My Interview With Lindsay Lohan

I finally got out of the funk I was in after my dog died. I'm sorry for the delay in presenting nothing but the best of celebrity interviews, but Waffles was very near and dear to my heart. So, if you are still out there wagging your nub of a tail Waffles...this one is for you!

At anyrate, I thought my triumphant return to the internet should be heralded with a one-on-one with the one and only Lindsay Lohan. The interview was held at a corner coffee shop. I ordered a venti ice chai and she had a tall coffee with enough sugar to stop the spoon!

CW: Why did you decide to release an album?

LL: Cause, like, everyone else is doing it. Duh! And it is like, so easy. Some guy with sideburns, like writes the lyrics, and then this Asian chick totally like, sings them. Then I memorize it cause I'm like, good at memorizing stuff from my acting, and then move my mouth to the words in the video. Then I get paid.

CW: I see. So you don't actually write or perform the songs. You lip synch?

LL: You make it sound all bad and stuff! Seriously. If that European pop singer Lenny Kravitz does it, its got to be ok, cause he is hot.

CW: Lenny Kravitz isn't European nor does he lip synch. I believe you are thinking of Milli Vanilli.

LL: Whatever. Is Lilly Mavilly hot?

CW: Um...I'm not sure. Lets move on. There are stories in the media concerning your new image and what might be the cause of that. Drug addiction is mentioned. Any comment?

LL: Yeah! Drugs rock! They, like, totally make you feel good and they make love handles vanish! Go Drugs!

CW: You do realize many parents may feel this sort of message is negative.

LL: Parents suck! My parents are like, totally dead to me.

CW: I'm sorry to hear that.

LL: No, I'm like totally serious. I had them killed.

CW: Excuse me?

LL: (Laughing) Yeah! I paid some guy like, twenty thousand dollars to totally smash his car into them while they were walking. People say I was totally hot at the funeral.

CW: Do you have a soul?

LL: I'm not black! I wish though, maybe then I'd have an ass. (Laughing)

At this point I suppressed a shudder and finished off my chai. Then pressed on.

CW: Is there a fued between you and Hillary Duff?

Right after my question, she blinked at me a couple times then ran off to the restroom. When she returned, there were suspicious stains splattering her blouse and her breath smelled of vomit. Her nostrils were inflamed and a sheen of new sweat shined off of her forehead.

LL: No! But my agent and her agent say that if we pretend to like, hate each other, we both get a lot more attention. I can't believe I told you that! Is there truth syrup in this coffee?

CW: Did you just vomit and then snort some cocaine?

Miss Lohan then got up abruptly, throwing her napkin to the table and proceeded to scream at me.

LL: I'M NOT FAT! YOU FAT FUCKING PIG! DRINK MORE OF YOUR FAT JUICE LOSER! THIS INTERVIEW IS OVER!

She then kicked her chair over. The expenditure of stored caloric intake at this point ran out and she fainted. Several members of her staff rushed forward and assured me they knew what to do, it happens all the time, etc. I slowly backed away and made my exit.

My Late Evening Interview with Ashton Kuchner

I was suprised when an inquiry I had made hit the jackpot at around 11PM last night. One of Ashton Kuchner's representatives returned my call and explained that he would do an interview as long as he got to choose the place and time.

So 2AM finds me on the rooftop of a prominent club across the table from the genius behind Punked and Dude Where's My Car. My pad ready, my pen poised, micro-tape recorder humming, I launch into my questions.

CW: First of all, I must say that I really enjoy the television program Punked. There is nothing quite so delightful as seeing the celebrities we all worship eating crow and revealing that their insecurities are just as vibrant as our own. How did you develop this idea?

AW: Well, it all started out during a poker game. My buddies and I thought it would be great if we could use our star status to lure other celebrities into some really awesome pranks. Why aren't you drinking your kamikazee?

I glance at the cocktail before me and blink. Tentatively taking a sip, I notice Mr. Kuchner visibly relax and take a pull off his own beverage.

CW: Hmm. Yes, very good. Who can we expect to see Punked next?

AW: Well, I can't really reveal stuff like that. I don't want any potential victims like Conan O'Brian getting a jump on me!

Mr. Kuchner then laughed very loudly before glancing around the vacated tables nervously. He had this annoying habit of rocking back and forth in his chair while wiping his hands on his thighs constantly.

