You know, there are a number of annoyances that are to be expected for those of us who haven't completely lost our shit and decided to move to a yurt in Outer Mongolia, feasting solely on yak butter tea and barley gruel. And one of them is having to see life size--or larger--Ashton Kutchners everywhere, advertising "Ashton's Rom Com Chick Flick of the Week." A lot like love? A lot like that feeling you get in the back of your throat right before you vomit...that taste of bile my friend Ben dubbed the "bile rush."
Let me tell you a little story... Once upon a time, my friends Lisa Ho Ho, the aforementioned Ben, and I, drove from New York to Phillie. Before we left, I ate about 5 Gray's Papaya hot dogs--this was back when they had chili as a topping. Two were with chili, the other's had kraut. Does this sound like a good idea to you? Let's just say Three Mile Island had nothing on the toxicity of my ass. I have to say,my outbursts were so disgusting, so malodorous par excellence, that they made me burst out laughing. Thankfully, the violent exhalation of air caused by laughing helped me breathe without choking. They were so foul, I actually felt like I'd won something. "I am the Sir Stinkybutt King of the Shit People!" My friends were threatening to leave me in the Phillie ghetto (which is, say, 95% of Phillie) to fend for myself. Wouldn't be a problem--these things were like serioius kryptonite, bullet-stopping, farts of steel. "I'm an atom-bomb laying motherfucker, Motherfucker."
So we picked up Iron Ann Jaso and were parking on South Street when I let another go. I started laughing so hard I gagged, and then I started to barf. I was in this brand new rental car, which probably had barf insurance, but I didn't want to ride home in that, so I immediately whipped off my beloved SF Giants hat and puked in it. Not a lot of puke, but enough. Then we got out of the car and had cheesesteaks.
That was great moment for me, believe it or not, because it was cathartic as well as funny. You know, like in "Jesus' Son" when the narrator is working at Beverly Home with all of the fucked up, debilitated and crazy people, and he looks at an especially far gone resident and says, "no more pretending for him." The fecund stench of cabbage ass with chili bean shit particles and bile puke in my hat: It was all on the table, you know? I was revelling in the absurdity of the human condition, most specifically my own, even if I was driving my friends to homicide. But goddamn it, Ashton Kutchner has taken the joy out of that memory for me. His pretty boy mug immediately calls to mind--and gag reflex--that stench, without any of the hilarity. Dude! Not sweet! Decidedly not sweet!
I don't want to be one of those bitter guys who gets off at randomly punching celebrities... Wait a minute...after my friend Tony told me about punching Matt Dillon, a decidedly cooler actor than A.K. (a la "I love retards") in the face at a Portland kegger, maybe I do want to be the Hollywood celebrity-puncher. I mean, there was the big-titted broad who ran onto pitcher's mounds and kissed pitchers for publicity. Maybe I'll go to Hollywood premieres and knock out actors. And Ashton-baby obvioiusly hasn't been punched enough.
People will love me. There'll be an electric buzz of anticipation in the air when the first person spots me: "Hey, it's Hard Right, the punch guy." [I'll have to have some kind of media-given nickname.] Then, as I knock a few of Ashton's professionally-whitened teeth into his digestive tract, there'll be a feeling of collective religious ecstasy. Women will faint. Men of iron will raise their arms and shriek, bringing to mind the unrelenting pharyngeal ululations of bereft Muslim mothers. Babies will fly.
The only thing I'd have to worry about would be Demi. GI Jane would obviously beat my ass... I'm convinced the only reason she hasn't eviscerated her dandelion of a boyfriend is because she straps one on and goes San Quentin on his hairless white ass every night. Punk'd!
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