Britney Spears Tips The Scale At 169 Pounds

Britney Spears took a shower in the pink and white checkerboard tiled bathroom that was on the second floor of her Los Angeles beige stucco house. The bathroom was actually two rooms, one containing a toilet, a bidet, two sinks and a closet. The other, just as large, was entirely tiled as a shower with four shower heads. It was about two hundred square feet in size, and Britney had all four shower heads going at once. She moved around the shower room from shower head to shower head, letting the water hit her nearly bald head, something the public had not seen lately. She also massaged her belly and buttocks as she moved with a bit of a bounce, humming to herself Mary had A Little Lamb. Britney had been biting her nails to the quick to the point where they had started to bleed, which, in addition to the wig, required her to wear fake nails when she went out in public. Britney thought of how it was easy to put a wig on and put fake nails on, but it was not so easy to put on a thin body. Afterall, she had gained weight. Lots of it.
About an hour before stepping in the shower room, Britney had stepped on the digital scale. It read 169, as in pounds. Britney had not been on the scale for two months. So it came as a shock to see that she was now two pounds more than her weight immediately prior to giving birth to each of her children. She stepped off the scale and started to cry. In fact, she became hysterical. She fell to the floor of the bathroom, naked and sobbing. She tried to curl up into a fetal position, but her girth prevented her from achieving that goal. She rose and looked into the mirror above the double sinks. Britney had forgotten to remove her makeup, and because of the tears, her face was lined with streaks of eye liner. She grabbed her breasts and felt that they had dropped like balloons half filled with water. She opened the medicine cabinet and surveyed the dozen or so prescription pill bottles. Britney grabbed one after the other. Vicodin. Hydrocodone. Percoset. Demerol. Oxycontin.
“No. I can’t. I am not going to,” Britney muttered to herself.
She slammed the medicine cabinet door shut and grabbed her purse that was sitting on a pink wood chair. She removed a pack of Marlboro Lights, pulled out a cigarette and lit it with a 18 karat gold lighter from Tiffany. She took a deep drag on the cigarette and returned to the mirror. There you go. The cigarette gave her some comfort. The smoke shielded the face, and she looked, well, she looked cool. Sort of. But this moment of contentment lasted for maybe a minute. Britney felt the panic return, and so she opened the medicine cabinet and grabbed the Oxycontin bottle, removed the cap and swallowed four pills, without the assistance of water. She actually took a drag on the Marlboro as if that would help get the pills into her stomach. Britney had never taken four Oxycontin at the same time before. So this was new. This was going to be exciting. But she needed it. And that is when Britney turned on the four shower heads and stepped into the shower room, totally naked, her arteries filled with the drug and the Marlboro in her mouth.
“Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb. Mary had a little lamb, its fleece was white as snow,” whispered Britney as she slowly danced around the shower room.
“Britney had a little life, little life, little life. Britney had a little life, its time was sure to go,” lip synced Britney as she slipped and fell to the floor of the shower room. Because of the Oxycontin, she did not feel the force of the fall. Britney’s elbows were bleeding, and if she could see her buttocks, she would see a large blooming bruise that was quickly turning from red to blue.
Britney lied on the shower tiles, the shower heads going full blast, and she laughed. To herself, just above a whisper. Almost a cackle. She grabbed her fatty stomach. She grabbed and grabbed as if she was looking for something.
“I can’t find my stomach muscle. I can’t find my stomach muscle. I know you are there. I know you are there. Come out., come out wherever you are,” laughed Britney Spears.
Britney’s head slowly came to rest on the shower floor, her eyes closed and her mouth opened. She went into a very deep sleep. An unconscious sleep. The kind of sleep where there are no dreams. And that was good for Britney. Because any dreams right now would be bad ones.
The sound of the shower mixed with Britney’s snoring and the steam from the shower room billowed out into the bathroom fogging the medicine cabinet mirror which revealed Britney’s fingerprints.

Microsoft Assists World Leaders With The Lebanon Crisis

The United States State Department, using Microsoft's new live teleconferencing software, set up a conference call over computers between Jacques Chirac of France, Vladimir Putin of Russia, Angela Merkel of Germany, George Bush of the United States, Tony Blair of Great Britain, Mahmoud Abbas of Palestine, Ehud Olmert of Israel, Fouad Siniora of Lebanon, and Hosni Mubarak of Egypt. Though there were interpreters present online in the event of a software glitch, Microsoft's live teleconferencing software contained a language conversion program.

A Microsoft technician was on hand in each of the nine locations, all communicating by both satellite phone and via AOL Instant Messenging, the back-up to MSN Messenger which was currently down, to the embarrassment of the Microsoft executives, though the techs almost always used AOL's AIM program.

