Naked Pictures of Famous People
Page 8
Torina56: any females out there want to talk
BAbbY23: 16/m
SpinGle2345: age 23/m
BADAss 1212: H1 room
TERminate2: Hey evryone
SCARYBAD: WHAT'S GOIN ON IN THIS ROOM
VincentVG: I was in a Nickelodeon chat room, making the argument that to mock the art of Thys Maris is to mock yourself. For Maris is the personification of all that is noble and others only regret that he hasn't been broken. While this fellow kept insisting that the first Darren on Bewitched was the finest Darren.
AnIMAL80: Sup.
TorinA56: Nah much bro
JFL 44444: anybody out there
PPPPPUUU: DA DA DA
MMMAn4U: Pics f?
SpinGle2345: Age/Sex?
VincentVG: Anyway, my angel chimed in "Vincent LOL.' Do you know what that means Theo? LOL. Laugh out loud. You know yourself I've made no one laugh since my pants splitting incident at de Bock's opening exhibition at Rhine Station.
NEEDSEX: I jus got out a the pool
PPPPPUUU: I 6/m
KrUegerFred: 14/m BIJohnson: 16/m
AnIMAL80: Any fine females want to chat 17/m
DAMASTER77: Hey people 43/m
SpinGle2345: *bad2bone*
VincentVG: Cursed finances. If you could see your way to passing on a couple of guilders it would be much anticipated. My newly beloved wants a pic and alas I have no scanner.
BUFF88dude: 15/m
JTHOMAS: I4/m michigan
Xman2000: Sup people
JULY 12
MTV CHAT, 8:12 P.M.
RocKUWORL: Who hates Hanson press 11
AMBer22: WHOS COOL
RockSOLID: DOES ANYONE HAVE A MOLE IN A COOL PLACE
VincentVG: There comes a moment when all hope is lost, fatally and irrevocably, in the new foal that is budding romance. For me, it was finding out that my fair princess's AOL member profile turned out to be false.
KISSDAskY: 11
TWEddlY44: 11
AssKIss33: i am
FERTILLLl: 11
kTTTYYYY: me
FkAnCHen: 11
VincentVG: My "26 year old, flaxen haired, full breasted, French schooled, bikini modeling, Ph.D. gymnast" turned out to be a lonely 57-year-old accountant named George, who is "into role playing." Alas I am crushed and humiliated.
DrTOkeee: not u
FL67THaT: 11111111111111111111111111111111111111
HAAAAAR22: HANSON IS A BUNCH OF HORNY BUT LOVING BROTHERS!!!!!!!!!!
AMBer22: How do u know
ALLGOOD55: I likey Metallica
FERtilllll: alternatives
VincentVG: I poured my soul out to this fraudulent suitor. Not to mention that in my haste to impress my beloved with a poem, I accidentally cut off my ear and mailed it to her/him. I am the laughingstock of the entire electronic community, and rightfully so. My only Oasis is you dear brother ... and the new modem you sent me.
JIFFpoppy: rap sux
Gra445Gri: I like them theyre sweet
TuTuTu33: anybody wanna chat?
Ton44Fgh: 11 dong diggity
Prapper: WUZ UP PEEPS
GREaaa69: 11
VincentVG: I am through with painting. I will seek honest work. I am told of an 1nstitute where a feeble failure such as myself can be redeemed to the world of the productive. It is called DeVry. If you could spare any morsel of currency it would be greatly appreciated. The courses do not come cheaply.
TOTalPack: Any hot grrrrls wanna cyber IM me
RUFFRUFF2: 11
VincentVG: Anyone here like Alanis Morrisette? press 22
Ton44Fgh: 22
Prapper: 22
JIFFpoppy: 22
REVENGE IS A DISH BEST SERVED COLD
IT WOULDN'T BE long now.
Sheldon Stein sipped his Fresca. The bubbles tickled his upper lip, as he had always dreamed they would. Sheldon wondered what his recently deceased mother would think of this scene: Sheldon, feet up on his bastard of a father's prized ottoman, swigging soda right from the can while wearing a real turtleneck sweater. (Dickeys were for suckers and Sheldon Stein had turned in his sucker credentials.) It would have killed her. If only the cursed natural causes hadn't gotten her first. But Sheldon had waited thirty years for this moment and was going to savor every delicious sensation. He took another decadent sip and giggled with glee. The Hasbrook Heights Class of 1968 was gathering tonight for its thirtieth high school reunion, unaware of the hurricane poised to wreak havoc upon their tragically ordinary lives. A hurricane named Sheldon Francis Stein.