CW: Well, on to your movie career. You have had a string of comedies that have fared moderately well in the past. Dude, Where Is My Car is clearly becoming a cult classic. What was your favorite scene in the movie?

AW: My favorite what?

CW: ...Scene. Which scene was the most enjoyable for you to shoot?

A car backfired some distance down the street and Mr. Kuchner knocked the table over in his intense need to drop down. After I righted it, and helped him to his feet, he flashed that smile at me and laughed awkwardly.

AW: Sorry about that. I...

Mr. Kuchner trailed off idly and began to walk towards a darker corner on the rooftop. He swatted at it before trotting back, hat set jauntily over his moppish curls.

AW: Thought I saw something over there. You know, like a camera or something. Who did you say you were with?

CW: I have a collection of interviews I've had with various celebrities that I update on the internet. Its a hobby of mine. Now, as I had asked previously...

AW: You sure? I thought I saw you at Justin Timberlake's house that one time I made him cry. Weren't you like his pool boy or something?

CW: No...No. I'm just a freelance journalist.

AW: No, I swear I've seen you before.

CW: Well, perhaps...

AW: Wait. Are you Gary Coleman's driver?

CW: No.

AW: You seem nervous, why are you saying no to all my questions?

I sputtered for a moment at the sheer stupidity of that question.

CW: Well, perhaps its because you are assuming things that are wrong?

AW: Whoa! No need to get all pissed off.

At this point a camera crew exploded from the shadows, zooming in on me as Mr. Kuchner started laying high fives around and pointing at me and laughing. I simply stood there until the silence became heavy.

AW: Oh man! You just got Punk'd!

CW: ...No one knows who I am. You just played a practical joke, if it can be called that, on someone no one will even recognize.

AW: But aren't you that guy who gets Nicolas Cage's coffee?

CW: Jesus Christ! No! I'm just a regular guy!

AW: Its ok.

At this point I was seething. No one in my past experience has ever infuriated me this way. Somehow, I felt myself on the point of violence. It was at this point that I launched myself over the table in an explosion of unbridled 125 lb fury. I was in the process of forcefully introducing the back of Mr. Kuchner's skull to the cement below when I was finally pulled off of him.

AW: Holy fuck! Holy Shit Fuck! You attacked me!

CW: You are a little prick fucking monkey shining asshole!

The cameras were still rolling at this point. Mr. Kuchner was being escorted back to the stairwell, leaving me to gather my things. The last thing I remember hearing is him asking one of the crew he had hired out if I "looked like the guy that did Pink's laundry".

I threw a pebble at him.

That fucker.

My Interview With Bea Arthur

It was somewhat surreal to be interviewing the star of the Academy Award winning television show, The Golden Girls, but it was thrice the strangeness when Bea Arthur demanded that the interview take place in a seedy strip club. I could barely make out her classic gravelly voice over the throbbing house beat causing all the exposed flesh pressing around us to twitch and jiggle. We had a table several dozen yards from the nearest stage. She had arrived before me and I found her table to have at least four empty Long Island Ice Tea glasses scattered at her elbow.

I sat down, notepad in hand, and began as quickly as I could.

CW: I must say, your career spans two centuries, and yet you have time to have fun. What makes you wake up in the morning with a smile?

BA: A sweaty hand cupping my ass, kid. Actually, a Marb Red and half a grapefruit will do the trick as well. This business will eat ya alive. I mean to bite back.

CW: Indeed. The public at large has no idea about the show business. What were some of the wilder moments in your life?

BA: You want me to drag some cats out of the closet? Well, honey, I suppose I could divulge a little bit. Back in '67, I was busy blowing my way into some auditions when I had a lil' herpes scare. I went to a specialist who did the ol' turn your head and cough routine. As I was exiting the office, I noticed that Elizabeth Taylor was in the waiting room with her legs spread wide open and fanning herself. I wandered over and asked her what was wrong. I guess some pool boy she was fucking had given her crabs. Anyway, long story short, I didn't have herpes and Quincy Jones has magical hands. Next question.

At this point, I had no idea what she had just said. Her voice was compressed into a throaty growl by the background noise and I only caught a few key words.

CW: Elizabeth Taylor has diamonds. What does Bea Arthur have?