The United States State Department was enamored with the new technological realities and was hoping that these new technologies would bring the world closer together by fostering communication. This was a very important conference. The topic was the war being waged in Lebanon, and the conference was prompted by Jacques Chirac's call for an international force to be deployed in southern Lebanon, which was received well by Ehud Olmert of Israel, to the surprise of everyone. No one expected Israel to accept such a proposal. This internet conference was meant to flesh out the particulars.

"I am glad my proposal has been received well," said Chirac as he sat in front of a 27-inch plasma screen that had little video feeds of each head of state participating in the conference. Each feed had its own square of plasma-screen real estate with the name of the person and their country below. Chirac was drinking a soy-milk cappuccino.

"I think it may be time to explore this issue," said Olmert, who sat in front of a 17-inch Dell computer monitor wearing a tie and jacket.

"I think it is a good idea that Germany deploy forces as soon as possible," said Chirac.

"Excuse me?" said Merkel, who was struggling with a 21-inch Acer computer monitor that seemed to only work in black and white.

"That was my proposal. That Germany take the lead," said Chirac.

"I never heard you say a thing about any particular nation taking the lead," said Merkel.

"Well, if I understand it correctly, the United States has no interest in taking the lead, is that true?" asked Chirac.

"Nope. No interest," said Bush.

"Let's explore Germany taking the lead," said Putin who had just finished a three-mile jog and was wearing baby-blue Nike running pants and tank top with white New Balance shoes. Putin was sitting on an upholstered chair facing two 30-inch plasma screens, one containing the conference, and the other showing an old re-run of American Idol. Putin did not seem to care that he had come to a very important conference in his jogging outfit.

"No. Let's not approach the problem from that perspective. France proposed it, so let France take the lead," said Merkel.

"That would be impossible given our history in Lebanon," said Chirac.

"Hey, why can't Egypt take the lead. That OK with you Hosni," said Bush who was proud to be facing his 30-inch Apple monitor. There was a concern that the Microsoft teleconferencing software would not work on a Mac computer running Boot Camp, but the Mac was doing just fine.

"I do not think that would be a good idea. It would be viewed as Egypt taking the side of Israel in this confrontation," said Mubarak. Mubarak did not feel comfortable with all the technology. He felt it accelerated problems rather than accelerated solutions. Mubarak preferred face-to-face meetings to get to know someone and learn to trust them. The Sony VAIO laptop provided by the Microsoft executives was sitting in front of Mubarak on the teak table.

"And what is wrong with taking Israel’s side? We did not start this confrontation," said Olmert.

"It would not be wise for any nation to take the lead. It should be multi-national in nature," said Putin.
"Didn't you say, Vlad, that Russia would commit troops?" asked Bush.

"I said we may commit troops in the context of a multi-national force. It would be appear we do not have a consensus on this issue," said Putin.

"Where are the Chinese?" asked Bush.

"They have no interest in committing troops," said Blair who was typing an instant message to his wife using AIM and his private AIM screen name. Blair had a Dell laptop on his lap, of all places, but the large 27-inch Sharp LCD monitor on a rolling stand was the screen with the conference.

"Shucks. The Chinese have so many troops, it would be such an easy thing," said Bush.

"But getting them there, and keeping them there, the Chinese do not have the capacity for such a deployment," said Blair.

"So we are back to Germany," said Chirac.

"What's with you and Germany in this thing. Germany cannot commit troops by itself," said Merkel.

"Possibly we can get Syria to assist," said Abbas, who was in the Lucky Star computer store in Nazareth. Abbas was standing and looking at an LG computer monitor on a shelf with other monitors that were all for sale. The LG monitor that carried the conference had a price tag on it.

"That's ridiculous, Mahmoud. Syria prompted Hezbollah to start this," said Olmert.

"And maybe Syria can get Hezbollah to stop," said Chirac.

"I think getting Syria involved would be a good step," said Mubarak.

"Yes. I agree," said Abbas.

"Something to think about," said Putin.

'We do not have time for thinking. My nation is being destroyed," said Siniora. Fouad Siniora had had enough of this talk when he had just heard yet another bomb hit Beirut. Siniora was the Prime Minister of Lebanon, a country he loved but had little power to control. All he could do was nudge it one way and then another. But now, Siniora just wanted the bombing to stop. The two Microsoft technicians with Siniora were shipped in from Tel Aviv via a police boat and were tapping their feet with nervous energy.

"You for an international force, Foo-ad," asked Bush.

