I FUCKING HATE YOU, COURTNEY LOVE, AND HOPE YOU DIE A SLOW, PAINFUL DEATH COMBINING RUSTY NAILS, A FIRE HYDRANT PLUMMETING DOWN ON YOUR HEAD FROM FIFTY STORIES UP, AND MARCELLUS WALLACE HIMSELF GETTING “MEDIAEVAL ON YOUR ASS”
AND ALSO YOU LOOK LIKE WHAT AN STD WOULD LOOK LIKE IF IT WERE TRYING TO APPEAR HUMAN:
Or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying And Accept That, Sooner or Later, This Bitch Will Be Dead
A Fair and Non-Judgmental Portrait of Courtney “Skank Queen” Love
Of course she doesn't do drugs! |
Did any of you see The Skank (as Courtney will hereafter be referred to) on Letterman several weeks ago? I’ve seen a lot of TV in my life, not to mention movies, concerts, and any other venues where celebrities have to clench their teeth and mix with normal people, yet I have never seen anything that matched the total nuclear fucking meltdown The Skank had while sitting across from Dave (who is, by the way, my “nigga”)(I have documentation, but it’s really an informal thing).
For those of you unlucky enough to have missed this utterly repulsive display, let me recap a few of the highlights that The Skank provided before I start tearing into her like something that tears into skanks very ferociously (Kobe Bryant?): She comes out wearing a green shirt over another green shirt with a green skirt. At the risk of being accused of actually being Carson
Kressley, I have to say that the outfit was the clothing equivalent of the “Vediccico Treatment” Alex underwent in A CLOCKWORK ORANGE. But, wait, it’s clever, ‘cause it was on St. Patrick’s Day!
Nevermind, my bad.
The next thing she did was climb on Dave’s desk and flash her repulsive, always-in-a-transitional-state breasts at the poor guy a la Drew Barrymore back in ‘94 (a banner day for guys my age at the time, right up there with Jennifer Aniston’s ROLLING STONE cover). Dave appeared transcendentally
non-plussed. Once she sat her curdled ass into the guest’s chair, she overrode the conversation with half-finished sentences, bizarre anecdotes involving other celebrities (and more on that right after our next commercial break), and loudly spoken demands directed at Dave that made me think of nearly every one of my ex-girlfriends. If I truly hate Courtney Love as much as I believe I do, and I was embarrassed for her watching, I can’t imagine what her “fans” (read: Those with a sizzling case of Downs Syndrome; Or, to the layperson, “Corkies”) must have thought.
I have a friend named Mike that I grew up with, and we are both lucky enough to be of that small group of late-comer
Gen-X’ers who managed to avoid both the hairspray gaudiness of the 80's and the total downfall of Rock in the late 90's, when “Rock and Roll” became “Rap Metal”. Which reminds me: I haven’t made a public plea to Fred Durst to fuck himself today. There it is.
Where's the Love: in this photo, Courtney
generously offers her bosom to a strange
black man. |
Anyway, me and Mike both got interested in music around the same time, so we grew up Nirvana , Pearl Jam, and Spin Doctors fans (Hold the hate mail, it was one of my “jokes”) and both have a seething, uncontrollable hatred for The
Skank. Watching Letterman that night, I wondered if he was watching. We’d both recently read some interview with The Skank where she managed to “name drop” about 20 times in the space of ten questions. Just in case my buddy wasn’t watching, I made a game out of counting every occurrence in which she named some celebrity or famous person who she claimed to be “soul mates” with or some shit. Anyone wanna take a guess? If I’m recalling correctly, it was something like 15 names during her interview. On more than one occasion, she managed to work upwards of three “famous friends” into the same. Fucking. Sentence. I felt bad for Dave, him being the talk show host that I always watched (Which reminds me: Leno– you’re a pussy. Hope it feels good ) and a famous entertainer that I’ve always admired. He was clearly uncomfortable and unprepared for The Skank’s totally mad behavior, but he ended up winning the bout in the last round: The Skank was asked to leave so that the show could go to commercial or something, and she refused, begging Dave to ask her “one more question”. Without missing a beat, Dave looked her up and down and said: “Whatta ya weigh?”
I don’t know what you’ve heard about Dave, but he’s a motherfucking P-I-M-P.
Reckanize!
The Skank looked...well, I’d like to say she looked hurt or disappointed with her host, but she just kind of stopped talking in order to let her eyes glaze over faster. The Skank may claim to be sober these days, but I’d bet my package ( a sizable wager, I might add–
Har!) that if you were to take a blood sample from The Skank you’d be able to snort, smoke, inject, or swallow it and get totally fucking sideways.
I wasn’t surprised when I read in a newspaper the following morning that she’d been arrested the previous evening ( since Letterman tapes in the afternoons, I’d say that her “appearance” at Dave’s couldn’t have been more than 6-8 hours prior to her arrest; I liked that a lot) for tossing a mike stand or a guitar or her daughter into the crowd that ended up splitting someone’s skull open. I imagine her protesting to the NYPD, saying, “I’m totally sober! I was on Letterman just 6 to 8 hours ago!” and the cops saying, “Yeah. We saw it. Here’s a gun, kill yourself.”
