Like me, you probably just paused Twilight to read Cracked for a moment. It's so good, isn't it? Oh my God. But unlike me, you probably love Kristen Stewart. People magazine probably declared her cinema's most beloved actress of all time, and if I ever watched the Academy Awards, I would probably know that she's won all of them since 2005, even technical ones, which doesn't even make sense but doesn't need to. If the feeling of a boner could be a person, it would be Kristen Stewart.
Of course I should love Kristen Stewart, but you see, I cannot. And it's not because of what you think. I don't care if she sells meth to nuns and babies and baby nuns. No, it's because I am her Dr. Frankenstein and she is my monster. I'm not really a doctor, though. I mean, I have a bachelor's degree, but it's an arts degree. And once I signed up to become a minister online and they made me a doctor of divinity, so that's something. I'm more of a spiritual doctor, I guess. I used to watch ER when George Clooney was on, though. Remember that show? Good show.
The year was 2002. A young Gary Busey was wowing us all in Slap Shot 2: Breaking the Ice, and some upstart Canadians called Nickelback were teaching us all how to rock again. And how to love. And your humble narrator? I was up to my nuts in Hollywood intrigue, even though I was standing on a stool. It was rough.
As many of you know from my A&E biography, before my stint on Cracked, I worked in LA as a production assistant for a mob-funded film company called "You Got My Money?" Our claim to fame was producing The Nanny. Unfortunately, like Icarus, my name begins with an I. Also, I flew too close to the sun trying to get my own project off the ground, a hilarious sitcom concept that was like My Two Dads meets Mad About You. It was called Boring Shit, and it would have starred Tim Allen. But Allen dropped out at the last second, and even the mob can't make him do what he doesn't want to do, he's too powerful and beloved. All of his movies he made on purpose. All of them. So the blame fell to me. I was given 48 hours to recoup the losses of the project or we'd go for a drive to the desert to discuss other options. That was a euphemism for either murder or me giving out multiple debt-blowies to mob guys, and I didn't like either one.
You're going to sleep with the fishes. Or with me and Tony.
There was no way I could scrounge the necessary cash together on my own, especially with my crippling addiction to South American pornography siphoning away my cash like glue fumes down a Midwest teen's airway. However, I had been dabbling in the dark arts in my spare time, and the thought occurred to me that I could produce Hollywood's ultimate weapon -- a soulless abomination of a homunculus, a creature born of no emotion or passion, only purpose. The purpose to make forgettable films. To achieve grandiose box office gross while at the same time making audiences inexplicably uncomfortable. They would watch, enthralled by the lack of humanity but not understanding what it was that was so off-putting to them. And they would pay to see it again and again. It was beautiful in its diabolicalness, which seems too awkward to be a word. It was diabaliful.
I created Kristen Stewart.
Having never animated clay before, I wasn't sure how to go about making my homunculus. Fortunately, my old college roommate Gladstone is Jewish and, as was my understanding, privy to the secret Jewish art of golem-making. When I asked him he said no, so I ether-ragged his ass and stole his Jewish handbook. That'll be the end of references to him.
Turns out making a golem involves a lot of work and some piousness, none of which I was ready to commit to. So my shadow of God's creation became a shadow of a shadow. I tattooed "emet" on her head, fed her some instructions to act and make money and busted out the Manischewitz. I needed a reasonable visage, so I opted for a sleepy, unassuming girl who looks mildly annoyed by everything, all the time. She'd blend right in at every mall on Earth. When I woke up, she was gone, I was hung over and I had about 16 hours left to live and/or not taste mob wiener.
The minutes ticked by like days as I searched for my creation. All I needed to do was get it to American Idol or some other terrible program and she'd be in like a dirty shirt. I just had to find the damn thing first. Apparently, when making a golem, you need to give it explicit instructions or else, well, you saw what happened.
Why Monster look so silly? Monster want respect!
Time dragged on as I searched high and low through Hollywood. But trying to find a girl who appears confused, intoxicated and in completely over her head in LA is like trying to find two guys with similar haircuts in Beijing. That's not racist, my cousin is a Chinese barber. During the time of Chairman Mao, to save money, the Chinese government mass produced barbershop posters with only one haircut option listed. Doesn't that seem like something that could have happened? It so does.
My fatal mob hummers were growing ever closer. And then, as panic was reaching its peak, I caught a break.
An open casting call for what Variety described as "the literary effluence of an addled, immature, sexually frustrated and pathologically bubblegummed mind that's fallen victim to too many episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and poorly made Cosmopolitans." In a word, Twilight.
Here's where things got weird.
While I assumed that my creation, soulless as it was, would immediately be drawn to something so needless and terrible, it turns out a lot of other actors were just as desperate for recognition. One actor in particular stopped me in my tracks when I entered the office building in which auditions were being held -- Kristen Stewart.
Since we can assume most of you are fans, you were probably ready to comment on this article that, if I created Stewart through godless arts, how is it she also acted in Zathura and Panic Room and several other such films as a child? As it happens, I quite by accident mimicked the flaws of nature itself and created the same girl, only mine was so much worse that she laid waste to the Twilight casting call. She out Kristen Stewarted the real Kristen Stewart, who, as I understand it, has now retired from acting and raises goats. Isn't that fun? The goats are all depressed and nap a lot.
I am no longer physically capable of giving a shit about anything.
At the casting call, I watched as my fetid acting beast stripped away any semblance of human emotion from the delivery of her lines in a way that complemented the insipid source material. No other actor could come close to being so unbelievably nonhuman. It was perfect, apparently. Don't ask me, I never would have agreed to anything that happened in that silly ass film.
