The Greatest Blog In the World

Monday, July 21, 2003


The Guest Dept.

From here on out, I periodically will turn over the whitespace in The Greatest Blog in the World to "Jimmy," the state-school graduate "journalist" to whom I paid a pittance to file a New York Times dispatch from Baghdad during the heaviest shit of the brief onslaught that was Total Fucking Victory. You may now be wondering aloud why I would want to do something like that, speculating that there must be some sort of legal settlement that I can't mention or even obliquely hint at under pains of huge financial forfeitures. You might also posit quietly to yourself that "Jimmy" would like to start a blog of his own, but as a five-year graduate of a four-year institution whose entire budget is paid for by the proceeds from three toll roads outside of Modesto, lacks the technical skills to get one started but possesses in abundance the blood relations to a quite tenacious attorney in one of the country's largest firms.

Come to your own conclusions.

And now, "Jimmy's World," presented entirely in italics at his insistence because they look "badass and curvy":

Why was I kicking Tom Cruise's ass? It might be because I told him that Penelope Cruz's tits looked really great in that T-shirt and I was coked to the gills. Everyone's doing coke all the time now, it's the thing to do. And when I'm coked to the gills I tend to fight celebrities because if there are two things I hate it's rich, famous people and people who date people whose last names sound exactly alike. Maybe they don't sound the same if you say her name in Spanish but I haven't taken Spanish since tenth grade.

So Tom Cruise didn't like my little comment about Penelope's rack which was like popping out of her T-shirt like a Hooter's girl but without the totally wack nude pantyhose. He told me I was being rude to his girlfriend, but he sounded pretty half-hearted about it, so all I did was stare and lick my lips. I was a little horny already because Sharon Stone was giving me an awesome hummer in the bathroom right before I saw Penelope and her tight T-shirt and thought I might get what you could call a two-for-one. So Cruisey (that's what I called him to his face) gives me a little shove and tells me to leave them alone. I tell him that and tell him that if he weren't such a gay he would know how good her chest looked in that shirt. [hey Bunsen, can I say that? am I gonna get sued?] Not that I think that he's gay but you know, the coke. [how about now? now they can't sue me, right?]

Then Cruisey (I called him that again, I can tell he didn't like it) got me in a headlock, but he's about three feet tall so I wrestled him to the ground and pinned him and started slapping his forehead. I let him go when he started to cry, which totally got Sharon Stone wet again so we went back into the bathroom for another blowjob. By then Penelope had run off, probably to figure out how to break up with Cruisey.

When I got out of the bathroom Slyvester Stallone grabbed me by the collar and threw me out. But he told me he thought I was badass and bummed some coke off me.

I nodded my head, because it's true. I'm a badass. Just ask Cruisey.

[how's that? Bunsen and Harrison Ford, I kick your ass!]

Thanks, "Jimmy." Tell your "uncle" I said hello.

About this site

This is the internet home of Mark Lisanti, a Los Angeles writer sometimes known as Bunsen. He is the founding editor of Defamer, a weblog about Hollywood, where he now serves in the nebulous capacity of "editor-at-large."
If You Like Bunsen, Then You'll Love Bunsen