It's been nearly 24 hours since Ben Affleck launched
me into late night TV history by using one
of my jokes about his box-office disaster Gigli on Monday's
Tonight Show.
And my life hasn't been the same since. Affleck's mention of
the name "Bunsen" has been the biggest boon for my
livelihood since Robert Evans called me "the greatest cocksmith
that Hollywood has ever seen" in the middle of a coked-up
soliloquy on the Dick Cavett show. But just like that tossed-off
homage to my handling of the tools of the masculine trade, these
things often come with a price.
It all started when I awoke Tuesday morning to the sound of
knocking on the door of my Hollywood compound. I'd demised my
door-answering girl for the night in a shortsighted, absinthe-fueled
haze of generosity after hearing the sweet sound of my name
tumble across Affleck's lips. This left me to roll out of bed
to answer the door myself. I don't think I'd turned my own doorknob
in over a decade, but somehow I puzzled through it to stop the
incessant knocking. I opened the door to a stampede of belly
dancers flooding into my place, the cacophony of finger-cymbals
and spectacle of ample hips slamming into me rendered my confused
cries ignored. A note pinned to the navel ring of the lead dancer
explained that they were a gift from Matt Damon, Harvey Weinstein,
and Kevin Smith.
"Bunsen, Thanks for giving Ben something humble and self-deprecating
to say about that mess of a movie. You just may have saved Jersey
Girl from certain ruin. If only you'd been around for Daredevil...
Enjoy.
PS-- J. Lo is still not speaking to you. She thinks she's bulletproof."
I laughed softly to myself, as Damon knows full well my phobia
of finger-cymbals ever since an unfortunate incident in the
champagne room of The Seventh Veil (a Middle Eastern-themed
skin joint) involving ten pair of said cymbals and my testicles.
The sound of them alone is enough to geld me for a week.
Luckily, the dancing girls brought bagels and schmear, so
the morning was not completely ruined. I also thought I recognized
former "It Girl" Gretchen Mol hiding behind one
of the veils. I didn't want to embarrass either of us by calling
attention to her identity.
After I managed to shoo the last of the dancers from my place
(do they all have to be so hippy?), I wanted nothing better
to collect my thoughts on my place in the Hollywood food-chain
in the wake of The Ben Mention in the place where I do my
best thinking. But that plan was ruined when I smelled something
amiss in my first floor commode/inspiration chamber. Closer
inspection revealed that I'd been the victim of the dreaded
"upper tanker" and a voicemail on my cellphone claiming
responsibility in a badly-disguised girlish titter that could
only belong to my my supernemesis, Harrison Ford. I groggily
remembered that I'd dismissed the entire staff along with
the door-answering girl the night before, leaving no one to
clean up the mess and providing Ford with an ill-gotten (albeit
temporary) win in our Hollywood blood feud. I will leave it
to courser Internet destinations than this one to speculate
as to the national origin of the cuisine that led to this
ephemeral semi-victory.
(This incident reminded me of the time when Ford hired someone
to hack into my email account -- surely you didn't think the
simple part-time carpenter understands how to get his AOL
mail, much less initiate a computer breach, did you? -- and
sent messages to Jessica Alba in my name declaring that I
wish I'd gotten to her when she was 15. Dr. Jones is nothing
if not a dirty pool player.)
I thought I might go for a drive to clear my head of the mischief
my sudden incremental burst of Ben-induced celebrity had visited
upon me. But I found all four tires on my Tuesday car (decorum
dictates I withhold the make) had been relieved of air pressure.
Another note.
" You didn't really think that I found that shit funny
did you? Jennifer is firing my publicist as we speak for allowing
me to emasculate myself in front of that anvil-headed, squeaky-throated
panderer. Take your third-rate, Kimmel-monologue Gigli joke
and walk yourself down the hill to get yourself some fresh
air for your tires. See you at The Standard tonight. Your
pal, Ben"
And this after I'd had my people rush him the famous "Bunsen
made fun of my box office disappointment and all I got was
this lousy T-shirt" T-shirt after he stepped off the
Leno stage, redeemed.
I decided that maybe I'd relax in bed and catch some Dr. Phil
with the basket of cookies and brownies that Ben's agent had
sent me in thanks for helping to show off Ben's lighter side.
But in the chaos of the day's events I'd briefly forgotten
that I'd left one of Ben's comely PR flaks, on loan from San
Francisco to stanch the Gigli bloodletting, collapsed in an
exhausted heap on the waterbed after a heroic evening of Ride
the Crossover Internet Celebrity Writer. There'll be no Dr.
Phil and snickerdoodles this day, I thought, as I left her
softly snoring.
Sigh.
Can a man with a suddenly-elevated industry profile ever know
peace? I suppose that's my particular burden to ponder on
this day after Ben Dropped the Bunsen Bomb.
My inbox
has been flooded with breathless requests for me to creatively
ridicule this weekend's box-office failure of Gigli. It's
never been the practice of this writer or this site to kick
a $50 million dollar debacle while it's down, or to "creatively
ridicule" anything. It's just so much easier to just
list...
Several Things Slightly Easier to Do Than "Creatively
Ridiculing" the Ill-Conceived J.Lo/Affleck Star Vehicle
Gigli:
--Speculating that the $3.8 million dollars Gigli earned
at the box office came from the purchase of two $1.9 million
tickets bought by Ben and Jen. (Ben
Affeck actually uttered this sentence along with my name on
Jay Leno on Monday night. I am someone!)
--Comparing critically panning Gigli to shooting retarded
fish in a very small barrel
--Making a joke about the movie's improbable sequel that ends
with the words "Gigli 2: Electric Boogaloo"
--Nonsensically noting that the plot for Gigli was stolen
entirely from Richard Simmons' Deal-a-Meal cards
--Helpfully noting that the difficult-to-pronounce Gigli rhymes
with "cinematic ass rape"
--Digressively commenting that Kobe Bryant's weekend appearance
at the Teen Choice Awards "writes its own punchline,"
then going on to note that former Teen Choice honorees included
R. Kelly, Roman Polanski, and Jerry Lee Lewis (to cover all
my demographic bases) and that next year's guests will include
the guy that zaps the Olsen Twins at the stroke of midnight
on their 18th birthday and that man's name very well could
end in --ffleck, a speculation that makes this list entry
once again relevant to the topic at hand
--Suggesting that perhaps Gigli's box office fortunes could
have been improved if Ben Affleck put his penis into a pastry
and simulated copulation, then noting that Jennifer Lopez's
vagina does not constitute a pastry
--Opining that worse movies than Gigli have been filmed, but
those almost invariably involve fat women in bikinis sitting
on balloons until they pop.
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Ben
and Jen in "The Greatest Story Ever Told That Doesn't
Include Jesus"
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