin'....HA!
(Barfing Noises) I (Barfing Noises) am (Barfing Noises) talking (Barfing Noises) while (Barfing Noises) barfing (Barfing Noises) and (Barfing Noises) no (Barfing Noises) one (Barfing Noises) else (Barfing Noises) can (Barfing Noises) do (Barfing Noises) this (Barfing Noises) I (Barfing Noises) am (Barfing Noises) so (Barfing Noises) cool.
I wanna go to the mall. The Mol. The Gretchen Mol. I am the first person to make that pun Gretchen! You know it to be true! I'd like to go to the Gretchen Mol and buy some...and buy an...orgasm. And orgasm as a present for my friend who is my penis.
(singing) Gretchen to know you, Gretchen to know all about you...
Gretchen! You're making a mountain out of my Mol hill!
I'd like to motorboat YOUR Mol...hills.
I'm gonna give you a MOL-a-tov cocktail. Of jizz.
WHACK-A-MOL! HA!
Oh heavy sigh. Gretchen would be fine, but it was too late to save my reputation. It would be weeks before I was allowed unsupervised access to my own phone.
*Great, now I have a craving for a salmon salad sandwich, on 19-grain bread. If you have not tried 19-grain bread, I recommend it highly. One slice will leave your colon as unoccupied as a Weight Watchers meeting during Ben & Jerry's free cone day.
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