"Yes. Yes. If it would stop this insanity," said Siniora.

"The only one willing to take the lead appears to be Israel," said Bush.

"That is not acceptable," said Mubarak.

"But if not Israel, then who?" asked Bush.

"NATO?" said Olmert.

"NATO is over-extended," said Blair.

"I'm telling you Israel is the only one stepping up to the plate," said Bush.

"But that is not why we are having this conference. This conference is for the purpose of disengaging Israel from southern Lebanon and replacing it with a neutral party," said Chirac.

"Yes, but who?" asked Putin.

"We certainly can't. We're stuck in Iraq," said Blair.

"This brings me back to Germany," said Chirac.

"Are you trying to be funny?" asked Merkel.

"What about Egypt. I ask you again, Hosni. It would be a good thing," said Bush.

"Not without the cover of a multi-national force. And I would like Syria to be involved. It would make life easier for me," said Mubarak.

"Well then, why don't we just let Israel take the lead while we figure this all out," said Bush.

"No. No. No. We have no time. You must send in a force. Now. And the bombing must stop," said Siniora.

"Calm down, Foo-ad. Lebanon has been through worse," said Bush.

"Can Israel at least agree to keep its confrontation in the south and leave Beirut alone?" asked Siniora.

"We have military considerations that prohibit limiting our operation," said Olmert.

"Oh, this is ridiculous," said Siniora.

"OK. OK. I suggest Israel take the lead and try as soon as possible to restrict its operation to the southern part of Lebanon," said Bush.

"That is what we were and are doing, prior to this conference. That would change nothing," said Olmert.

"Good, then we have an agreement. Progress has been made," said Bush.

At this point, Fouad Siniora hung up his internet connection. He walked out of the room as the two Microsoft technicians quickly packed up their own laptop computers to depart for the Beirut port where the Israeli police boat was waiting for them.

"Hey, what happened to Foo-ad?" asked Bush.

"It sounded like a bomb. Was that a bomb Ehud?" asked Putin.

"I cannot disclose details of our military operation," said Olmert.

"We understand," said Bush.

"Which brings us back to Germany," said Chirac.

At that moment, all the computer screens froze, freezing the faces of each head of state on the respective computer monitors.

"Hey, what's wrong," asked Bush.

"I am not sure. Maybe the disconnection of the Lebanon computer has revealed a bug in the program," said one of the Microsoft technicians standing in the West Wing conference room with Bush and the 30-inch Apple monitor which sat on the long conference table.

"Well, it was fun while it lasted. Get Blair and Merkel on the telephone," said Bush as he got up, left the room and headed for the bathroom without announcing his destination.

George W. Bush Visits The White Rabbit

Grace Barnett Wing slowly moved her legs off the couch where she had fallen asleep. Every movement caused pain in her 68-year old body. Well, not 68 yet, thought Grace. Grace’s birthday was in a few weeks on October 30th, and she planned to have a party all by herself, no friends, no neighbors. Not that she knew any of her neighbors. The wooded area where Grace lived in Northern California was thick with twisted green trees and large white flowers. The breeze from the Pacific Ocean blanketed the flora around Grace’s property with a salty mist that kept the branches guessing which way next to grow. The growth was so dense that Grace could not walk to her neighbors if she wanted to.

The late afternoon sunlight made puzzle shadows on the Persian carpet as Grace’s bare feet touched the floor. She hoisted up so her spine was against the dark green fabric of the couch back. She was now sitting up. She glanced at the six or seven prescription bottles on the Mission end table to her right. Back in 2006, Grace suffered with diverticulitis of the large intestine. But after the surgery, she had an unexplained relapse that forced the hospital to place her in a medically-induced coma for two months. The procedure made it difficult for Grace to walk, and since then had been on many prescription drugs, including pain medication. And she used a cane. The pain in her left hip was bad this afternoon, but she was averse to taking any more medication. Afterall, that is why she had slept for most of the day.
Grace looked at the oil painting on an easel she had been working on for months. It was a painting of Jim Morrison. Grace had three evenings of wild sex with Jim Morrison back in 1968, and Grace was trying to paint something that represented those three evenings. This was not easy since she did not remember much of it. The drugs. The alcohol. At least one or both of them. Morrison could not have remembered much of it either since he was tripping on something.

A loud whack of the large bronze door knocker came from the front door, which she could see from the couch. Who could that be? No one came to Grace’s house unannounced. She was slow to get up, and then the door was whacked again, only this time in threes and louder.

“OK, OK, I’m coming?” said Grace as she walked with her oak cane capped with a red crystal sphere.
Grace opened the door. Two men dressed in black suits and wearing sunglasses with their hands clasped in front stood at attention.