He smiled as he thumbed through a dog-eared copy of Catcher in the Rye. The Steins' paperboy, Sid, had let Sheldon borrow it some years ago, and in Sid's haste to go to college, become a doctor and have a family, he had foolishly forgotten to retrieve it. Sucker, Sheldon thought to himself. The book had provided a philosophical blueprint for this night's glorious triumph to be. Sheldon made a mental note to send word of his victory to the book's author, J. D. Salinger, just to let him know that at least one person "got it." Besides, he thought, this "Salinger" would probably be thrilled to hear from a fan. Sheldon made a quick list of excuses in case Salinger pursued a meeting upon getting his letter.
Sheldon's mood darkened, however, as he recalled the fateful move his parents made to this torturous community halfway through his senior year. He recalled his torment at the hands of his new classmates, their cruel taunts echoing in his mind.
"Excuse me, your name is Sheldon, right?" "Who do you have for biology, Sheldon?" "Hey, Sheldon, did you hear someone shot Bobby Kennedy?" Tears stung Sheldon's cheeks as he recalled the wretched echo of that name being hurled at him in the hallways of Hasbrook High. Hadn't he cried out for an end to their taunting? Hadn't he insisted on a nickname? Stinky had a nickname. Bubblebutt had a nickname. Whorey and Zitman too!! Even or Fuckface had a nickname. No, Sheldon was destined to spend his four months at Hasbrook without the renown and camaraderie only a nickname can bestow. But after tonight his chosen moniker would remain forever emblazoned in their minds. Sheldon glanced into his closet at the two T-shirts he had personalized for this glorious occasion. Would he go as the "Avenging Angel of Destruction"? Or would he go as "The Shelister"? Sheldon threw down the last of his Fresca and laughed the laugh of a man about to be born again. And then he coughed, as some of the delicious nectar went down the wrong pipe.
Sheldon's plan was a relatively simple one, as far as revenge schemes go. He ran through his final checklist. 1. Be rejected by the in crowd at your new high school. Check. 2. Wait thirty years to avenge anger, allowing for maximum surprise and preparation. Check. 3. Give yourself a nickname. Check. 4. Utilize science know-how to create a monster. Check. 5. Learn to drive. Check. 6. Drive monster to thirtieth reunion and unleash his horrible terror. All systems go, he thought, giddily borrowing terminology he recently had heard in an astronaut movie.
As Sheldon put the finishing touches on his potluck dish—all attendees of the reunion were required to bring one—he couldn't help but feel he was forgetting something. He filled the Tupperware container and reviewed the plan. Outcast, thirty years, monster ... a cold chill came over him. Learn to drive!! In Sheldon's haste to create the monster he had completely overlooked step 5. He staggered to the bay window and stared longingly at the monolith that was Hasbrook High. Thirty years of planning and sacrifice lay in shambles on the shag carpet beneath his feet. Sheldon glanced at the clock. He had about twenty minutes to learn to drive or come up with an alternate plan. It briefly occurred to Sheldon that he might be able to lock all the exits to the reunion and create a firestorm inside, but that would require supernatural powers he didn't possess. He could egg their cars ... but that seemed unworthy of a thirty-year plan. Perhaps if he had thought of it twenty-five years ago. NO. He had waited too long and worked too hard. He had to press on. If only Sheldon could convince the monster to walk the three blocks to the high school ... and carry the drinks. Sheldon could bring the casserole and yearbook. They
wouldn't need a car. It sounded crazy ... but maybe crazy enough to work.
