Lindsay Lohan is One Classy Broad

The only surprising aspect of the most recent “Lindsay Lohan arrested in NYC” story is that Lindsay Lohan is still alive. It is a testament to the resiliency of the human body, the ability of the genitals to contain infectious diseases and viruses within the nether regions, and the defenselessness of the U.S. justice system against money and fame. I cannot even fathom how far the quality of dudes she’s banging has declined over the years. I once had a working theory I developed on my own-and still stand by, mind you-that I or any other “regular guy” could have had a threesome with Lohan and Paris Hilton when they were in their drug-addled and cock-starved heyday. The brilliance of the plan was its simplicity:

Via social media or good old-fashioned stalking you ferret out the location of the club they plan to slime around on any given night. You place yourself in that club on the same night, by hook or by crook. Wait in the fucking 2 hour line, juice the bouncer, skulk around in the alley behind a dumpster waiting for a Mexican bus boy to throw out some trash and then throw a block of wood in the door as it closes, whatever. Get your sorry ass in there. Make certain you have the following two items; a Snoopy fishing pole and a giant bag of blow. Sit in a corner somewhere and gently sip a cocktail. You have to drink something so that people aren’t too suspicious of your presence, but not so much that your fuckstick doesn’t work later on. Observe them as they take endless trips to the bathroom and make out with 6’2″, 145 pound dudes who are wearing ski hats with deep v-neck tees and power-skinny grey jeans. Stay vigilant, like a hawk waiting out a field mouse on a brisk winter morn. When their intoxication and low-born sluttery seems to be reaching a crescendo and you detect the first signs of panicked glances in the direction of the dude who is in charge of scoring more whiff, calmly affix your own bag of blow to the hook at the end of the line on your Snoopy fishing pole you smuggled in under your trousers. Cast it delicately so that the Bolivian marching dust lands just short of their booth. You’ll want to pop the line a few times to ensure your fish have seen the bait. If the club is particularly crowded you may want to consider using a bobber. This is a very delicate operation and requires precision execution by you. At this point you don’t want to set the hook, so when you see the first of these classless vampires strike at the bait, snap the rod and reel in a little line, all the while backing towards the fire exit. The commotion of the first fish striking at the bait will have attracted the attention of the second, and they will both make for the cheese as though lambs being led to slaughter. Keep retreating right out the back door, into the alley, and ultimately to your waiting car. Once madames Hilton and Lohan are in the back seat of your car it is safe to set the hook. “You ladies like to get high?” Off to the hotel room, garage or tool shed you’ve secured and boom. Banged. At this juncture you are limited only by your own imagination and their depravity, which at that point when Lohan was releasing pictures of herself and a gal pal taking racy photos of themselves holding butcher knives to each others throats is to say, limitless.

KISS–Keep It Simple, Stupid. If you think this wasn’t plausible at the time then you are a Negative Nancy with no balls. Is the herpes-gonorrhea hybrid STD you most assuredly would have contracted worth the tryst? I don’t know, I guess it depends on how much you like telling old stories.

I haven’t heard a whisper about Hilton in yonks. Has she grown up and moved on to higher-minded trustafarian pursuits? Or has her family hired big time minders to follow her every move and clean up or kill any and all mistakes? Whatever the case it seems for the time being that her wilder days are behind her. Lohan on the other hand……I don’t think we’re too far from the inevitable headline that she was found smoking poles for smack under a pier on Venice Beach. The residual checks from Mean Girls being played on TNT will be spent five years in advance. A really sad, cautionary tale. For the life of me I cannot think of another story where a child star went wrong……for example this guy is on the up-and-up.



About Zach

Male homo sapien. Warrior poet. I live in Chicago with one wife, one offspring, and Scout the dog. I enjoy various stuff. Besides skinny skiing and going to bullfights on acid, I also enjoy running, reading, drinking, eating and procrastinating on many things, such as starting this blog. I have a mom, a dad, and a younger brother who recently produced a sister-in-law. I'm the only person in my family, sister-in-law included, who doesn't have a post-graduate degree. I guess that makes me special. I grew up in a small to medium sized town in the middle of Ohio. In fact the even smaller town next door has a sign which reads "The Geographic Center of Ohio". Given this is what they choose to boast you can only imagine how exciting that town is. My town is infinitely cooler. For example on weekend nights people from my town and the surrounding villages and hamlets converge on the public square to "cruise" in their souped-up mini trucks, some bearing Confederate flags, despite growing up and living rather safely north of the Mason-Dixon line. This is high-minded stuff we're talking about here. I graduated sometime during the Clinton presidency from the local high school where I played football and participated in absolutely nothing else. This strategy paid huge dividends when I applied to numerous colleges on the eastern seaboard which were highly selective. When you show up to the admissions table with "HIgh School Football and Nothing Else" on your application, you get respect. After graduating from Ohio University with a degree in Economics that I've used for absolutely nothing, I moved to Boston. Boston is a lovely city. I was doing things I'm not proud of for beer money and I left after 16 months. My next move was to Chicago and 10+ years later there I still reside. I write this blog for therapeutic reasons. Much like some people paint to relax or smoke crack to unwind after a stressful day, I record my thoughts on Al Gore's World Wide Web for 9 friends, 4 family members, 1 person who accidentally clicked through after an unsuccessful Google search for something else, and a guy named Patriot1 who lives in a silver Air Stream in the Nevada desert and broadcasts his own radio show. Is there a point to all of this? I doubt it. Years ago and in a galaxy far, far away (College Park, Maryland, then Athens, Ohio) I was toying with the idea of being a journalism major. I enjoyed writing so it seemed the obvious fit. Then I attended career day and learned that journalism majors could look forward to a salary of $EA,TSH.IT per year with the promise of a fatal heart attack at 47 years of age. I'm not falling for that trick, I told them (them being no one, and told being saying it in my own mind in the shower). Approximately 15 years later here I sit declared the big winner in that battle: I never made any money doing anything else and now I'm writing entirely for free. So suck balls, journalism career day. The views expressed in this website are mine and mine entirely. I don't wish to be an even bigger black eye to my family than I probably already am. As a result of this I will never be able to run for public office and I accept that reality. But this website is a very dignified, well-dressed skeleton full of witty retorts and honorable deeds compared to the disheveled, stenching, staggering and loud skeletons who would come marching out of the closet to White Zombie's "Thunderkiss '65" if they ever unearthed the college years. So enjoy your train ride, your hangover day at work, your AA meeting or your dump. I'm here to serve.
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One Response to Lindsay Lohan is One Classy Broad

  1. Aaron Stull says:


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