“This the Slick residence?” asked the one on the left.

“Yes. What is this about?” asked Grace.

“Are you Grace Slick?” asked the one on the right.

“Yes. Yes. What do you gentlemen want?” asked Grace with a stern voice that did not have the same strength as back in the days when she was singing with the Jefferson Airplane.

The suit on the right pushed passed Grace and walked into the house. The suit on the left stayed immediately outside the front door.

“Hey, you cannot just come in here. I’m going to call the police,” said Grace. Grace was worried. Had she not paid her taxes? Do they know that some of her pain medication was obtained over the internet from Canada in not the most legal of means.

The suit in the house walked around, poking his head in the kitchen, he opened the bathroom door, a closet door. He paused at the oil painting of the Morrison-Slick sexual encounters. He pulled out a walkie. “Everything seems to be safe here. You can bring him in,” said the suit into the walkie talkie.
“Bring who in?” asked Grace.

The sun was low and was bursting through the front door, silhouetting the man who walked in. When he stepped deeper into the great room where Grace’s couch and painting were, Grace focussed her eyes on the man. She could now see his face. One suit remained inside the house, the other outside. Grace saw other vehicles in the circular driveway, as well as other suits ambling around the grounds, all with there hands clasped in front, as if they were robots.

Grace felt like this must be a dream. Some kind of dream. Here right in front of her was a man she thought to be, it certainly looked like, yes, it is the….no, it couldn’t be. It is the damn pain medication. She was delirious.

“So I finally get to meet the famous Grace Slick,” said the man.

“OK. OK. I think you do a great impression of President Bush. That is cool….but….”

“You use a cane? But I can still see the Grace Slick I had a crush on. Oh, wow. This is…this is amazing to me,” said George W. Bush.

“This is not happening. You are not Bush. This is all some kind of fucking mind trip. You are with the media? Rolling Stone? Blender? Spin? You assholes have been trying to get in here for years. Well, fuck you. Tell me where you are from?” asked Grace Slick.

“I am trying to wrap up stuff, you know, for myself, during my last year…my last year as President. Meet the people that influenced me. That changed me on some level. You are one of those people,” said President Bush.

“What? Me? I changed you? This is like a joke, right?” said Grace.

“White Rabbit. That song White Rabbit changed my life. I still have the very same Surrealistic Pillow album. It’s in the Oval Office. I keep it their for good luck,” said Bush.

“OK. That’s good to know,” said Grace, flummoxed beyond comprehension. She had now come to the conclusion that this was indeed the President of the United States. And it appeared to her, at least, that the man had lost his mind. The world was falling apart, she thought, and here Bush was in her house talking about a song she wrote back in late 1965 for the group she was with before the Jefferson Airplane called The Great Society.

“And Alice In Wonderland is my favorite novel,” said President Bush. “You know I have been reading a lot of biographies of Presidents. They were actually very very boring reads. I skipped a lot. My life, well…anyway, I went back to Alice In Wonderland a few weeks ago. Read it on Air Force One. There’s a lot in there,” said Bush.

“So why exactly are you here, again?” asked Grace.

The hookah-smoking caterpillar…I just love the lyrics. White Rabbit builds and builds to its finale, until you sing “Remember what the Dormouse said. Feed your head. Feed your head Love it, just love it,” added George like a high school kid.

Grace was feeling weak in the knees, and so backed up and sort of plunged back onto the couch.
“I can see you have had some medical problems. Alcohol. I know about that. But we both licked it. We both licked it. We have a lot in common, Ms. Slick. And I wanted to thank you for all the fantasies you gave me. You were really my first crush. Oh boy, did I want to…well, you know. I was young. I just wanted to meet you, touch you. And here you are, right in front of me. I am so lucky,” said Bush.
Grace stared at Bush. She was not angry. She was not sad. On some level, she felt special, like possibly a new chapter in her very tired life might be forming. But then, why would she want any chapter to be with this man. Then she had a rush of anxiety, like this was some mind trick. The Xanax. Where had she put the Xanax.

“I can see that you are having some difficulties. But I wanted to tell you thank you. Thank you for being you, for having that great voice, for writing and singing White Rabbit. It fed my head alright. And when the polls show that I am like in the trash heap, I blast White Rabbit on my stereo in the Oval Office. Dick. Dick Cheney hates the song. Screw him,” said George.

“We have to go, sir,” said the suit in the house.

“We probably will not ever meet again, but I consider this to be a supreme pleasure,” said Bush as he glanced over at the oil painting. “What’s this of? This your work?” asked Bush.

