Tag Archives: time pimp

Ghosts of Talentless Celebrity Hacks Past

I know it wasn’t the nicest thing to do — like making fun of the retarded kid who lives down the street — but when Matthew McConaughey told me that he was from the future, I couldn’t help but laugh in his stupid face. I mean, if Matthew McConaughey was really the swashbuckling romantic anti-hero time traveler that he claimed to be, it would mean that he was privy to all kinds of crazy knowledge and technology that the rest of us had only dreamed of, and if had access to that kind information, wouldn’t you think he’d use it to make less crappy films? I have trouble believing that history will be kind to someone as dreadfully lame as Matthew McConaughey; the dude doesn’t even use deodorant (FACT)! No one wonder he gets into stupid, uninteresting romantic entaglements in all those stupid, boring romantic comdies — dude smells awful. Seriously. If we weren’t drinking on his tab right now, I probably would’ve puked before he get within ten feet of me. Fucking putrid, ugh.

When Matthew — we’re clearly on a first name basis, though he won’t let me call him Matt (he reserves ‘Matty’ for the ladies, he says) — when Matthew returns with the next round of drinks, I ask him why. Why, if he’s really a time traveler like he claims to be, would he waste it on being a lousy RomCom stupid star, rather than, I don’t know, a galactic dictator or super hero or something. He leans in really close—his breathe smells as bad as his underarms at this point in the night— and whispers, “For the pussy, brah. Pus-sy. Yeaaaah.”

Just like the line between a genius and a fool, the line between cool and vapidly dull is remarkably thin. Hang out with a big name Hollywood actor on his dime? Awesome. That actor being Matthew McConaughey, the fucking time traveler? I should’ve stayed home and masturbated into my sister’s socks again.

“But Matthew,” I tell him, “if you were a galactic dictator or a super hero or something, you’d still get all the chicks you want. And ya know, if you’re a time traveler, the entire space-time continuum of female orgasms is at your command. So why do you make such crappy movies?”

“How do you know that’s all I do?” he countered cryptically. Note that he doesn’t argue with my career assessment.
“I’ve seen all your movies, man. They’re crap. Fucking dreadful. Except for Dazed and Confused, but that had nothing to do with you.”

“Aw come on, what about U-571?” I don’t even have to respond that. “Okay, fine, but what do you think I do when I’m not shooting movies? That’s when I’m cruisin’ through the timestream, brah, picking up chicks of all kinds, any time. I wanna try something a little kinky? I’m into aliens? Cavewomen? I can do that. Those fuckin’ movies, they’re just training. It’s how I keep my chops up, for the ladies.”

I rolled my eyes, slammed the drink to my domepiece, and told him I was leaving and going back to Hugh’s place. That guy was a true, genuine, bonafide timepimp, and I didn’t have the time for McConaughey’s crap. “C’mon! What’s Grant got over me?” he whined.

“He’s British,” I shrugged.