Kristen Bell is an actress with the uncommon ability to act. She is best known as Elle on NBC's "Heroes", even though "Veronica Mars" ran for three seasons and was adapted from Raymond Chandler's lost notes for "Nancy Drew - Die, Die, My Dean".
Just The Facts
- Is trapped in positive feedback loop of down-to-earth-nature vs. adoring public.
- A Detroit native, so it's safe to say she's jacked someone's car. Ha ha! People are in desperate need of help there.
- By law, when acting opposite Alyson Hannigan or Mila Kunis, one of them must portray an awful person so as not to induce seizures in fanboys.
Bell has said in interviews that the first quality she looks for in a man is the ability to make her laugh. She has also said she loves nerds, raising carbon dioxide levels in 2007's San Diego Comic-Con to dangerous heights when 30,000 attendees dreamily exhaled in unison.
God, just look at that high-school-crush smile. She could portray Stalin and we'd cheer for him.
She is a trained singer, and can belt out '80s hits with an AdoraCuddly Factor of 6.02 x 10HUGS. She performed in the musical REEFER MA--
And then he was gone
She is a lifelong animal lover and vegetarian. (Really? Dammit! Now to write a Topic on tzatziki. Unless...dear God, you don't think she might be vegan, do you?)
Never feed her after midnight, or she will turn into Heidi Montag from The Hills.
You are allotted 30 seconds here to make your own jokes about the other rules.
- THE SHIELD - It is not a Vic Mackie / Veronica Mars crossover, even though they have the same initials. The awful part is because that idea exists, someone, somewhere, has written slash-fiction about it.
- GRACIE'S CHOICE - Not being a Midwestern woman with a large ass, I haven't seen this Lifetime original picture based on a Reader's Digest story, but it surely involves men being horrible and Kristen Bell somehow awesome in spite of the material (see Heroes, below). The title sounds like it's about teen motherhood.
- SPARTAN - The President's daughter is kidnapped to Dubai, only to be rescued by Val Kilmer (which is sort of an "every rose has its thorn" proposition). People whose parents probably dreamed they'd grow up to be doctors one day claim you can see her breast in a frame-by-frame analysis, but even if they're right, it's while Kilmer's punching her in the stomach, after which she vomits and -- bile still trickling down her unbathed, malnourished prisoner's frame -- offers to sleep with him for a cigarette. Jebus, internet perverts, that's about as erotic as a blowjob from a shark. Context is everything. I would rather drink a pint of cockroach semen than be cursed with whatever kink cocktail it takes to be turned on by that scene.
- VERONICA MARS - Like Jesus, this show performed great things for three years, then was sacrificed before the world realized the gift it had received. See, you didn't think that metaphor would hold up, but it did. You owe me five internet dollars.
- DEADWOOD - Her character dodges Al Swearengen's attempts to tart her up, only to fall prey to the same gambit from Maxim. She gets fed to the pigs, by which we mean Maxim subscribers.
We had the same reaction. Nobody gets turned on by 9/11 conspiracy theories anymore.
- PULSE - Listen, no offense, but the Japanese version was two hours of lonely kids vanishing. There is no way a watered-down American remake is going to be scarier than anything that can freak out a country that finds eroticism in tentacle rape. It's the cinematic equivalent of trying to fall asleep on a 20-hour bus ride -- your body cries out with exhausted longing for slumber's caress, but you just can't pass out.
- FLATLAND - Get ready to have your Victorian mind blown by this adaptation of a 19th century work positing there are at least three dimensions! Bell plays a hexagon even though women in the Flatland novella are all lines. (Even in math, Victorian women get kicked down the ladder.)
- HEROES - Heroes is that program on NBC written by the machine that picks the lottery numbers. This is the only show on TV that makes you root for the actors but not the characters. Specifically, you're rooting for the actors to find better work. Anyway, here a bunch of random stuff happens, Sylar becomes goodthenevilthengoodthenevilagain and her character dies. SPOILER ALERT! I just said she dies.
SPOILER! Don't look up!
Creator Tim Kring used to write for Knight Rider, another premise that could not possibly be boring yet was. How exactly did he pitch that to NBC? "If you like people bickering about who's the most extra-specialest while trying to win their fathers' love...um...uh...(Hell! You're losing them! Think fast, Kring!)...everyone has SUPER-POWERS!" Just about every character on the show has committed murder over these two motivations.
This isn't nearly as embarrassing as Heroes' Irish mob plotline.
- GOSSIP GIRL - To be honest, the demographics for this show tilt more toward Gawker than Cracked, so I'll just assume she did a fine job narrating it.
- FORGETTING SARAH MARSHALL - This movie was unusual for Apatow in that the main character had a real problem that couldn't be solved in five minutes by using the testes Zeus gave him to leave the house and meet people.
- FANBOYS - Sweet, weeping Satan, did this movie drag. Four horrible nerds wedge square George Lucas dialogue into round Star Trek battles for an hour, and then it sort of has a plot, but not enough to make up for the only female character calling breasts "sweater yams." Ugh.
If you were a Star Wars virgin, this is what you'd imagine was inside a woman's bra.
You'd then imagine Mara Jade's were bigger.
- BURLESQUE (pre-production) - A burlesque dancer? Far be it from us to prevent gratuitous nudity, but you know who played a stripper right before her career went dead quiet? Everybody. And sure, burlesque dancers like to say they're not strippers, but the differences between them are the same ones between pancakes and crepes: a quarter-inch of material and a slightly better figure.