BA: A hankering to kick some ass. I think I'm going to start some shit with that bitch straddling the pole over near the door. Her shift is up in about five minutes, if I recall correctly. Do you have a lighter?

CW: Um, no. I don't smoke. You are going to start a fight with a stripper?

BA: Its invigorating, hun. Good for the skin and keeps the blood warm. You've never drop kicked a stripper into a curb before? Oh, you are going to love this.

Slamming the rest of her fifth Long Island, Ms. Arthur thrust herself upright and beckoned me with the last inch or so of her cigarette to follow. We slipped past the various vacant eyed patrons until we spilled out onto the harshly lit sidewalk. It was roughly 2pm.

BA: Ok, chief. You stand over there and watch how its done. When I say "banana", I want you to jump in and help me out should I need it. Sometimes these whores are strong, and I'm just an old woman these days. Did you know that Audrey Hepburn had to have fake incisors permenantly placed inside her pretty little smile because of these babies?

She kissed her knuckles and kicked off her dress pumps. Sure enough, as if on cue, the dancer swept out of the building and immediately found herself on her ass as Ms. Arthur spun kick and slapped an age crusted heel across her face. She immediately followed up by kicking the stripper in the stomach, then kneeled and gripped the woman by her hair. Lifting the brusing, sobbing face towards me I realized that Ms. Arthur's cigarette was still pinched in the corner of her mouth.

BA: The thing with women these days is that they have no spine. Its all tits and ass, but when it comes down to heart they have nothing in their chests but more silicone. Sickens me.

She slammed the woman's face into the cement, got up and dusted her hands off, and walked towards me. I must have been shaking like a rabbit in a snare. Flinching when her hand rose, she chuckled like a cement truck backfiring and caressed my cheek with a surprising tenderness.

BA: Kid, you're too sweet for this arena. Get out while you can. While life is fresh. Move to Montana. Anywhere but here.

She added.

BA: I gotta piss like a racehorse. Take care.

She then wandered into the alley and left me standing there with an unused notepad and a most bewildered expression upon my face. The Golden Girls would never seem the same.

Actually, nevermind. It would.

Take care.

My Interview with Tupac Shakur

It was midnight. I remember because I had just finished drinking a cup of Sleepy Time tea when the phone rang. I am not accustomed to recieving calls at that hour so I was somewhat intrigued when my Caller ID didn't reveal the identity of the caller. The next twenty minutes would change my perspective on life forever.

The voice on the other end of the line was deep, resonating, and soothing. There was a lyrical quality to it that, coupled with the tea I just drank, nearly pushed me unconscious before what it was saying exactly registered.

It was Tupac Shakur, revealing that he wished to do an interview.

Let me begin.

TS: Yo. My boy Whiddaker dropped your name on me. Says you do good interviews. Says if I wants ta represent, you da man. So, C-Dawg, you da man?

CW: Excuse me, but whom am I speaking to?

TS: Shit man. You all polite n' shit. That is fuckin' hot. Hot as a muthafucka. Don't see that much these days. Yo momma raised you good. This be Tupac.

CW: Tupac? The author of all those New Age books? Tupac Chokra or something? I'm somewhat groggy sir. My apologies.

TS: Ahhhh, shit. No, Tupac. Shakur. Mothafucka thinks I'm a rag head. Shiiiiit.

CW: Tupac Shakur? Aren't you deceased?

TS: Nah. That shit just a front, no wha'm'sayin dawg? Sells records like fuckin' greens to a nigga. Fuck man. Wha you drinkin?

CW: Sleepy Time.....Mr. Shakur.

My voice must have betrayed my dubious reaction.

TS: Listen, bitch. I'm fuckin' Tupac. You be hearin' how muffled my voice n' shit is? You know why shit be like that dawg? It ain't no fuckin' tea doin' that shit. This shit be real, know wha'msayin? I'm in my coffin, dig? Fuckin' rigged up n' shit. Tight as a muthafucka.

CW: Your...coffin? But I thought you said you hadn't passed on.

TS: What Whiddaker be smokin'. You straight fuckin' whack, dog. I faked my death, see? Sell mo' records n' shit. Representin' from six feet under.

CW: You....live in your coffin.