“Yeah,” said Grace. “It’s Jim Morrison and me fucking each other over a three-night drunken weekend in London back in 1968.”

“Really. Really. Damn, I wanted to be Jim Morrison so bad. Just for like a week. Got to go,” George said as he offered his hand to Grace. Grace reached up, and then shook hands briefly. George turned and walked toward the door.

“Who else you seeing on your little last-year-of-the-Presidency tour,” asked Grace.

George W. Bush turned his head just as the suit in the house was about to follow him out.

“Micky Dolenz. He was the coolest Monkee. I hear he’s in New York now,” said Bush.

The President walked out the door, followed by the suit who shut the oak door from behind. Grace lied back down on the couch, but she did not have the energy to lift her legs, her bare feet remaining on the carpet. She closed her eyes and dreamed what the world would be like if she had never written White Rabbit.

George Bush, Donald Rumsfeld And Paris Hilton Meet In The Lincoln Bedroom

George Bush sat on the love seat in the Lincoln Bedroom. Opposite him was Donald Rumsfeld sitting in a chair. George was in his underwear, briefs, with a sleeveless t-shirt. Donald was dressed in white tennis shorts, white socks, white Nike tennis shoes, a grey polo shirt and he was holding a squash racket, bouncing a squash ball up and down effortlessly with the racket. Though George kept looking at the bed to his right, the bed where Abraham Lincoln’s son dies, the bed at the foot of which Abraham Lincoln’s autopsy was performed after he was shot at Ford’s Theater. George kept looking at the bed and thinking that Paris Hilton was lying on it in the nude. He wondered what Paris would look like in the nude. Would she be so skinny that she would look anorexic? Or would she have some meat on her, a bit of muscle evidencing a modicum of exercise other than dancing?

“I won today,” said Donald Rumsfeld.

“What?” asked George Bush.

“Squash. I beat my nephew,” said Donald.

“Good. That’s good,” said George as he glanced back at the bed.

“If you acknowledge it’s a civil war that means your presidency has been a failure,” said Donald.
“What?” asked George.

“Americans will not permit its boys and girls to be in the middle of someone else’s civil war. Iraq will have been a failure,” said Donald.

“I agree,” said a female voice.

“What?” George said as he glanced to his right at the bed. It was Paris Hilton. She was naked except for pink panties. Paris was holding a small digital camera and she was snapping pictures of George and Donald and she sat on her knees on top of the white puffy blanket.

“I said I agree,” said Paris.

“What are you doing here?” asked George of Paris.

“You asked me to come,” said Donald.

“What? No not you. Her,” said George pointing to the bed.

“Who?” said Donald.

“Her. Right there. On the bed,” said George.

“You feeling OK?” asked Donald.

“Tell that old geezer you feel just fine,” said Paris.

George looked over at Paris. “Smile,” said Paris as she snapped a picture. George smiled.

“I feel just fine,” said George.

“Getting back to Iraq, it is important that you salvage some good that was added to the world, to the United States, and define that goodness as part of an Iraq pull back,” said Donald.

“Ahhh, that’s such bullshit, George,” said Paris. “You made a mistake. Admit you made a mistake. And pull our troops out,” said Paris.

“I made a mistake,” said George.

“We don’t have to go there,” said Donald.

“Georgie, Georgie, go there. Go there. Ask yourself, how did you stop drinking?” asked Paris.

“I faced the truth,” said George.

“OK. You can face it, Mr. President, but face it privately,” said Donald.

“Did you go to any AA meetings, Georgie?” asked Paris.

“No,” said George.

“Did you tell Laura you were an alcoholic,” asked Paris.

“I told Laura, said George.

“Telling Laura is one thing, telling the public is another,” said Donald.

“Look where the old geezer got you. The whole thing is a big mess, George. A big mess. The only way out is to admit the mess, admit the mistake, and then get our soldiers out. Get everyone out. Let the whole place blow up. And you will be able to salvage something of yourself and of America,” said Paris as she was massaging her bare belly.

“I can salvage something?” asked George.

“Of course you can,” said Donald.

“Of course you can,” said Paris.

“Stay or pull out,” said George.

“Stay,” said Donald.

“Pull out,” said Paris.

“You pull out, the party will burn you as a coward,” said Donald.

“You stay, more Americans will die and the historians will look at you as weak,” said Paris.
“But a coward is weak,” said George.

“Exactly,” said Donald.

“No, no, no. A weak man cannot face the truth. A coward cannot face his buddies. Who are you?” asked Paris.

