I've never abused this blog. While others used it to try and get free Watchmen tickets (which, honestly, I would have done if I'd thought of it first), I maintained my blogging integrity by sticking to the important issues, like crazy sex romps and goading PC vs. Mac people into bloody comment wars. But now it's my time. Conan is moving to Los Angeles soon to take over for Leno, and as anyone familiar with WGA rules knows, he will leave behind a shallow grave of old writers, throats slit and gaping open to the cold New York sun (the strike wasn't quite as successful as they'd hoped). But if you think you know where Iâm going with this, youâve vastly underestimated my sense of self-importance. Thatâs right. Conan, I want to be your new co-host. Think about it: Youâve lost your writing staff, youâre going to be in a scary new town and starting a whole new show. I know a fuckton of writers who need cocaine money, am intimately familiar with the prostitute-selling parts of L.A. and just released the final episode of my own show. Well, I can make it the final episode, anyway. Seriously, Iâll burn all the footage for next weekâs S.W.A.I.M. if you want. I know the competitionâs been hurting your ratings, and hereâs your chance to make that all go away. Just put a phone up to that massive head of yours and make the call. Yes, I just insulted you. And yes, Iâll probably do it again, on national television if the opportunity should arise. But you should still make me your new co-host. Why? Three simple, yet counter-intuitive reasons.
Most rich kids just want to be pop stars.
How did these hyper-specific tropes spread so quickly?
The Hollywood rumor mill has been playing games with celebrity deaths for at least a century.