Jennifer Garner is Hot

I rented 13 Going On 30 a week or so ago. I came to the conclusion that Jennifer Garner is hot. I know, it's a shock. Who knew? No one, that's who. Because when I declare that I like something, I am always original. Original is my middle name. That phrase is original. Who said it before? No one, that's who. It's also my first name and its tattoo'd on my ass. Now seriously, if you're going to argue with me, someone's going to get hurt. Bitch.

Sometimes I have dreams that I'm being really aggressive and mean to the people that I love the most. I don't know why. But there I be, punching the shit out of my beagle, Spot. I don't really have a beagle named Spot - I'm exaggerating for effect. I mean, I'm not going to sit here and tell you that I beat the hell out of my grandmother in my dreams, am I? No, I didn't do that either. I'm just saying...dreams can be pretty fucked up.

I think it's the 'roids. I promised my doctor I would only go on one cycle, and now that I'm on my third, he's starting to take my word with a grain of salt. I mean, come on; you can't really expect me to stop until my testicles have disappeared. Still, it's hard to control the aggression. It's like "Hey dude, got a smoke?" And I'm like "What the fuck do I look like, a fucking cancer patient?" The next thing I know, I'm getting served court summons. I try to avoid the lawyers, but they certainly are sneaky bastards.

I was at this one party in fuckin' Barstow. Barstow! Nobody knew I was in Barstow. I wasn't supposed travel more than 200 feet from my residence, according to the orders handed down by the judge. So's I strap the transmitter to my beagle Spot and tie him to the tree, next to a ditch full of Kibbles 'n water. In hindsight, that probably wasn't such a good idea.

It took some time, but I finally pieced it all together. It went down like this: Naturally, the who was appointed to serve me the summons started at my home. He knocks on the door and nobody answers. He decides that I might be hiding out inside the house because I might just be expecting the summons, so he goes around back to see if he can sneak a peek inside the back windows. This isn't strictly legal, but as long as I can't prove he's loitering, the cops don't care. After trespassing over my fence, he sees Spot, bloated and floating in the muddy ditch. I hate animal abusers - it was an honest mistake. Who knew beagles eat until they choke on the food at the back of their throats? Who knew that, instead of simply vomiting the extraneous Kibbles into the grass, he would instead fall into the mush and have a heart attack? The dog was old, man, and he was dumb. But I loved that dog. If I could switch places with him I would. I lied; I wouldn't do that, but I loved that dog like Zach loves ribs.

So this asshole summons lawyer starts snooping. He finds the transmitter on the dog's leg and decides that I bolted. Technically, I DID bolt, but I planned on coming back within a few days. Instead of notifying the proper authorities, he decides he's going to use his lawyer skills to track me down. He breaks into my house, without leaving prints, and starts going through my own personal shit. I hadn't really been planning to go to Barstow - it was a spur of the moment thing that happened when I got the email. I just threw my pants on and left. I didn't even turn off my monitor. There it was in bright, bold Arial lettering: "BARSTOW - TONIGHT! Mandy Moore concert! Free for all MMBFs!" It went on to give precise directions to this very special engagement.

Now, what the hell was I getting emails about Mandy Moore parties for? Are you asking me because you don't have any guilty pleasures? Lemme tell you, buddy, we ALL have guilty pleasures. Anyway, it ain't some sick shit. I just appreciate her music, like all MMBFs (Mandy Moore's Best Friends - her official unofficial fan club). We're not a bunch of masturbating monkeys, like fans of that OTHER blonde singer everyone talks about. Besides, even if I were, and I'm not saying that I am, but just so you know, she's legal and all...

All MMBFs on the mailing list get emails from the club leader every week or so. Sometimes they're just little bits of news from the MM universe, but once in a while, they're something special, like marathon viewing's of her films at someone's house. Usually, these meetings are in Spokane, or Flint, or other places I've never been to. This time, though, not only was the event being held in Barstow - a few short hours from my apartment - but it was to be hosted by none other than Mandy herself! Talk about masturbating monkeys - I literally had to change my pants when I read that. But it's not like what you think. It's very pure.