George looked at Paris. She was really quite stunning with her long blond hair. He found it surprising that she could be so smart, so articulate. Paris Hilton sounded smarter than Donald Rumsfeld. At least at this moment. George wanted to jump onto the bed. Paris saw a sparkle in George’s eye.

“Don’t even think about it,” said Paris.

“Don’t worry. I’m not. I’m not,” said George.

Paris winked at George. George smiled as Paris took another picture.

“You’re not what?” asked Donald Rumsfeld as he caught the squash ball in his hand.

“I’m just not. I’m just not,” said George.

Jennifer Aniston Meets With Stephen Huvane

Stephen Huvane sat on one of the two brown distressed leather couches in his fourth floor Wilshire Boulevard office, a corner office, with knee-high to ceiling windows and a late afternoon view of West Los Angeles. The panorama ran left from Century City to Beverly Hills on the right. The couch Stephen sat on had the better view than the couch supporting Jennifer Aniston, who was smoking a cigarette and air tapping the ashes onto a tray the size of toilet seat that sat on the burled oak coffee table separating the two couches. Jennifer was clicking a Bic lighter on and off she held in her right hand, the yellow flame playing off the falling orange California sun. Jennifer Aniston was wearing tight blue jeans, white socks, Nike running shoes and a navy blue tank top with string straps.

“What happened to the gold lighter I gave you,” asked Stephen.

“What do you do with a gold lighter, Stephen? You keep it. You use it. And if I use it, that means I am smoking. And I am trying to quit, remember,” said Jennifer nervously.

“But you’re using that cheap lighter. Bad image. If you are going to smoke, you might as well do it with gold,” said Stephen.

Jennifer shot Stephen a look and then put the cigarette out in the large tray. She then pulled out a pack of Merit Ultra Lights and flipped a new cigarette in her mouth, lighting it with the Bic. She took a long drag and then blew smoke rings into the upper center of Stephen Huvane’s office. Stephen Huvane was the younger brother of Kevin Huvane, the famous and powerful talent agent who was a partner of Creative Artist Management. Kevin Huvane managed the money and contracts of movie stars. Stephen Huvane managed the image of movie stars. Publicists were once considered the lapdogs of Hollywood. They were now the first to call on a celebrity’s emergency list.

“I like smoke rings. Is that a good image,” said Jennifer Aniston.

“Only if you are acting in a movie. But the way I have positioned you, smoking is not a good image in general. You are Jennifer Aniston, the perfect American white girl. Smoking is an imperfection,” said Stephen.

“What about being dumped by Brad Pitt? Is that an imperfection?” asked Jennifer.

“Well, actually, that is a part of the American Girl experience. It is not an image problem if handled correctly, and I think we handled it correctly,” said Stephen.

“OK. OK. So how are we handling this one?” asked Jennifer.

“With Vince Vaughn, I think we say it was a mutual separation,” said Stephen.

“Is lying part of the American Girl experience?” said Jennifer.

“Very much so,” said Stephen in all seriousness.

Jennifer Aniston listened to Stephen Huvane, listened to his speech about the American Girl, the American White Girl, that is. But it did not seem to maytter, this idea. The image was important to Stephen Huvane, not the human being.

“Is something wrong with me? How can I possibly be that perfect American girl? How? I am really quite pleasant, you know. I am low maintenance. I do not demand a lot from a man. But they…they keep…they keep leaving,” said Jennifer as she shoved the cigarette in her mouth for the twentieth time.

Stephen recognized that his client was upset, nearly in tears. It was touching, and though he at times allowed himself to get caught up in the emotions of his high profile clients, he viewed the emotions as publicity opportunities. Maybe the “jilted” Jennifer was a better image move than the “mutual separation” scenario he had proposed. Look at her. You wanted to hug her, take care of her. To say Jennifer Aniston and Vince Vaughn separated mutually lacked any market value. It was avoidance. It was weak. It did not have balls. But sitting in front of Stephen Huvane was a story with balls, a story with value. To get dumped by a string of men can add value. Look what happened to Judy Garland. Sure Garland’s life was a mess and Judy Garland was a drug addict and miserable. That wasn’t the point. The Judy Garland name and image was golden. That was the point. That’s what was important. The market value of the life, not the quality of life.

“Maybe we should be honest. Maybe we should approach this from a perspective of truth,” said Stephen.

“The truth. That would be a new approach,” said Jennifer.

“Jennifer, there is the factual truth and there is the essence of truth. Sometimes the facts and the essence are in conflict. So it is my job to decide whether the facts or the essence serves you better,” said Stephen, knowing that he was shoveling shit with a big scoop, but hell, it was his business to mix shit into something digestible.