Sheldon stared at the padlocked door to his private basement laboratory. Beyond the door lay the fruit of his labor, the sleeping monster. He felt a curious mix of elation and trepidation, an emotional cocktail usually reserved for the nights he would steal a glimpse of Baywatch as his parents slept. But they were both gone now, and with them, the asthma attacks that had haunted his every waking moment. Sheldon hadn't hated his parents, but at times he'd resented their overprotective meddling. He recalled the years they had kept him in a plastic bubble after seeing a television movie about a boy with no immune system. They released him only after seeing the same boy starring in the movie Grease. His parents reasoned that if this boy Travolta was now healthy enough to sing and dance it might be safe to free Sheldon as well.
At least he had inherited some of the qualities he admired in his parents. From his father, a healthy curiosity about science and an obsessive need for revenge. And from his mother, the soft curves and pouty breasts that kept him from ever going swimming. He took a deep breath, unlocked the door and stepped down into the basement.
A single bulb backlit the frame of the monster, who seemed as peaceful in sleep as he was terrifying in his waking hours. Sheldon thought back to the day five years ago when he gave life to this powerful creature. The sacrifice, dedication and secrecy that had gone hand in hand with the project. His parents never knew. Sheldon had convinced them that his thousands of hours in the basement were spent masturbating. Botched experiments often made his lies more difficult, but his parents took to their graves the belief that sometimes when Sheldon ejaculated, there was an explosion and fire.
He remembered the setbacks and triumphs: The gene manipulation that created savage field mice—yet when applied to Rottweilers, made them go bald. The finger he had lost after giving life to a rabid slice of his mother's meat loaf. The broken nose he had suffered at the monster's bris. Sheldon regretted none of it. It had been a long hard road, but any worthy endeavor requires perseverance. Back when he was young, revenge required creativity and discipline, not like the kids today who have ready access to munitions and downloaded bomb recipes. Any twerp with a modem could do that. Sheldon swelled with pride as he reached out to his masterpiece.
Awakening the monster. This would be the most treacherous part. The monster wasn't what people would call "a morning person," and although it was nearly 8 p.M., Sheldon had to tread carefully. Act too abruptly, and the monster was liable to turn its venom upon its master. Too passive and it might never wake at all. Sheldon's hands trembled as he reached out toward the demon's lair. He shook the monster gently, taking care to whisper reassuringly, "Who wants ice cream?" Sheldon fell back as the monster's eyes shot open. Evil Incarnate blinked twice, looked over at Sheldon, yawned, and sat up.
They were out on the street. The late November air was cold and for a moment Sheldon thought maybe the personalized T-shirt wasn't such a good idea. He regretted not asking if he could get his nickname emblazoned on a sweatshirt instead. The man in the decal booth at the mall had been so abrupt. He glanced at the monster. He didn't look cold. Still, Sheldon swore revenge on the decal man. Sounds of the reunion floated down toward the pair. They were getting near their destination. Judgment Night was about to begin. It really was cold, though. Sheldon pressed on ... and thought of soup.
Suddenly, through the darkness, a large man appeared in front of the duo, snapping Sheldon from his reverie. Sheldon realized they were still yards from their destination and moved to restrain the monster. The beast was too quick. 1n a flash it was on the man, moving with the destructive efficiency it was trained for. First one man, then another. Then what looked like a horse, and some very little men ... and some sheep ... and a baby. Sheldon had trouble keeping up as the bodies flew by. And then, as quickly as it had started, it was over. The monster stood alone in the killing fields, looking toward its master for approval. Sheldon smiled. "Excellent," he said, not wanting to hurt the monster's feelings. For he saw the man that had surprised them was a plastic Santa, and that the monster had destroyed the Wilkinsons' famous nativity and Christmas display. This, Sheldon knew, was bad. They hurried toward the reunion.
Soon they found themselves at the door to the gymnasium. In a moment Sheldon would harvest the fruit of all those years of torment. He turned to the behemoth. "It's time," he whispered, knowing that after their task was completed he would be saying goodbye to his only friend. The monster reached out his hand, the one Sheldon had made for him out of calciumized space-age polymers and leftover chicken, and wiped a tear from Sheldon's face. Sheldon turned away, not wanting the monster to see that because it lacked fine motor skills it had poked Sheldon in the eye. They walked in.
