I want to meet Kimmy so that I can have no idea who she is.
I often have hypothetical conversations with famous people I’ll never meet. Long, weird involved convos where I explain that just because you believe yourself to be awesome and incredible and you’ve managed to surround yourself with only people that confirm your righteous-itude (with dusting of badass-osity) does not make you any of those things. It makes you are manic little man who doesn’t know he’s gay. Sorry Tom.
But I’ll make an exception for Kim Kardashian. I don’t want to go into great detail about her faults. I want to have an increasingly awkward conversation with her where I have no clue who the fuck she is.
Let me get this straight: You’re a famous hot chick?
I’ve had this fantasy many times. It usually ends with me being thrown out of the house party (it’s always a house party). Sometimes it ends with me banging her. As any encyclopedia will tell you: vapid dilettantes love to be treated like shit. The verbal abuse soothes their facsimile of a soul which aches with the bitter knowledge that they are profoundly undeserving of all they have. And Kim is most undeserving. She is the human equivalent of Leona Helmsley’s dog.
Here’s how this conversation goes down in my head:
[I'm in some fancy house somewhere. Very modern, very white, very spartan, very stupid. I don't know who got me in but suddenly I'm being introduced to Kimmy. She eyes me to figure out if I am "somebody". She decides I am not.]
Host Type Person: And this is Kim.
Me [whilst shoving hor d'uevres in my face-hole]: Hi.
Kimmy: Hello.
[Long pause while I give Kim a stare like I'm trying to figure out who she is. She smiles, expectant.]
Me: Have we met before? You look familiar.
Kimmy: I don’t think so.
Host Type Person: Kim is an actress.
[Kimmy beams.]
Me: What’s your name?
[Kimmy frowns at Host Type Person and begins looking around the room. She absently spins a diamond ring on her finger.]
Host Type Person: It’s Kim Kardashian. [chuckles and then turns to Kimmy] Himbokal doesn’t watch a lot of television. He he.
Me: Are you kidding? I watch a ton of shit. Even crappy reality garbage. [pause for a moment] I know! You were on Will & Grace! Not the skinny one but the skanky drunk one! Is Will gay in real life?
Kimmy: I’ve never heard of that show.
Host Type Person: Kim Kardashian. Keeping up with the Kardashians? On E?
Me: Who did what to the where now? [I finish my champagne and whistle for the waiter; waving the glass.]
Host Type Person: I’d appreciate if you stopped whistling. There are other guests who would like champagne too.
Me: Wait, were you on that show with the really douchy guy, what was his name? Jonathan. That hair show, Blow Out? And he was always breaking down and his eyes would well up and he’d say something awesome like, “I just try so hard sometimes and people just don’t understand that I can give anything less than the greatest hair care known to man. It’s so tough when you care about hair so much.” And then he’d sweep a bunch of scissors and hairspray off a counter cuz he cared so hard about razor cuts and shit. You remember that show? So awesome.
Kimmy: He used to cut my hair when I was younger. He gave me one of the worst cuts I’ve ever had.
Me: Eventually it’ll grow out. Have you had these little shrimp things? Fucking epic.
Kimmy: He cut my hair like 7 years ago.
Me: These things take time.
Kimmy: Okay well it was nice to meet you. [Offers hand]
Me: [moving my plate of shrimp away] Actually this stuff is free. You can just get it from the waiters.
Kimmy: Whatever. [Turns and stalks away.]
Me: Good luck with the acting thing! Landing the first part is always the hardest!
Host Type Person: [Angrily turning to me] Get out.
Me: Not without that champagne.
/
Sadly (or not sadly), I will say that that is probably an eerily accurate description of how that conversation would actually go. I’ve been around you enough times after you’ve had a flabongo or twelve, or a champagne flabongo (I wasn’t there. I just heard stories) to know that that’s pretty much how you roll. And I love it. I can finish the fantasy for you. Kimmy would fall for your charm and you’d decide that you’d much rather keep drinking the free C- and eating the tray-passed canapes than become part of another *leaked* Bang Bros production. You’d find a way to kick her in the butt and insult her a couple of more times before passing out in her living room with her favorite blanket in your mouth. Then, sometime in the middle of the night, you’d wake up–not knowing where you are–and sleep-kung fu your way through the house, looking for baguettes to eat. Not being able to find what you’re looking for, you’d stumble out the front door and walk home–150 miles.
Have we met before?
Don’t forget the part where he micturates in one of the bedroom closets… It’s important that we remain as accurate as possible during the recreation of this fantasy.
Every time a bedroom closet is micturated upon in this fair city, I have to compensate the owner?
Side-note: If we are going for accuracy the only thing I’ve ever drunkenly micturated upon was a poster of Rick James when I was wee 18 year old. The other times were strictly rifling through the closet trying to find Narnia. Or a toilet.