TS: Fo' real. Got me a recordin' studio crammed down by ma feet. Catheter to fuckin' piss in n' some shit up my ass to get rid of shit. Can't be havin' some fool catchin' me at a 7-11 buyin' a hotdog n' a 40 could I?

CW: No. I suppose not.

It seemed that Mr. Shakur was very excited. I got the feeling that he must have needed to speak to someone, anyone, because my reactions were probably going unnoticed.

TS: Air bein' piped in from my gravestone. Shit all hi-fi. Took my boys fuckin' 2 years to set this bomb up. Dropped it n' now I'm livin' the high life wit no regrets. Just me n' the music. And this fuckin' shit tube.

CW: Don't you miss human interaction?

TS: You talkin' bout fuckin' right? Shit dawg, you have no idea. My shit's so backed up I be bustin' a nut in my sleep. Like I be 10 again. You ever tried to work your shit with a catheter all up in that? Fuuuuck.

CW: I can't. Say that I have, Mr. Shakur. I'm sorry to hear you are having a hard time.

TS: It be my only complaint. That and some fat bitch keeps comin' to my grave and lighting these shitty ass blueberry candles. Shit be comin' through my air ventilation and fillin' up my pad. Fuck blueberries. Someone needs to tell that bitch to light some candles that be smellin' like a pussy or somethin. Nah, wait. That ain't gonna fly either. Fuckin' catheter. Someone just needs to tell that bitch that she can be sobbin' without the need to fill the air with food. Fat bitch.

CW: Perhaps one of your boys could do something about it?

TS: Shit, dawg. Ain't one weekly check up I don't mention the shit but that fat bitch be sneaky or some shit.

CW: I see.

There was a pause as he started hyperventilating. Evidently his excitement at speaking to a different human being than one of his friends through a tube had caused his breathing to exceed the rate at which his ventilation allowed. Several minutes pass before he can wheeze out more of his melodic rambling.

TS: Sorry bout that shit. Used up mah air I guess. Or somethin. What the fuck was I talkin' bout?

CW: A sneaky fat bitch.

TS: Fo'real. Fuck that bitch. Ah, shit. There goes my dick again. Can't even talk about bitches without poppin' a hard on. Yo, can you do me a favor?

CW: Perhaps, what do you wish Mr. Shakur?

TS: Dig me the fuck up. My boys all promised me that no matter what I be sayin' they not gonna do that shit. But fuck man. I need to fuck some white girl's ass so bad I can't even focus on the music no mo. I need to eat somethin' that ain't bein' dripped into my arm through n' IV. I need air man. You fuckin' feelin' me, dawg?

CW: I feel you, sir. But I'm not sure if I should. What if this is some sort of trick. What if I start digging you up but find your grave filled with bones? Is this George Clooney?

TS: Nigga please! This ain't nuthin' like that. My boy Whiddaker, he be sayin' you straight up. Says you dance good for a cracka too.

CW: Wait, you are in contact with Forrest Whitaker?

TS: Shit dawg. He da one that came up wit this plan.

There was a long pause.

CW: I see.

TS: So you gonna come dig this shit up or am I gonna be shittin' n' a tube for a few more decades?

CW: Sir. I do not know if you believe you are funny, but I certainly do not.

Mr. Shakur then cut in. Crying.

TS: Please man. Fuckin' wait till midnight. Do the shit n' the dark. Don't fuckin' tell me when. I just need some white ass bad. Use a fuckin' shovel. Your hands. Anything, son. I'm fuckin' dyin' here.

I don't know what he said next because I had another call. It ended up being a wrong number, and when I flashed back to Mr. Shakur's line, he had hung up on me.

My Interview with Oprah Winfrey

Imagine my surprise when the richest woman on the planet not in jail had agreed to do an interview with me. A lowly intern. Did you know that? I'm just an intern! Anyway, I still have the message saved in my voicemail. Her husky voice affirming my request for a lil' Q & A over lunch.

And for those of you expecting her to be a big eater, you are in for a big surprise.

We met up at this small eatery squeezed in between a Starbucks and a Coffee People. While they didn't serve my favorite, a Spanish omelet, they did have a rather delicious raspberry scone. Oprah ordered a modest slice of shepherd's pie. I'd just like to note that she never spoke with her mouth full, nor failed to wipe any offensive food material from her face which may have strayed there.

