Professional star fucking isn’t what it used to be anymore. Before the days of Heidi and Spencer Pratt being a celebrity actually meant something, and star fucking was a dignified profession. But ever since the rise of reality TV it’s become unclear just what a star fucker is anymore and what the point is nowadays. As a result professional star fuckers have fallen by the wayside.
You’ve been hit particularly hard. As a male star fucker there was a time when you would’ve made a living nailing chicks the like of Daryl Hannah, but of late most attractive and intelligent celebrity women have no trouble finding mates who match their status and aren’t intimidated by their fame. As a result you’ve been fucking your way through people like Amy Weinhouse and Paula Poundstone just to make ends meet.
Tonight you’re going to hit rock bottom.
You’re going to get a call from your agent at 8:00 PM, Pacific time, telling you to show up in a suit jacket, jeans and a t-shirt at an address in Hollywood. You’ll introduce yourself as Courtney Love’s biggest fan and smile your broadest, handsomest grin and she’ll let you in.
After twenty minutes of awkward conversation she’ll remove her underpants to “get your opinion” and you won’t have the heart to tell her that she got it wrong. You’ll hop to attention, do your duty as an American, collect a check from her manager on your way out and drive home as fast as your Honda Accord can manage so that you can try in vain to scrub off the scent of her sex.
We won’t describe it here, not for the purpose of remaining a tasteful publication about horrible shit happening to awful people, but because it will defy language. It will be as if an extra-dimensional stain has spread across worlds and is localized on your groin.
Four days later you’ll finally get rid of it with the aid of steel wool and some Ajax.
Congratulations on Washing Off Courtney Love!
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