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Category Archives: Celebrities

I could disappear into the great unknown
And it would wear my face as if it were its own
And all that you will see
Is a celebrity


Kelsey Grammer is here to kill you.

“You know I’ve had a difficult life?” he asks, pouring you Evian from a carafe. “My father and sister were murdered, my brother killed by a shark.”

That’s rare.

“Went to jail, too.” Kelsey Grammer dabs his mouth with a napkin. “And my production of Macbeth, well…”

He pops the cap off a fountain pen, then drives it through your eye. Go ahead and collapse.

“But the murders,” murmurs Kelsey Grammer, deflecting a bullet with his fork. “They’ll change a man.”

“Drive him to vengeance,” confirms Maura Tierney, gun smoking sadly, watching you bleed.


Alan Arkin’s middle name is Wolf.

“Don’t think that means I can shapeshift or whatever,” he tells you, chuckling. “I’m no lycanthrope, no changeling.”

That’s a relief.

“I’m just here to play,” and he deals you two cards, one face up, one down. He peeks at his hidden card. Don’t bother with yours.

“Betting blind,” he says, “ballsy. Gonna hit myself.” He’s got twenty showing now. Your top card’s an ace. Don’t bother to look at your bottom card, you can’t change it now. Don’t–

“Oh, that’s poor practice,” frowns Alan Arkin, as the Nine of Spades chews off your hand.

Angela Lansbury

Angela Lansbury is a master acupuncturist. She’ll paralyze you through the screen door of your cheaply appointed home.

“When I was learning the art,” she’ll say, entering, “people would relate their fear of the needles.” She undoes the simple rubber-band slingshot. “I say, fear the needler.”

Tell her you can identify her. Tell her to kill you now.

“This needn’t end in tragedy,” she’ll say. “I’m going to remove an item from your house now: worthless to you, priceless to my employer. I can’t let you see it. Won’t you close your eyes?”

Don’t. She’ll sigh, and pin them shut.


And then Jim joins the fray, long arms a freckled pinwheel, backside a splash of white against the taupe turmoil of the Barenaked Ladies’ annual Ladies Night. Are they fighting? Fucking? Engaging in post-Nitschian performance art?

“All three,” Anne Murray explains to you softly. “Or none. The point is that their actions can’t be so easily categorized, and neither, by extension, can any actions. What I’m about to do to you, for example.”

The Ladies have obtained knives now. Beg her not to do it.

“Sorry, little bird,” she smiles, “time to fly,” and shoves you into the greasy melee.


In 1988, Apollonia Kotero was elected Queen of Good Rats.

“Nothing to do with sewers or dumps,” she tells you, “we’re talking well-groomed rats here, show rats, community pillars.”

Remember how you fed your boa constrictor. Feel the spring of sweat.

“They bear you no grudge.” The rats are piling around her, white and gray, sleek as a polished tornado. “They understand that some lives must be given to feed the greater predator.”

Relief, but not for long: she’s a skeleton now, the frame of a frightening structure.

“They hope,” she murmures from within the compound beast, “you understand too.”

Jimmy Stewart

Jimmy Stewart meets the Yeti King in battle, deep in the secret tunnels of Nepal, Civil War saber and Winchester carbine against the fury of the cryptid hordes. The king opens a wound in Jimmy Stewart’s side; Stewart cuts off his hand.

“They won’t let you board a plane with that thing,” says his wife distastefully, bandaging his ribs.

“Well I’m, I’m, I’m not leaving it here,” grunts Jimmy Stewart. “Slick would kill me if he didn’t get to see it.”

“Fine, Boy Scout,” she smiles, “then what’s the plan?”

He smuggles it out in her underwear (seriously, look it up).

Laura Linney

“People tend to confuse me,” sighs the woman next to you. Shit. What was her name? Not Helen Hunt. Laura… Laura Dern?

“I mean, not that they make me confused,” she laughs, “although they do. They mix me up with other, more well-known actresses.” Linney. Somebody Linney. Stretched out, lazy, toes hidden in the sheets. “And secretly? I use that to my advantage.”

Lean up on your elbow to look at her. Her straight razor is already dipping for your throat.

“Who will they arrest this time?” she muses, washing your lifeblood from her hands. “God, I hope it’s Streep.”

John Michael

“You got nothing on me,” says John Michael Montgomery.

Point out that you have witnesses. You have the guns he doublefisted across the border, and the Mexican orphans with bellies full of balloons.

“What that is, is covered,” he says. “I’m a celebrity. We can’t legally be prosecuted.”

Wasn’t Mel? Wasn’t Martha? Wasn’t he himself tried for multiple charges in 2006?

“No no.” He’ll snap his handcuffs easily. “That was for underdoing it. We were punished for the sin of daring too little.” Then he’ll reach forward, and break your neck like a string.

“And I,” he’ll smile, “learned my lesson.”


Jodie Foster isn’t here to kill you.

“There is one thing everyone knows about my life,” she says, “and it’s not this: I speak French like a native. Four years of using it exclusively, in school, and I own a home dans la patrie. I recorded two singles there. I served on the jury at Cannes.”

Throw a pen at her. You’ll miss.

“But you’re going to do as I ask, in any language.” She slides around your desk with canine grace. “Aren’t you?”


Cherchez la femme,” she whispers, holding the photo of Maura Tierney very close. “Cherchez la femme.

William Shatner

“I was reduced to doing birthday parties for a while,” muses William Shatner. “Me. Five hundred dollars a pop.”

Shriek into the gag.

“I know,” he’ll say. “Canadian dollars.” He’ll spread a clanking roll of velvet on the stone beside you. Bloody your wrists against the ropes as he admires the light on surgical steel.

“I thought it was luck when things picked up again, until Nerine… poor Nerine.” He sighs. “I understood, then. Do you know the term ‘cult of celebrity?'”

Gurgle in the affirmative.

“Like any cult,” he’ll say, “it requires sacrifices,” and will begin to excise your liver.