How to Awkwardly Ask Kristen Bell to Read Your Script
So you've written a play, a refreshing tale of sloe gin fizzes and idyllic suburban summertime. Gentlemen in straw hats and women with no rights parade along Main Street, singing about jazz and wishing they had told their parents they loved them before TB took them away. Suddenly, you espy Kristen Bell eating by herself at a table across the restaurant. Have you your copy of the script at hand? Excellent! Quick, quick, lad, before her aperitif arrives!
Approach in an urgent manner, so she sees you recognize her time is precious. Race up to the table and seat yourself without delay. Since your name's on the stage play she'll want to read immediately, simply launch into a discussion of your fantastic work. Describe your genius so she understands she's dealing with a very important person who is absolutely serious about this.
By now she'll ask why she hasn't heard of you. Explain this is due to producers and directors too stupid to recognize your superiority. Flatter her with complimentary language, like "You're not like them. Your hair smells so pretty."
Your pitch complete, drop a copy onto her plate. Watch as her distaste for you evaporates. (See what you did? It's called peacocking. The idea is to be such an awful human being that women will want to sleep with you, or in this case, let you piggyback on their success.) She looks genuinely excited! But caution: she is an actress.
Follow her for several blocks to be sure she doesn't dispose of your work in the trash can at the corner. That shit cost $12.50 to photocopy at Kinko's. Does she think you're made of money? Miss Big Shot? Miss Too Good to Read Every Three-Hour Play Handed to Her by Strangers?
Wait! Wait! She's actually reading it! Oh, this is marvelous! Success! Success! SUCCESS!
What the--? You gave it to her during the WGA strike? Scab.
This time next year, everyone will be raving about...what's it called? Seriously? You titled your play "Ah, Wilderness"? That's the name of a Eugene O'Neill comedy! Oh, it's all gone wrong! No wonder she assented! She thinks she's been asked to embody the work of America's tallest and occasionally greatest playwright.
We can get through this. We'll just do what they did in American Pie VI: Einstein's Revenge. You'll need elevator shoes and a space rocket with a convincing lightspeed engine. By this time tomorrow, all the papers are going to hail O'Neill's return from space-sabbatical to rewrite his only comedy. Screwball Action Team Repair Force GO!
How to Woo Kristen Bell
Statistically speaking, the chances that you'll ever meet her, let alone during a time when she's single, then engage in meaningful conversation, casually mention that you're a licensed masseur, find out she's never been to Guam, kiss her as the pale blue moonlight illuminates you like the last two human beings on Earth, confess your secrets including that time in college when you did the thing with the cucumber, realize you forgot your wallet back at the hotel, have to walk because you can't afford a cab, bicker for the first time, apologize for your absent-mindedness and promise to improve, actually do it because she means so much to you, celebrate your year-and-a-half anniversary, cry in a good way when you think about how happy you've become, sneak a cigarette every now and then even though you swore you'd quit, get serious about your career and quit the band, have a kid together, grow a beard then shave it off, enjoy special chicory-blend coffee as you watch the sunrise and realize you should take more vacation days, get preoccupied at work, wonder if you've missed the point in life when you can do anything you want, feel uncomfortable attending marriage counseling like it's an admission of failure, realize the problem was just your own fears and you love her more than ever, attend your youngest's graduation, Jesus where did the time go? Have a prostate cancer scare, confirm it's benign, get surgery, bicker with your insurance company over whether they'll cover Cialis, take stock of what matters in life, realize the first grandkid has her eyes, still see the girl you married in her frame as she struggles, stiff-kneed, down the stairs, watch the L.A. sunset buring on the horizon like a last kiss, make love the way you did when you were young, and wake up the next morning to find your fingers still laced in hers...the chances of that happening are only slightly better than HIV spontaneously mutating into a benevolent symbiote that makes carriers orgasm every time they burp. Sure, both are possible, but don't invest all your money in soda pop.
"C'mon, it's either me or Heidi Montag."
What is certain? Only DEATH! DEATH AWAITS YOU! Life is a travesty of disappointments, the illusion of meaning, and the disenchantment of reality. FLEE! FLEE! But there is nowhere to flee to. That grim specter's icy finger reaches across time and space to claim its due! Your very existence is forfeiture of itself. We are born only to die, at best endlessly spewing permutations of our fundamental selves into the maw of entropy, a snake recombining with its own tail, building! Aspiring! Achieving! Recording the raw emotions that make life sizzle with meaning, delving into untold sciences, unleashing radical systems of information and ability in some destiny to colonize the stars and make some permanent effort, some statement of being that says to a cold, godless universe, "We were here." The ultra-epic tale of human beings at their worst and greatest then takes shape, survivors in the battle to preserve that which will eradicate itself heedless of our efforts, and we wretches, strewn across the galaxies to no indelible purpose, no transformative achievement, a mere semen stain cooling and drying upon the harsh fabric of the universe, when we as a species, as a culture, as individuals, expire, leaving our accumulated knowledge and achievements to evaporate with the slowly stilling electric crackle within our brains. Eventually, matter itself disintegrates into nothing, all that ever was ceases to be long after its last observers have died, and the very concept of "long after" loses any worth were some hideous alien capable of documenting it. Time itself is broken, the multiverses broader than our imagination will collapse unexplored, and this horrendous farce called reality will begin its crushing march anew, we puppets hung from its rafters, dancing in obscene futility. Death! DEATH! DEAAAATH!
So you see, we need adorable smart-asses to keep us sane. Even the vegetarians. Kristen Bell, it's good to know you're out there. Stay delightful.
See? Told you.
Brendan McGinley is the unintenionally hilarious author of several webcomics. In 2006, he accidentally seceded from the United States for 15 minutes. But come on, it was the Bush years. That was like some dystopian alternate reality where right was wrong and the Terminators won.