14 January 2006

I’m about five days late on this, but I want to get me some of that James Frey action, even if I am the last person to get in on the gangbang.

But I’m not here to denounce Mr. Frey; he’s got to deal with the fact that he’s a phony and has been going around denouncing others for being phony themselves. What the hell? And now he’s going around defending himself by arguing that the essence of [his] book is true. You’ve got to hand it to the guy, he’s got a lot of fucking nerve, which is another way of saying that he’s got a complete lack of ethics, and no conscience of which to speak. I’d say that he should be ashamed of himself, but I’m not 100% on him actually being able to feel shame.

But, like I said, I’m not here to criticize Mr. Frey. I’m here to go for some easy laughs.

I haven't written my memoir yet, but, trust me, it’s going to be chock full of lies, because lies, apparently, are what move product.

Here Are the Lies:

The years in jail? I drove by a police station once and then got a bad case of the heebie jeebies.

That guy I beat to death with a lawn chair? It was a Buick.

The thirty-three hookers I had sad and lonely sex with while I was in Mexico? A complete fabrication. I was actually in Pasadena and the sex was wild.

The decades of drug abuse? Well, I accidentally took the adult dosage of Robitussin when I was nine and then spent the whole day freaking out that I was high.

The feelings of self-hatred and despair? Sadly, that part is true. (No, it’s not, you stupid bastards.)