“Yeah, so what are you saying,” asked Jennifer.

“Maybe here, now, we go with the facts. Maybe the factual truth is the essence,” said Stephen Huvane. Stephen enjoyed making these pronouncements, and it reminded him that he should write a book on representing celebrities. It was all a matter of how you said things. Shit is only shit if you call it shit. He chuckled at the thought.

“What are you laughing at?” asked Jennifer.

Whoops. His client caught him doing a daydream, a private thought, a mind journey that happens often while dealing with these movie stars who, bottom line, were really only interesting on the screen. In person, they were generally boring, causing Stephen to get lost in thought at odd moments. But he considered it work. He was paid good money to think things through, and so he was thinking, even though he should be conversing with Jennifer Aniston. His clients saw Stephen as part magician, part therapist. And right now Jennifer needed a therapist.

“I am just glad you are rid of Vince Vaughn. He was not good for your career,” said Stephen. He just pulled that one out of a hat.

“Vince is very talented. People like Vince. I liked Vince,” Jennifer said holding back tears.

“Yes. Yes. Yes. But you have class, Jennifer. You have a lot of class. Vince Vaughn is a big lug from the working class. You are from Tiffany. Vince is from…from Home Depot,” said Stephen.

“Just say it was mutual. I’d rather lie about it. It is no pone’s business. I want to get on with things. OK?” said Jennifer.

“OK. OK. A decision has been made. That is good. Sometimes you get to this place only after talking out the possibilities. So this is good. We go with the mutual separation story,” said Stephen.

Jennifer pulled out the gold lighter from her pocket.

“See, I have it. And I will use it. I like cigarettes. And that is the truth,” said Jennifer as she lit another Merit Ultra Light.

“OK. OK. Yes. Good. The truth is good. When it is good, that is,” said Stephen. Damn, he really should write a book.

Kate Moss And Pete Doherty Naked And On Heroin At The Sherlock Holmes Hotel

Kate Moss was naked. She had just stepped out of the white tiled shower that was part of the suite at the Sherlock Holmes Hotel in London, a four-story old wood building that had creaky floors and big puffy mattresses. The bathroom was small, and not the kind of place Kate Moss had grown accustomed. But it was suggested that the Sherlock Holmes was out of the path trodden by celebrities, and so it was unlikely anyone would find her or Pete Doherty. Pete was lying on the bed in his underwear. And Kate had decided to take a shower, the routine she had started to follow after she snorted heroin, a way to cleanse the outside while being savaged by chemicals on the inside. Pete had a Martin cutaway acoustic guitar in his lap, his skinny alabaster legs pocked with red lines and scabs were in the lotus position. Pete was plucking at the low E string in a slow beat, a droning sound that was hitting Pete’s ear as if it were music. Heroin does that. It makes everything seem like magic. Pete saw the back of Kate’s nude body as she stood on the scale while she held eyeglasses on her face so she could read the numbers.

“You’ve been looking a little porky lately,” said Pete.

Kate got off the scale with her tortoise-shell eyeglasses being the only thing hanging on her body if you didn’t include her breasts which, though small, had started to sag like small empty balloons.

“What?” asked Kate.

“I said you’ve been looking a little porky,” said Pete.

“Porky. You think?” said Kate.

Kate walked into the room. It was small, dressed with the same furniture that had been placed there over a hundred years ago. The drawers in all the cabinets were difficult to open. The floor boards must have been a foot wide with quarter inch seams between them. The mirror above one of the two cabinets was large and hanging with a wire cable that was suspended from a large brass hook an inch below where the wall met the ceiling. Indeed, the ceiling itself seemed like it was a mere seven feet from the floor.

Kate touched her naked belly which protruded without much fat.

“I am not porky,” said Kate.

“Your arms. Your legs. Your face. Your hair is starting to fall out,” said Pete.

“You get this way when you do junk. You get mean,” said Kate.

Pete thought about that. Kate had accused him of such before. But Pete was not feeling like he wanted to hurt Kate. He loved Kate skinny or fat. Well, maybe not fat, but a little fat here or there did not bother him. He was merely making an observation. Junk did that to him, he thought. You observe, you comment, you are honest. Pete believed that heroin made him a more honest chap. And one thing Pete had started to observe was that Kate Moss was getting old. The million cigarettes, the drugs, the late nights, the lack of exercise, the alcohol, the pills. The whole regimen had impacted on Kate’s face and body. Kate was in her early thirties but she appeared to be in her early forties. Not in the photographs, though. Pete was astounded at the wonders of photography and lighting and makeup and, he guessed, Photoshop. But Pete saw the Kate Moss that most people did not see. A woman aging fast from daily self-abuse. Pete was not stupid, of course. He was on a daily routine of self-abuse as well. But Pete felt he was not aging as fast as Kate. Maybe it was a guy thing.