My first question startled her.

CW: Your work with impoverished African children has given you a reputation as a humanitarian deserving of the world's accolades. Have you ever thought about abusing this reputation in the name of personal gain?

OW: Oh, you go girlfriend! Its yo birthday! Its yo birthday!

CW: Excuse me?

OW: Uh-uuuuuh. No you di-int.

CW: I'm confused. Is that a yes or a no?

OW: Child, you need to listen up. It don't matter how big yo thighs be, a simple decision can change that. Its what be in yo heart that matters.

CW: So you are saying that, in your heart, you have decided not to abuse your reputation in order to satisfy some base human impulse?

OW: Now you talkin! Who dat!?

At this point, Oprah grabbed the edge of the table and glanced around conspiratorially. When I began to glance around too, in confusion, she bellowed out a hearty chuckle and reached over the table to give me a hug.

OW: Praise Jes-us! Now you be free!

While trying to flinch away from her beefy embrace, she suddenly let me go and gave me a rather unsettling stare. As if I had been hiding something.

OW: Say it, child! You know you want to.

CW: Say...what exactly?

OW: What you feelin'. Let it out for Oprah. By the way. Everyone here is gettin' a slice of this FABULOUS shepherd's pie!

Without warning, the sound of several dozen middle aged women screaming erupted from the chique decorum surrounding the al fresco dining area as an audience appeared out of nowhere. Surrounded by business suits bought at Target and enough botox to kill an elephant, I had unconsciously recoiled into the fetal position in my chair. And just as fast as the cacophony of screams and violent excitement erupted, it was gone. The stillness in the air was chilling. When I found my voice, I spoke.

CW: How did you do that? I..mean. Where...did...that come from?

OW: I'm Oprah, Child! I can do anythang!

Suddenly, Isaac Mizrahi appeared and pulled up a chair. He began to speak at a very fast rate and kept plucking at my clothing. The world bled away as I simply watched. For some reason, it felt like I was facing that bear in Forrest Whitaker's basement all over again. Sweat peppered my brow. I screamed. And blacked out.

When I came to, I found myself within the sterile bed situated in a hospital room. Oprah was sitting on one side, Mr. Mizrahi on the other. Each held one of my hands and stroked it gently. Oprah was the first to speak.

OW: Its ok, child. I know how excitement can get to some folks. Especially some crackah like you. Thin blood. But now that you'se be awake, I'm fraid I have to be gettin' back to making millions. And as far as you first question be concerned. Of course I use my reputation for personal gain. Them African queens bein' conditioned right now. One of em gonna take my place. Rest be killed. But that be our secret, child. Sleep.

Mr. Mizrahi then injected something into the IV entering my arm and the world swam away into oblivion.

My Interview with George Clooney

It is a beautiful morning, the crisp air proving to be quite refreshing.  The voice of Speed Racer himself has agreed to sit down for brunch with me, George Clooney.  While his vocal talent for perhaps the greatest cartoon ever is a tremendous accomplishment, you might also recognize him from such hits as O' Brother Where Art Thou, From Dusk to Dawn, Ocean's 11, and its much anticipated sequel, Ocean's 12. 
 
There is a certain excitement lighting Mr. Clooney's eyes as he seats himself and I can't help but wonder if this notorious Hollywood Prankster has something in store for me.  Of course, I order a Spanish omelette.  Mr. Clooney decides to satiate himself with a bagel, strawberry cream cheese, and a short coffee.  While he is slathering his bagel down, he gestures with his plastic knife for me to start.
 
CW:  Your credentials are staggering, Mr. Clooney.  I must admit that I'm having trouble with where to begin.  As I'm a big fan of Quentin Tarantino, I suppose I'd like to ask about the conditions concerning the shooting of From Dusk to Dawn.  What was that like?
 
GC:  Well, Robert Rodriguez directed that flick.  He is a pretty intense director.  I remember many of the stunts required us to perform only once, as there could only be one shot, so both he and Quentin would threaten the rest of the cast if we were to screw up.  We all took it off the chin though.  If you can shut the man up, he's a pretty decent guy.
 
CW:  Intriguing.  How long did that neck tattoo take to paint on?  It was quite realistic.
 