Sheldon was completely unprepared for the scene that greeted his triumphant arrival. The reunion he had waited thirty years to destroy had already fallen victim to chaos and mayhem. As the stereo played "The End," the class of '68's prom theme, Sheldon stood dumbfounded. Up on the podium Little James McKlelland, Sheldon's only classmate with one leg shorter than the other, stood glassy-eyed, six sticks of dynamite taped to his chest. "Goiter Gail" Johnson, the girl Sheldon sat next to in geometry, was perched on the lighting grid, firing what appeared to be a homemade laser gun. A man Sheldon couldn't quite place was flying around the room in a jet pack, throwing Chinese death stars at the petrified revelers. Sheldon quickly discovered the would-be celebrants were far outnumbered by those seeking vindication. He counted only eleven or twelve people in formalwear, while the other hundred or so sported hats and T-shirts ranging in declarations from "I WILL NOT BE IGNORED" to "THE GLEE CLUB CAN GO FUCK THEMSELVES." A man wearing a "NIGHT OF RECKONING" T-shirt stomped past Sheldon and angrily threw a carton of eggs in the trash. The monster seemed disappointed as well, like a child who was told he was going to Willie Wonka's only to end up in church. It tugged on Sheldon's shirt and tried to mouth "Home now" through the opening in its face that Sheldon had carved with a melon bailer.
"Hello, Sheldon. Sheldon spun in the direction of the voice. It was Beth Ann Dunwoody, the prom queen. "How are you?" she purred. Something was very wrong here. Sheldon was sure Beth Ann hadn't even known he was alive in high school. Why was she talking to him? Why was seaweed draped over her naked, wet body? Why did her face look melted? He remembered she had mysteriously disappeared down by the lake during the summer of '68. "You haven't seen J. T. or Tommy Mullens here, have you? I want to talk to them about our little skinny-dipping date," she said, brandishing a large, rusted ice hook. "Uh well ..." Sheldon glanced uncomfortably around the room. "I think they're hiding under table six," he said, hating the way he stammered around pretty girls. "Thanks. You're a doll," she said as she sloshed off toward her target. The monster giggled. "What are you laughing at?" Sheldon asked. The monster shrugged. Sheldon grabbed the beast and turned back toward the exit as a canister of anthrax exploded by the chin-up bars to their left. "Let's get out of here," he said, checking his watch. "Baywatch is on in half an hour." The monster clapped happily as they walked out into the night.
ADOLF HITLER: THE LARRY KING INTERVIEW
ONE OF THE beautiful aspects of our culture is the capacity we have to forgive, especially those in the public eye. There is little a tearful mea culpa on 60 Minutes or a tell-all confession in the pages of People magazine won't rectify. This grand compassion was put to the ultimate challenge when in the fall of 1999 an astonished world watched as a historical figure long thought to have died in World War 11 resurfaced. This disgraced dictator, swayed by a beautifully arranged fruit basket and handwritten note, went on CNN's Larry King Live. The Hitler interview, as it became known, aired on October 23, 1999, at 10:00 P.M. Eastern Standard Time. That night King's ratings tripled, allowing his show to narrowly defeat all other cable entries airing in that time slot, as well as the WB sitcom Whassup Skinnybones Jones, the story of a skinny black man living among fatter, funnier black men. The following is an uncensored transc
ript of that historic interview.
KING: Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Tonight we bring you perhaps the most controversial show in the history of Larry King Live. He began his career as president of the fledgling National Socialist party, the Nazi party, in Germany. After a failed coup, some prison time and a bestselling book, he reestablished himself in the German hierarchy, first as chancellor ... then as Fuhrer. The next ten years under his watch saw Germany's return to power, shame at the Munich Olympics, a failed marriage and finally, one helluva World War complete with what was thought to be a cowardly demise by his own hand. Tonight, risen from the proverbial dead, we welcome Adolf Hitler.
HITLER: (biting into a bagel) First of all, Larry, I don't know what I was so afraid of. These are delicious!!!
KING: Well, Chancellor Hitler, I have—
HITLER: Please call me Adolf.
KING: Adolf. First of all, I have to say ... quite frankly, we were very reluctant to have you on.
HITLER: I can't say I blame you for that. I mean, you hear the name Hitler ...
KING: Well, in the end we decided this show is about newsmakers. That's been my motto through forty years of broadcasting and critics be damned, I'm not about to stop now.