Did Courtney kill Kurt? Chances are, if you
were married to The Skank, you would have
blown off your head with a shotgun too. |
This month marks the tenth anniversary of Kurt Cobain’s death. I’m going to assume that the people reading this are in their early-mid 20's, like me, and that you all probably remember what you were doing when you heard the news. That’s the kind of statement usually reserved for discussions about December 7th, 1941, September 11th, and the day that Ben Affleck and J.Lo broke up, but I think it’s fair to apply here. In retrospect, the contribution that Nirvana– and, specifically, Kurt Cobain– made to the Rock industry cannot be overstated. I’m not a huge fan of their stuff these days, but only because I long ago played every one of their damn albums on repeat for weeks at a time when I was 14 or so. “Come As You Are” was a great song, but it’s about as worthy of listening to as Metallica is “mandatory”.
I’m reading LOVE AND DEATH right now, a book that outlines the case against The Skank in Cobain’s unfortunate death. Now, before you go jumping down my throat for being a conspiracy theorist, you gotta let me tell you about some of the shit these guys dug up during the writing of their book. Shit like several pieces of paper found in Love’s belongings after Cobain’s death, each one covered in endless versions of the alphabet, clearly an attempt at forging someone else’s handwriting. We’ve all heard those rumors about how the suicide note’s final paragraph– the only part of the letter in which Cobain alludes to his oncoming journey into the Big Sleep– doesn’t match the handwriting in the rest of the note. LOVE AND DEATH provides photocopies of the note against copies of the “handwriting practice sheets” that police found in The Skank’s stuff.
Then there’s The Skank’s first husband, James Morland, who tells the authors that Love threatened to pay someone to hurt him if she didn’t get her way ( he even notes that whoever The Skank knew who would do a thing like hurting people for money had a going rate of “ $50 to $100”)
about something. There’s the thousands upon thousands of letters that are currently stored in The Skank’s father’s house (and, did you know he was The Grateful Dead’s original manager? Weird, huh?) that contain contradictions and discrepancies for just about everything The Skank has ever said about her “life before fame” in interviews and band biographies.
There’s much, much more than that in the book, but I’m not gonna go through it all here. Again, I’m not the kind of guy that buys those sorts of far-fetched conspiracy theories, but you can’t argue the facts, and the authors of LOVE AND DEATH–Ian Halperin and Max Wallace, available in fine bookstores nationwide in the new non-fiction
hardbacks-about-wastes-of-flesh-who-have-a-first-name-starting-with- “C” section — provide them in spades. Pick it up if you’re even a vague Cobain fan, and tear out all the pictures of The Skank for use as come rags at your next gangbang or “emergency stash” toilet paper in the bathroom (only for use with loose bowel movements, TM).
Looking sexier than ever. |
All of this has brought me to my point: The Skank has to be stopped. On top of all her legal woes and personality quirks (read: Her stark-fucking-raving madness), she’s also come out and announced that the trust fund that her daughter had been building since Cobain’s death and her birth has been– gasp!– robbed. That’s right: Courtney Love, a woman known for the kind of drug use that only John Belushi or I could admire, who hasn’t exactly been bringing in any cash as of late, who makes a point to spend her money as fast as high-end Beverly Hills boutiques will take it...expects us to believe that somehow, some way, nearly $60million that was being reserved for her daughter– and, I might add, a daughter born under a bad sign– just vanished. Her theory? Her lawyers or the bank did it.
This fucking come dumpster of a “human” is a disgrace, pure and simple. She does not make good music. She is not charming, entertaining, or likable. The praise that she’s received for her much-trumpeted role in THE PEOPLE VS. LARRY FLYNT comes with the unspoken caveat that she was, after all, playing herself– just a little less sleazy, and far less evil. I have no idea what Cobain’s daughter deals with on a day to day basis living with this woman, but he good news is that– for the time being– she’s in someone else’s custody. Did I mention that she “bitch-slapped” Kurt’s mother at one of the custody hearings? On the courthouse steps? In front of a bank of cameras and reporters? No? Well, yeah, she did.
It’s easy for me to say that “The Skank has to be stopped”. Really, what could I or the fine, upstanding citizens at ApeChild possibly do to help make her disappear. You know, short of an assault rifle, a shovel, and a bag of lime. I’m not going to tell you to “write The Skank’s record label”, because they don’t give a shit about her bizarre and increasingly destructive behavior just as long as its generating free publicity. After the Letterman performance, I’d bet that she won’t be landing any talk show guest chairs anytime soon, which is a small relief. All in all, the truth is that we can’t really do anything more than ignore her. And we should, if not to make her go away than for the sake of her poor daughter. And, if one don’t give two shits about Frances Bean Cobain, then do it for Kurt, a musician that many of us can say introduced us to “The World Of Music Outside That Which Plays in Mom and Dad’s Cars” and ushered in the last truly strong era in Rock history.
Or, we could just hunt her down, dismember her on live television (I smell a Pay-Per-View deal!) before pissing into her blank-yet-hideous face and setting the whole pile on fire. Shit’s flammable, you know, so it oughtta make for one heck of a bonfire. Will someone bring marshmallows with them? It’ll be a time for celebration.
Cheesy Afterthought That Is Heartfelt Even Though I’ve Just Referred To It As Cheesy:
R.I.P., Kurt, and I think I understand a little more now than I did then about why you did what you did. Just be glad you didn’t have to be around to see your ex-wife’s ugly, screeching face on Letterman– you woulda been soooo embarrassed. Probably enough to eat a bullet or two.
Word,
Dr. Scott
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