GC:  Hours.  The make-up lady was pretty hot though and I kept on getting the chance to look down her top while she was leaning over me.  Nothing like a big pair of boobies right in your face, right?  Am I right?
 
At this point, Mr. Clooney was grinning like a naughty school boy but some errant cream cheese had found its way to his chin.  As I reached forth to gesture at it, Mr. Clooney flinched away violently and swiped at my proposed index finger with his plastic fork.
 
GC:  What the hell!  Are you gay?
 
CW:  Um.  No.  I was trying to direct your attention to the cream cheese you got on your chin. 
 
Mr. Clooney glared at me dubiously before dabbing at his chin with a napkin.  After inspecting it closely, he slowly nodded.
 
GC:  Ok.  Good.  You sure you ain't gay?
 
CW:  Quite sure.  Even though you are a very attractive man, I have no interest in persuing a relationship with you.
 
GC:  What the fuck.  You saying you wanna do me up the ass?
 
CW:  No.  No, I'm saying I don't find you attractive even though you probably are.
 
GC:  Quit saying I'm attractive.  I'm losing my appetite.
 
With a disgruntled hunch to his shoulders, he began to eat again while avoiding eye contact.  After an awkward stretch of perhaps two minutes, I quietly continued.
 
CW:  So, Ocean's 12.  I hear Brad Pitt and the gang have all agreed on coming back.
 
GC:  Brad ain't gay either.  So don't ask me for his number, Nancy Boy.
 
CW:  Wha..what?  No.  I'm not implying--
 
GC:  Listen.  I'm not totally stupid.  I read.  I know all you little rat fuck bastard journalists love to make us Hollywood Hunks look gay in your interviews.  That shit may sell to some fat bitch in the supermarket line, but it ain't flying with me.  Nor do I appreciate you sharks constantly swimming around outside my house trying to get a picture of me you can photoshop into looking like I'm sucking off my driver, Jorge.  Got it?
 
CW:  I'm...truly sorry if you felt I was in some way trying to suggest you were something you aren't, Mr. Clooney.
 
GC:  Have you ever been kicked in the balls?  I have.  All your types do when you present lies to the public is basically the same.  A swift kick to the nads.  Do you like getting kicked in the balls?  Maybe I should just boot you in the junk right now so you know how it feels?  Hmm?  Stand up, boy.
 
CW:  What?  No.  I'm not--
 
GC:  Stand up you pussy!  If you want to kick me in the balls, I should have the right to do the same.  Are you afraid? 
 
CW:  Well, yes.  I'm not trying to kick you in the balls Mr. Clooney--
 
GC:  Well you are!  Every fucking time I sit down to enjoy a light brunch with someone who wants to interview me, I might as well drop my pants and present my nuts so you can get a good running shot.
 
CW:  Mr. Clooney, there is some sort of misunderstanding.  I don't want...wait.  Now you want me to kick you in the balls?
 
GC:  No!  NO!  FOR CHRIST SAKE...WHY WOULD I WANT YOU TO KICK MY BALLS?  Thats the whole point, you pansy.  Getting kicked in the nards ISN'T good!  Capiche!? 
 
The tendons in Mr. Clooney's neck were standing out quite rigidly at this point, a stark contrast of white and red flaring up and down his temples which suggested that he was extremely angry.  I tried to pacify him with soothing hand gestures and inflection, but this seemed to enrage him more.  He stepped around the table and grabbed my hair close to the scalp before wrenching my head back so that his volcanic stare might drip down right into my face.  Between clenched teeth he continued, inching his face closer and closer to mine.
 
GC:  What you journalistic fucks need to understand is that I'm not going to put up with your bullshit anymore. 
 
About an inch from my nose to his, he suddenly smiled and let go.
 
GC:  Gotcha!
 
I was trembling at this point and had already puked into my own mouth and swallowed.  Mr. Clooney then staggered back, laughing hysterically as I glanced down at the spreading stain of urea dashing against the inside of my pants.
 
GC:  You should have seen your face!  You were totally like 'Oh my god!  He's gonna kill me!'.  Did you just piss yourself!?  This is better than the time I made Barbara Walters faint and crack her head against a terra-cotta pot!
 
I managed a weak smile despite the overwhelming urge to vomit again.
 
