Celebrity Crackpot Ideas They (Unfortunately) Made Reality

The "manly central issue too slight to grip" means a small penis, while "knotted banana toes" means Morrisey thinks writing is accomplished by threatening a thesaurus. But all the attention placed on the "deltoid deities" and "phenomenally top-heavy and modernly unfashionable" women making sex at each other distracted from the book's many, many other issues. It doesn't appear to have been edited, even for typos, leaving us absolutely no idea what this next extract means.

"The bullet of Justy as a hell-driver flyer with a disciplined land into Dibbs' dry hand, and the new corner man faced the home straight with power-hitter grunts and Bunkie pluck as the bilge-free body speedballed with stirred stumps to beat the devil with scorch and sizzle and unfortunate dribble and snappy like crazy he somersaulted with pitching motion into a ferocious belly-flop tumble of a sprawled pratfall -- face to the gravel, each limb slithered like snowslide subsidence."

It's like if Finnegans Wake smoked meth. At this point we should note that Morrisey's description of the books opens with "Beware the novelist... intimate and indiscreet...," ripping off every 23-year-old man getting a MFA who thinks drinking too much whiskey is a personality. But now, one more sentence for your reading pleasure.

"In the church of secret service known as the abattoir this is exactly what humans excitedly do to beautiful bodies of animals who were also crafted in care by some divine creationist, yet at the human hand the animals are whacked and hacked into chopped meat whilst gazing up at their protector with disbelief and pleading for a mercy not familiar to the human spirit, ground and round into hash or stew for the Big Mac pleasure of fat-podge children whose candidature for roly-poly vicious porkiness makes their plungingly plump parents laugh loudly, as little junior blubber-guts orders yet another Super-burger with tub-of-guts determination to stuff death into round bellies, and such kids come to resemble their parents as ten pounds of shit in a five-pound bag."

The plot is basically just Casablanca if Rick could do krav maga. According to the official synopsis, "Troubled secret agent 'Blackbird' abruptly retires from service and opens a luxurious nightclub in the Caribbean to escape the dark shadows of his past," because there's no better way to escape the dark shadows of your past than spending every night hammering watered-down champagne corks back in with your shoes while screaming at Vybz Kartel's manager on the phone. But Agent Blackbird is dragged out of retirement by the sudden reappearance of an old flame, who appears to be both half his age and someone who wandered in out of a romcom where a squirrel bites Jason Segel on the penis.

Flatley has insisted the movie is "not a vanity project" even though filming locations appear to have been chosen based on their proximity to his various homes. The villain is played by Eric Roberts, Hollywood's most available semi-star, and going by the poster he spends the whole movie shushing people for saying "Agent Blackbird? I... I can't control my erection!" The movie wrapped in 2018 but has yet to be released, even though an Irish entertainment reporter, driven insane by what we've dubbed "dance madness," launched an epic but doomed quest to see an early screening. There's since been no news, but maybe it will show up on Akon's inevitable streaming service.

Possibly inspired by Lively's plantation wedding to fellow Green Lantern star Ryan Reynolds, Preserve talked about the "innate sense of social poise" and "unparalleled warmth and authenticity" rich southern belles had as they picked out a slave at market. All issues of taste aside, the shoot further muddled whatever vague message Preserve was supposed to have, as cheetah print mini-skirts weren't really a thing back in the 1800s.

Then Preserve shut down in mid-2015, because "Buy a $70 bowl from a Gossip Girl actress" was not a viable long-term business plan.

"I'm just a stupid little girl who wants to be an actor," she says. "Kurt Cobain is my god. He is the most beautiful man that ever lived. Except maybe James." She continues, using authentic modern language, "I want to be a punk rocker riot grrrl. I want to be able to show my pussy out loud. But I'm shy of my pussy. I'm afraid it smells." She accepts an invitation to Franco's place, admires his art, then refuses oral sex from him and instead offers some of her own. So if Franco did hook up with someone at NYU there's a totally normal explanation for why he didn't go down. By the end of their sexual encounter she feels like she's in Mary Poppins, while readers feel like they've become celibate.

The book is labeled a novel, but it changes format from short stories to a film script extract to a series of monologues. Franco inserts himself as both character and commentator, saying, "I know you think it's innovative to do this split personality thing, but I think it's just you covering because you can't write a straight story. It's like you can't tell a story from beginning to end, so you hide behind all this shit." Now seems like a good time to point out that Actors Anonymous was slammed for being self-indulgent nonsense more interested in dropping names than telling a coherent story.

But that's not fair to its profound moments, like this line we're sure will shake you to your core: "And if everyone just watches videos now, aren't the videos life, and real life the escape?" But while Morrissey tries to reassemble his shattered mind so he can take notes, we'll leave the rest of you with this poem excerpt, which is ostensibly written by the ghost of River Phoenix for James Franco.

"You spend your time all over, James.

You're all over the place, James.

I was a River that flowed straight

And pure, you're like a king

That orders one thing,

And then orders the opposite thing."

Domenico De Luca has been writing for thirty years, with screenplays, short stories and songs making up the vast majority of his output. He is a film buff with his very own blog called So Many Films, So Little Time.