So I was out of there. Three hours later, there I was in Barstow. At the specified address. Guess where it was? Arby's. The beef sandwich place. Now, ok, not quite the venue I expected for a Mandy Moore appearance, but hey, maybe it's a tour stop or something. Who cares? I saw a crowd of her fans near the entrance and approached. "So what's the deal, my brothers and sisters?", I asked. "It was Steve! He screwed us over! I'm gonna kill that little bastard!", was the first reply I heard. It turns out, Steve, the fan club leader, got into a flame war with the leader of MMBFs (Mandy Moore's Biggest Fans) about the ownership of the MMBF acronym on their boards. By the end of the week, Steve was so dejected that he decided he wanted out, and as a little going away present, he sent the Barstow email to all of us loyal REAL MMBF members. Then he tried to hang himself with his belt attached to the ceiling lights, but the chain connecting the lamp to the ceiling couldn't withstand his ample 350 lb frame. It ripped out and he fell to the floor, soiling himself in the process.

What was Steve thinking? WE didn't do anything to him. But such is the human reaction to great disappointment. Hell hath no fury like a MM fan scorned. And much like Steve, our little gathering of MMBFs lashed out in a very irrational way.

I really can't speak for those other people, but I believe that it was the 'roids. I blacked out. That's just the best way I can describe it. One second, my heart is beating with the heat of a million suns, and the next, I'm being oppressed by 7 Barstow police people. Pigs. I don't even remember running through the Arby's display windows and tearing tables out of the flooring. I don't remember accosting the employees with sliced deli meats. And I really don't remember throwing the toilet at drive-thru telecom. I think it was just a big misunderstanding.

Seven hours later, I get a visitor at the Barstow jail. It wasn't mother to bail me out again. It was the fucking summons lawyer. When I realized who he was, I nearly blacked out again. Man, I was pissed.

And then for the next 16 hours, until mommy actually DID come to bail me out, all I had to do was read files attached to the summons. I was being accused of stalking? Stalking who? I'm telling you, I never stalked no one. Never. Ever. Especially Jennifer Garner. I didn't even recognize the name. It was like, hey buddy, guess what? You're being charged with stalking a celebrity you've never even heard of. This is insanity.

Now, technically speaking, stalking is a crime in which the police become involved and haul your ass off themselves. But in certain situations where motives and evidence are unclear, California law stipulates that they can only be tried as civil suits. This was one of them. And that was going to be my defense. I mean, what evidence? What motive?

Three days later, I found out. We requested information on the case from our own lawyers, and they found out that apparently, one night in Los Angeles - Sunset Boulevard, to be specific, some "muscle-bound 'roided freak went crazy" at the Whiskey during a Burnin' Urine Show. He jumped off the balcony and vomited all over the poor folks he landed on, much like Spot should have done in the mushpuddle. One of those people was Jennifer Garner. Because most of my vomit got on her Louis Vuitton bag, it was surmised by her two-faced friends that I was a stalker. Now, I ask you, what the hell was Jennifer Garner doing at a Burnin' Urine show?

The pigs hassled the Whiskey staff the next day and found that a man, fitting the description of the one who puked, had purchase several beverages from the balcony bar that night. The bartender said that man had a "distinctive look" and therefore remembered my name. And thus, I was fingered by a bartender. And he wasn't even that pretty.

I'd never seen Alias, or Daredevil or Felicity, or the several other movies and shows the beautiful Ms. Garner has appeared in, prior to the night at the Whiskey and therefore could not be her stalker. It only makes logical sense. Besides, I don't remember any hotties when I got up. Just a bunch of puke-covered goth chicks and mall punkers. But I'll admit - I was pretty drunk. I was promptly escorted out of the venue by the friendly bouncers and politely asked never to return. Then I slept behind a dumpster until my head cleared up.

So, now, not only am I on house arrest because of some stupid mishap with some high school jocks and have a pending assault court appearance due to the Arby's MMBF fiasco, but now I'm being sued for stalking someone I don't even know about.

Being on house arrest sucks, man. And now without Spot, I have no friends. Only mother, who is driving me insane with her "You'll grow breasts with that steroids you taking!" crap. I keep telling her it's they're not breasts, because I'm not taking estrogen supplements. They're Excessive Mammary Lymphatic Tissue Buildup. They can be removed with surgery.

So, I rent a lot of movies. Or rather, mother rents them for me when she goes out for her daily vitamin shopping. The other week, it was Lilo and Stitch, and 13 Going On 30. Suddenly I understood why someone would stalk Jennifer Garner. Not that I would, or anyone should. Just that she's beautiful. I've read people on the forums talking about how she looks 'mannish'. Well fuck you. I think she looks well defined, and has a body I could bounce bricks off of. I've always dreamed of getting with a girl who could kick my ass. That's no mean feat, what with these guns. But she could dent my head with her stomach.

Jennifer, if you're reading this, I'm sorry for puking all over your handbag. I didn't mean to. I tell you what. To make even, you can kick me in my shrunken nuts. Just stomp all over them. Wear stilettos.

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