Wednesday, March 31, 2010

Hell no, J-Lo

Click here, read it, then return.

You just read something crappy. Something so crappy. Yet the author, an actor you've heard of named James Franco, has a book deal. For a book. An actual book full of his words. His crappy, self-indulgent blathering words. I apologize for what follows, dear readers. It is dark and desperate and cranky and capital-J Jealous. But I have to. I have to happen to Franco before Franco happens to words again.

Why did you do it, Franco? You already make loads of money acting in movies. You're good at that. I liked you in Spiderman. You did what actors are supposed to do: show up, look handsome, speak coherently. But you are not good at writing. I may not be great, but I know I'm better than you. Why do you have to hog all the fun jobs? Stick with what you're good at and leave the writing alone, Franco. Leave it for us uglier folk who are too asymmetrical for the screen, small or big. There's no triple- or double-threat in you, Franco. You're not J-Lo. You're just lo.

See that, Franco? See what I did on that line up there? That was a comparison that worked (sort of) and not just on one level, but on many. But your comparison, sorry, your simile (you did go to Columbia)...

My window is cracked, just a bit, and the air plays on my forehead like a cold whisper.

... makes me want to kick you in the mouth. And the blowjob stuff near the end? Oh, that makes me want to kick you again. It really does. And that hurts me in the emotions because you have such a nice mouth. And you know why? Because you're an actor. Your mouth has to be nice or I will throw Nibs at the screen and write bitchy letters to your agent. But writers, Franco, real honest-to-goodness writers don't have mouths like yours. Writers have mouths covered in blue pen from when it works and red pen from when it doesn't. Their mouths are twisted and grimaced from anxiety and bad food and cigarette-sucking. Nobody wants to kiss a real writer before they get their first book deal, Franco. Because a writer in that spot tastes like rejection, Franco. And yesterday's pad effin' Thai.

And another thing. You got a deal with Scribner, Franco? SCRIBNER? On your first try? They actually paid you money for a book of short stories like the one I just suffered through? That's wrong and even you know it, Franco. Even you--sitting there on a stoop somewhere in Greenwich Village brushing your new moustache--know that you have no right signing that contract.

I can't WAIT to read this book of yours, Franco. Of your "stories." I'll bet they all have Johnny Depp titles, too. Really dark and brooding and greasy and New York and wrist-slitty. I'll also bet money that you write some stories in lower case-only. because sometimes, franco, you just feel so small in this big ol' world, right? like, you know, small. like the letters. get it?

$%#@. That's it. I'm querying Scribner ASAP. And if I don't hear back, I'm blaming you, Franco. I'm blaming you for it all.


  1. I LOVE that you quoted the very line ("My window is cracked, just a bit, and the air plays on my forehead like a cold whisper") that made me throw up a little in my mouth and stop reading Franco's atrocious story.

  2. Yes! Comment #3! You should skip to the end of the story, Tea Party Crasher. The blowjob scene is so wonderfully bad. You. Will. Love.