“Sorry. You look great. Never better,” said Pete.

“You’re damn straight. I look fucking fantastic,” said Kate as she picked up a cigarette and lit it with a platinum lighter. Kate took a deep breath and smiled.

“Play me a song,” said Kate.

“How bout we fuck,” said Pete.

“You can never get it up on junk,” said Kate. Kate didn’t really want to have sex. She had not had an orgasm in over three years, though she faked it.

“Yeah. Why have sex when being on junk is better than sex,” said Pete as he looked down at the neck of his Martin guitar and plucked the A string.

Kate agreed. Pete’s half-erect penis, which is the only kind of erection Pete was ever able to muster, was nothing like the massively throbbing organ of Johnny Depp. Depp’s penis was a surprise given Depp’s slight frame. But after Johnny Depp dumped Kate, Kate started to lose interest in sex. Drugs were better. And the mess of a man that Pete Doherty had become gave Kate Moss something to do. Take care of a man. It was easier than to take care of herself.

George Bush Clears His Head With Jack Daniels

The time was 2:32 AM eastern standard time. President George W. Bush could not sleep, so he slipped out of the king bed, leaving Laura sound asleep behind. He walked out of the room in his bare feet wearing navy blue satin pajama pants with a white t-shirt. George was having difficulty making it through the night without waking at least twice. Not to go to the bathroom. Not because of hunger or thirst. It wasn’t anything George could put his finger on. He remembered back to the months immediately following his election against John Kerry. Those were months where he slept through the night and felt strong and clear-headed every morning. That election was a shot in the arm for George, and everything, all his body parts, his sleeping, his eating habits, his sex life with Laura, his relationship with staff and his cabinet, his interest in following sports – it was as if he was back at college on one of those many drinking binges where his youth precluded hangovers and life was filled with possibilities. But that had all passed. In just two years, George’s body chemistry had changed. Little sleep, no sex, eating crappy food, the exercise stopped, the football and baseball fantasy leagues he secretly played were history, he talked with few of his staff, he felt distant from his daughters, his left hip had been stabbing him with a consistent dull pain.

He reached the end of the hallway where a man in a black suit and tie with a walkie talkie was standing. George did not recognize him. Or maybe he did. George did not remember.

“Good evening, sir,” said the man with the walkie talkie.

“Hi,” said George.

“Can I get you anything, sir?” asked the man with the walkie talkie.

“How about a bottle of Coca Cola,” said George.

“Certainly,” said the man.

“And those little airline bottles with whiskey. They have that in the kitchen. In one of the cabinets. You know about that?” said George.

“I did not know that, sir,” said the man.

“Yeah, well, they have them. Can you find two of them. Whiskey. Two little bottles of Jack Daniels. Pour both of them into a bottle of Coke. Of course make room for it in the bottle, and bring it to me,” said George.

“I’ll have to radio for it, sir. I cannot leave my post,” said the man.

“What’s your name?” asked George.

“Timothy, sir,” said the man.

“Timothy, look, I know you answer to the Service and not me. But can you radio for a someone to come up here and hold your post for you while you run this errand for me,” said George.

“Yes. I can do that,” said Timothy.

“I tell you what. Why don’t you grab a few bottles for yourself. We can sit down and shoot the breeze. I need to calm down so I can get some sleep,” said George.

“I am not supposed to do that, sir,” said Timothy.

“Yes, yes, I know, I know. But then just bring a few extra bottles with you. We’ll discuss protocol when we chat. OK?” said George.

Timothy paused briefly, then raised his walkie talkie and pressed the button on the side of the handset.
“This is Alpha One West. Send up a temp replacement. Request of of Alpha One,” said Timothy.

“Roger, roger,” said the voice on the handset.

“Thanks, Timothy. I feel better already,” said George. George sat on the chair in the hallway, waiting for the replacement and for Timothy to do his errand. He could have a few drinks. The Presidential pressure was enormous, and he made it almost six years in the hardest job of the world without touching a drop of alcohol. One drink was not going to kill him. But not sleeping was going to kill him. The Jack Daniels would help him sleep. It would help him forget about the state of things, and he could avoid the dreams. It was those damn dreams that kept waking him. That was it. Whiskey kills dreams. And that’s what he needed to do. It was the only way to be the leader of the free world. No dreams.