Read on Twitter
It& #39;s 2006. I& #39;m working at Esquire, assigned to write about George Clooney. He invites me to his house. Now, understand something: Celebrities never invite you to their house. Except for George Clooney, apparently. The house! Amazing.
The night before our rendezvous—AT HIS HOUSE—I go out for dinner with friends. Cuban food. I return to my hotel, the delightful Sunset Marquis, and am beset with terrible, terrible gas. I decide I need to cropdust the hell out of West Hollywood.
I tell the doorman that I& #39;m about to unleash a toxic cloud on these streets, and to send out for me if he doesn& #39;t see me return. Maybe two blocks from the hotel, I feel something go very wrong inside me. Indescribable. A kind of... explosion?
I wave down a cab: Nearest hospital, buddy! We end up at Cedars-Sinai. Maybe 45 minutes later, I don& #39;t have a gall bladder anymore. I am put in the nicest hospital room I& #39;ve seen in my life. Like a fancy hotel. The bill will come to $46,000.
I wake up the next morning. "I& #39;ve got to talk to George Clooney," I gurble. Nurse says, "Dr. Ross is not real. ER is a fictional television show. You& #39;re in a real hospital." I& #39;m like, "No, I really have to talk to George Clooney." She pats my head and leaves.
I check myself out of the hospital. (Don& #39;t do that.) Take a taxi to stock up on Vicodin. (No.) Change—boy, my tummy still hurts—and drive to Clooney& #39;s house. I pop some pills, knock at the door. He greets me warmly. He is unbelievably attractive, by the way. Different species.
He offers me a Nespresso in the smoothest possible way. Or maybe I& #39;d like a beer? A beer would be nice. He hands me a perfectly chilled Heineken. "Thank you, George Clooney. Your name is George, but everybody calls you George Clooney, and they forget that." Terrific.
We adjourn to the living room. It& #39;s very nice. Classy but understated. I sit on a leather couch. I gulp down my beer, forgetting that I& #39;m drugged out of my mind. The beer and the drugs combine into a blessed haze. I am vapour. I feel no pain. Nothing matters.
I& #39;m hanging with George Clooney! His bare feet are on the table. Nice feet. He& #39;s charming and funny. I laugh and laugh some more. What swells we are! His pet pig wanders through the frame. I remember that I don& #39;t have a gall bladder anymore. Wait. Did I need that?
I don& #39;t know, but I do require a toilet. He points the way. I stumble inside, undo my pants... And it& #39;s like I& #39;ve opened the elevator doors in The Shining. I am Tim Roth at the end of Reservoir Dogs. I have laughed so hard, I& #39;ve burst open an incision. I didn& #39;t feel a thing.
Oh God! I clean myself up as well as I can. I pack the wound with TP. I do up my jacket. My face is pale and wet, but I& #39;m doing okay. I look okay, right? Wow. That& #39;s nuts. That was a lot of blood! I& #39;ve got to talk more to George Clooney.
Back to the living room and—Oh no. No no no. I have fucked up George Clooney& #39;s couch. It& #39;s a crime scene. The head of Khartoum. But the angle—he hasn& #39;t noticed! I sit down and, as casually as I can, I rub the hell out of that couch, like I& #39;m trying to start a fire.