GC:  Ooooooh shit.  Good times.  Ok, well, thanks but I gotta jet.  Need to hit the can.  Hit up the gym.  This bagel is going to go straight to my thighs.  Ciao.
 
I couldn't help but notice there was a subtle sway to his hips as he sauntered off.

My Interview with Kirsten Dunst

I was amazed to get the chance to interview the star of the summer blockbuster, Spiderman 2. Her face has graced the cover of magazines ranging from Cosmo to National Geographic. I am speaking of the one, the only, Kirsten Dunst. She agreed to do a light dinner at Taco Bell before she had to rush off and do an appearance at a small theater nearby which was celebrating its 50th anniversary on the same day as Spiderman 2's release. She ordered a rather hardy meal consisting of 5 soft shell tacos and a Belle Grande Nacho Supreme while I opted for a Diet Coke.

As the interview was about to begin, it seemed she was staring off at something just behind my left shoulder. Upon turning, I realized nothing was there, and that perhaps her eye had drifted off. I chalked it up to her busy schedule and proceeded.

CW: Toby McGuire. He has really beefed up for his role as Spiderman. When we last saw him as Merry in The Lord of the Rings, he could barely fill out a pair of half-britches and a wool vest. Now it seems his glistening abs are being shown everywhere. What was it like to touch them?

KD: It was spectacular. But also kind of weird. He would always come up and ask me to touch them. Between takes, y'know? Of course I'd oblige, but he always laughed like he was high or something.

CW: Intriguing. I'm hoping for quite an extensive behind-the-scenes extra on the DVD once it is released. Are there plans for Spiderman 3?

KD: Yes, actually. We have already shot it and are now working on the 4th.

It was at this point that I realized she was flexing and relaxing her biceps rapidly, a coy grin vapidly sitting upon her rather wide classic visage. I glanced at her arm, and pointed my pen at it.

CW: It seems you are working out as well. Are you on a new routine in order to regain your physique since giving birth?

KD: I...Haven't given birth, Chip.

CW: Oh, right. That was Kate Hudson. My mistake.

KD: But I am working out. Wanna feel?

I nodded, and rather shyly prodded her right bicep with a fore-finger. Indeed, the muscle was rock hard and bristled at the barest caress angrily.

KD: Actually, it was Toby who hooked me up with these totally kick ass anabolic-androgenic steroids. After like...a week of use I could feel my ass totally firming up.

I almost choked on a small sip of diet coke while she continued in an eerily non-chalant manner.

KD: Since I wear revealing swimwear sometimes, or if a role involves my ass being in the shot, I can't inject them there so I usually do it between my toes or perhaps in the corner of my eye.

Suddenly, her drifting range of sight made a disturbing amount of sense.

CW: I...see. Are you aware that these types of steroids increase certain masculine characteristics?

KD: Oh, totally. My wax bill every week is phenomenal. Lets just say I hope Spiderman 2 does as well as the first one, or I'm screwed. You should have seen the hair they got off my shoulders the other day. It looked like a cat stuck to fly-paper.

As I proceeded to actually choke on my soft drink, Kirsten must have discovered a discrepancy in her order as she flung a soft shell taco to the table in disgust.

KD: WHAT THE FUCK? I ASKED FOR EXTRA SOUR CREAM. THOSE FUCKING DOUCHE-BAG RETARDS FUCKED UP MY TACO. I'M GONNA FUCKIN' CHOKE THEM!

I made the mistake of trying to restrain the now enraged Miss Dunst, but she shrugged me off like a golden retriever shedding water. After picking myself out of a nearby booth, I could only watch in horror as she made good on her threat. Eventually, her body guards saw what was happening through the window. Thank god that Gorditta poster wasn't hung two feet to the left. After about 20 minutes of a more than ample use of the phrase "douche-bag retards", Miss Dunst and I were escorted to the parking lot where I finished the interview.

CW: What are your future plans, once you are done with the Spiderman franchise?

KD: You mean after I have my people track down that mother fucker's address so I can beat the shit out of his family? I don't know. Probably another coming-of-age teen drama.

She smiled at me then, crushed my fingers in a farewell handshake, and promptly left me sitting on a handicapped parking space bumper to contemplate the past hour of my life.

To my readers. Don't ever screw up a taco for a celebrity juiced up on steroids.

Chip