Shia LaBeouf is the owner of one of the more absurd and pretentious names in Hollywood. Whether it was the burden of an “I’m Special” name that helped shape him into the apparent asshole he is, or whether it’s actually his native asshole capacity that keeps drunkenly asserting himself, is immaterial. What matters is that he keeps getting beaten-up in bars. Earlier in the month he got his ass handed to him by some dude in Vancouver, and it wasn’t the first time this sort of thing has happened to him, and it seems unlikely that it will be the last.
Naturally, this got me to fantasizing about beating up a celebrity of my own. Driven primarily by my own inadequacies and jealously, I’ve always wanted to punch-out the stars that Rachelle, my wife, burns for. This means Clive Owen, Colin Firth, Daniel Craig, Bill from “True Blood” and Hugh Jackman, amongst others, and of this ever expanding list, I think I would most like to pummel Colin Firth. I’m a little bit afraid of the other ones, to tell the truth, and Firth, with his cascade of hair, self-effacing charm and the general ambience of dignity that emanates from him, really has it coming.
Right in his perfect mouth!
Broken teeth and blood everywhere!
That would be fun.
I figure that everybody has a celebrity that they’d really like to beat-up, and so I started to ask some of the people in my neighborhood.
The tiny, bird-like girl at the take-out counter at Ruby Eats:
Girl: “Carrot Top!”
Me: “He’s had it coming for some time.”
Girl: “And Barbra Streisand!”
Me: “She thinks she’s better than you and she’s not.”
Girl: “She has a better voice and more money, so maybe she is better than me.”
Me: “She’s old, it’s her time.”
Girl: “And Ann Coulter!”
Me: “How would you like to beat her up?”
Girl: “With a brick, I think.”
Theo, the owner of the convenience store under our apartment:
Theo: “I have never liked Mel Gibson. If he came into my store I think I would throw him out.”
Me: “With an ax? Would you throw him out with an ax?”
Theo: “No! That’s crazy, I’m a peaceful man, I would just throw him out, not kill him.”
Me: “Have it your way.”
Elsa, the 60 year-old crossing guard:
Elsa: “I’m not going to answer such a stupid question.”
Me: “Come on, just imagine you could give some star a good whack with that crossing sign you’ve got. Who would it be?”
Elsa: “Tom Cruise has never fooled me.”
Me: “What do you mean?”
Elsa: “You know what I mean. I don’t like people who hide things.”
Me: “So, you’d like to beat the truth out of him?”
Elsa: “You’re very strange, Michael, but yes, I would like to beat the truth out of him. Now do you want to cross or not?”
A woman who looked like a stripper standing across from the strip club waiting for a bus:
Woman: “I would like to beat-up whatever bitch is going out with Ryan Gosling.”
Me: “People Magazine says it’s Eva Mendes.”
Woman: “She’s the one with the hot ass?”
Woman: “I’d kick her in the throat to get to Ryan Gosling. I tell you, you give me 20 minutes with that guy and I would have him forever.”
Ralph, 70 year-old handyman:
Ralph: “Can I beat-up Disney? I fucking hate Disney.”
Me: “Sure, you can take on the Disney empire. Why do you hate Disney so much?”
Ralph: “Have you ever been?”
Ralph: (Shaking his head) “I don’t know why a mass murder hasn’t happened there. It’s the very first place I’d choose for a shooting spree, and I would start with the mascots. Goofy would be the first to go, what a useless dog!”
Rachelle, my wife:
Rachelle: “The Devil.”
Me: “You can’t pick the Devil.”
Rachelle: “But you said that Ralph chose Disney, if you let him go with Disney, why can’t I go with the Devil?”
Me: “Just pick somebody from the entertainment industry, somebody like Clive Owen.”
Me: “You hate Drew Barrymore, why don’t you pick her?”
Rachelle: “No, I’m sticking with the Devil, although if Drew Barrymore and her irritating voice were to get in an accident, well, that would be alright.”
Frank, a regular at the dog park I’m friendly with:
Frank: “Armed with a golf club, I would wade into an episode of “Jersey Shore” and just start swinging. There would be blood and hair product everywhere. I would not stop until every last one of those knobs was dead. And yes, I mean the girls, too. They’re giving Italians everywhere a bad name, and giving everybody else a license to make fun of them. They have to go.
Amanda, owner of the children’s toy store downstairs:
Amanda: “Zooey Deschanel. I’m not buying what’s she’s selling.”
Me: “But she’s cute and quirky and can sing!”
Amanda: “If you made me, I would go through you to get to her.”
Me: “You would lose.”
Amanda: “You’re a grown man who regularly frequents a toy store for children. I would most certainly not lose.”
Me: “Your store is overpriced.”
Amanda: “That’s how I make money, you idiot.”
Atasha, bartender at The Real Jerk Caribbean Restaurant:
Atasha: “That Sookie Stackhouse chick from “True Blood.” She gets on my last nerve.”
Me: “You mean Anna Paquin.”
Atasha: “No, Sookie, the one who’s always taking off her top. The stupid fairy who’s so proud of her little titties.”
Me: “I know who you mean, it’s just she’s played by the actress Anna Paquin.
Atasha: “Oh, sorry, I got confused.”
Me: “Anyone else?”
Atasha: “Darth Vader. He’s a bad man, that Darth. Oh, and Ricky Gervais, he’s had a beating coming to him for a long time now. It’s time somebody turned the tables on him.”