I commanded my abomination to return to me, but was instead asked to leave by studio security, as apparently referring to hot young actresses as abominations is tantamount to causing a scene. She escaped my grasp, and I was again up the creek without a paddle, with only a short amount of time left to fix my terrible problem. What to do?
It was then that I had a moment of blinding insight and geniusity, which is a word so smart that only the most intelligentful amongst us even get to know how to use it in sentences. If my terrible monster would not comply with my wishes anymore, presumably due to it getting uppity as a result of undeserved Hollywood adoration, then I would simply be its manager, because what young starlet doesn't need an older man taking advantage of her?
I made a few quick calls to some of my contacts, which is Hollywood slang for felons who haven't been convicted yet, and not only set myself up as the representative of Kristen Stewart, but also managed to sell her for a tidy profit. In 15 minutes!
Stewart's contract, based on Twilight speculation, went for a decent chunk of change. In hindsight, it would have been a lot more, but who could have predicted that Twilight not only wouldn't have put audiences into fucktard comas, but actually would succeed and make a ton of money?
No Twilight! No! Stay back! Aieeeee! *thump*
I had the cash to pay off my mob debt, but there was still one loose end to tie up, and that was Stewart herself. How could I reign in a rogue, kind of emoish golem? Its pouty expression could belie its remorseless desire to stomp whole communities into bloody piles of goo, and it would sort of be my fault if that happened. Was I OK with that? Like I said, I did make some money out of this, so I was cool with some communities being stomped into bloody goo, like a few neighborhoods in and around Hollywood, and in Connecticut, not to mention much of French Canadia, but then I would have started to feel guilty. I had to stop her. It was the right thing to do based on how much money I had received already.
Stopping a golem is a lot easier than starting a golem up, if my handbook was to be believed. Wipe that first letter off her head and change it to the Hebrew word for "dead" and bingo bongo, you got yourself a room-temperature Kristen Stewart sex doll. She's 22, so that's not gross to say. I mean it's gross to say, but not gross to say. But she's also a golem, so it doesn't matter. Don't think of it like that. In fact, forget I said it. No one hump the golem.
Stewart, of course, ended up being a huge success in Twilight, and it took some time before I was able to get close to her again, but, as I said, I had paid my debt off, was still unfamiliar with the taste of mobster junk, and had taken a bit of a lackadaisical "OJ looking for the real killers" approach to stopping her. Busy as she was on the movie, she hadn't had much time to mindlessly destroy any Prague ghettos. Finally, as Twilight was released, I managed to finagle my way to the red carpet premiere of the movie. I figured it'd be pretty simple to use my position as a hilarious Internet comedy writer to snag an interview and then casually reach over and wipe that one letter off of Stewart's head, rendering her harmless.
I avoided a lot of attention until the fateful moment when Stewart finally arrived, then I made my move. She'd just finished up a very rousing E! interview in which she'd been asked not just who she was wearing but what the most exciting part of the whole evening was in what must have nearly busted the journalistic muscle of E!'s pride and joy Jerry McWhotheFuck. Do those muppets have names? Doesn't matter.
I am completely useless!
As Kristen made her way away from E! I lunged into action and then bam! A metaphysical kick right in the milk duds. The tattoo was already gone. Well, shit.
My knowledge of golemry was, as I said, based on skimming a handbook I stole from another comedy writer. I hadn't gotten to a chapter that explained this eventuality. I knew enough to know that she must have something motivating her, breathing life into her cold and dead form, but without my word scrawled into her clay flesh, what the hell could it have been?
Stewart passed by me without even a second glance. She didn't recognize her maker, and I had nothing that I could say or do to stop her at this point. I was defeated and confused, and obviously I wasn't going to stay and watch that movie. Could you imagine? I was trying to stop suffering here. I slunk off. I left. I punked out.
That was four years ago, and as you know, Stewart is still with us. I never stopped her. In 2010 I was at Cannes and I actually ended up on an elevator with Robert Pattinson at a hotel. I couldn't resist the opportunity, and I introduced myself as Stewart's former manager. Pattinson, his hair carefully disheveled, his clothes messed up just so, simply shushed me. His finger pressed to my lip.
"You're not her manager," he said in his rough English brogue. "You never were."
Has anyone ever looked like they cared about anything less than I do?
"But I-" I started. His finger pressed harder, went into my mouth slightly. He tasted like tobacco and shame.
"I know the story, friend. I found the tattoo, figured out most of what happened. She's mine now. I hate these movies, you see, but I need them. To establish myself as a serious actor, I need a loyal fan base and a stack of money so high it could choke an elephant to death. And I have that, and there's no hope she could ever outshine me. Not her."
"Cuz she's got the personality of a hat rack?" I said, around his finger. He pushed it slightly deeper, which I found unnecessary.
"Aye. She has the personality of a hat rack. But I thank you for her, and I promise she'll do nothing worse than what she's already done. Fair?"
I waited for him to remove his finger. After a moment, he started very lightly scratching my tongue with what I deemed to be an unusually long fingernail. I nodded.
"Fair," I said, though it sounded more like "fwagh." His finger stayed in my mouth for the remainder of the ride to the lobby.
And then he left, and so did I, and we have not seen each other since. And so every new Kristen Stewart movie makes my heart sink ever so slightly, but what can I do?
These days, I shun Hollywood and live a modest life. I gave Gladstone his handbook back and have not made any golems since, lest I end up making another Kardashian or some such. I'm sorry for what I did, I really am. But for all that happens from here on out, blame Robert Pattinson.
Plenty of everyday things have weird connections to the Nazis.
The thing about plot twists is that they almost never make sense on repeat viewing.
Sometimes the silliest goofballs get away with the vilest things.
Love is not dead?