Wednesday, March 12, 2008

Coming to you live!

Hello everybody, I'm Pat O'Brien, and I'm coming to you live from underneath one thousand tons of steaming, twisted metaphor! We got some great stuff for you today, including the story of a high-profile politico that ends in the only manner we're comfortable with -- sexual disgrace knocking him off one of the highest perches in the land! But first, I wanna fucking go crazy with you. You are so fucking hot, and I wanna eat you, and I want you to suck my cock...

So, we continue with the story of one Eliot Spitzer, former governor of New York state, laid low by getting laid, low-down, with a high priced "call girl". We, in the biz, use the term "call girl" -- which doesn't mean a thing -- because we don't like to employ the terms "hooker" or "prostitute". That connotes something sleazy instead of sexy and aspirational. You might find a prostitute murdered in a dumpster in Paramus, but only a "call girl" can knock family man and crusading pol Eliot Spitzer down a few notches -- one for each notch on his bedpost. But, I digress, because I want to get another woman up, and hire a hooker. Let's get crazy, get some coke. I wanna fucking go crazy with you...

So, continuing our lead story, Eliot Spitzer hands in his resignation, prostrating himself in front of the body politic -- and what a body she has, eh, Nancy O'Dell? Where's Nancy? My co-host, Nancy -- where is she? I guess we'll get back to her in a moment. The little lady mixed up in the middle of this political morass is a lovely lass named Ashley Alexandra Dupre, but you would know her better as "Kristen," the $4,000 tempest in a honey-pot. In fact, we've got a fleet of airhead correspondents lying in wait outside of her apartment in Manhattan, all trying to get the first live glimpse of this woman who seduced and slew a political Goliath with nothing more than a crude sling fashioned out of her thong underwear, figuratively speaking. Also, I want you badly, I know you want me... I am so fucking into you. You have to pay attention to Betsy, but let's have fun.

We in the media love to fill our distended bellies with the delightful succor of sexual puritanism, especially when there's an obviously confused young girl at the center of this maelstrom who's stumbled into a life of prostitution because, I'm sure, things were going so well for her beforehand. I think I speak for everyone in this august business of unqualified public commentary when I say where a man sticks his head-of-state has tremendous bearing on his ability to do his day job. You are so hot, I wanna eat you! I'm going to the bathroom. Leave me a voicemail -- look at me and say "yes."

Apparently, we've moved our location to a 10,000 gallon lagoon of fecal hog waste, so I guess that's our cue to sign off today's broadcast and give you a hint as to what's coming up tomorrow -- we've got more, more, more, more, more gubernatorial hijinks on the way, including an exclusive one-on-one interview with the drug store owner who sold "Kristen" tampons in the days and weeks leading up the infamous hotel encounter, just about as close a brush with the vagina that took down the former luminary as the American people can get in a single half-hour newscast/cooking show/economic report/vacuum commercial. Now, stay tuned for "How I Met According to Jim," followed by the woman who scoops up and reads the little lottery balls. I dont know what's wrong with me... I don't do this, but I just want to make you fucking crazy... let's just fucking have sex and fun and drugs, and go crazy.

Monday, March 03, 2008

Blockbuster project

As it turns out, I grew up in a Mormon compound in Sausalito, California. But wait, it gets better -- I was abducted by a sterile woman in a shopping mall in Reseda and raised under the name of "Sponge Bob" from the ages of 9-13. Sounds crazy, right?

Well, get a load of this -- after I was repatriated to my real family, I ran away from home to Tucson, then Galveston, then Laredo, and finally St. Louis, all the while buying and selling drugs. Also, I managed to act as a coyote, smuggling and snuggling hundreds if not thousands of Mexican immigrants from Juarez, Mexico, into America. Afterwards, I finally managed to get some peace and quiet in Gainesville, Florida. But that didn't last very long.

I was forced into sexual slavery by an Croat pimp named Darkan, and survived the diciest 16 months of my life as I was forced to sell my ass on the street and in flophouses (like the one pictured above) to conventioneers and Shriners in the greater Orlando metro area.

After stabbing Darkan in the neck with a sharpened Twizzler, I escaped with only the mesh ball-cap on my head and a tube of Chapstick to Montclair, New Jersey, where a new chapter of my life began. You see, I had to recover from a debilitating addiction to cough drops, rum punch, ScotchGard, SueBee Bit O'Honeys, Crunchberries, Murphy's Oil Soap, Magic Shell, black Kiwi shoe polish, and yogurt. I found my spirit nurtured by the soothing practice of teaching humility to bears (as portrayed on canvas above in tempura and lamb feces) by my fellow commune-sister Moonbeam Daffodil Blatzstein.

But searing tragedy struck again, when I was on sabbatical in New York City just 15 months later and was accosted by the last known man on earth wearing an 8-ball leather jacket. I was forced into an all-Jamaican breakdancing posse, backspinning my way through most of the 1990s in a blur of parks, sidewalks and buffet breakfasts. If it wasn't for the incredible kindness of Pope John Paul Gandhi, I might never have escaped with my soul -- or Adidas shell-toes -- intact.

After I bid farewell to Adnan Kashoggi Gandhi, or whatever his name was, I opened a small bed-and-breakfast in a Polynesian lava flow -- and believe it or not, it was shut down by the Board of Health, not by any lack of patrons. Go figure.

Well, life these days is a lot more boring now than it used to be, for sure -- I have a very quiet life with my wife, three cats, and a job in a UFO factory working for supervisor Michelle Pfeiffer. I tell you what, though -- my checkered past will affect a lot of people's lives if I tell then about it! I mean, it worked for Margaret Jones, James Frey, Clifford Irving, Anna Anderson, and that woman they based the film "Julia" on. I could do a lot of good in the world. I mean, it's the idea of my life that will win people over, if not the actual detail-ish, accurate-ish recounting of events, right?