Jared Leto

So, yesterday was St. Patrick's Day. An All-American holiday that has made it socially acceptable to get wasted in public, wear green and be an annoying douchebag in large crowds.

I usually try to stay home and away from any drunken shenanigans (haha) but I was guilted into going to my friend's bar by another friend who said I owed him or some such shit.

So I'm at the bar drinking a non-green beer like a normal adult when out of the corner of my eye I see Jared Leto taking sips off of other peoples drinks while their backs are turned. What a cock-ass, I think to myself as I throw back a shot of tequila (I can't do the whiskey, it makes me confused and when I get confused I get angry and you wouldn't like me when I'm angry.) and finish off my beer. I get up and walk over to him as he's shaking a plastic cup with liquor soaked ice cubes that he found in a trashcan into his mouth.

"Hey, Jared!" I call out to him over the roar of the crowd. 

"Fuck Subway!" he yells at the air and looks around wildly, trying to place the location of the voice.

"Over here, Jared!" he finally sees me and with a completely faked look of recognition on his face, he smiles and gives me a big wave.

"Hey buddy! How are you?" I squeeze past several patrons who are attempting to out-Irish each other with horrible accents and get right in front of Jared Leto so I don't have to yell anymore.

A quick note: I'm very rude and sarcastic, but normally I'm not a man of violence. But seriously, tequila? Come on.

This fucking guy. Seriously.

"Hey Jared Leto, why do you have to suck so fucking hard all the time?" The smile goes right out of his eyes and for a split second he knows something is wrong. He can't place his finger on it, but I can see the goosebumps flash across his skin and he puts one foot behind him in the beginning of an attempt to turn and run. I don't let him.

I grab onto his shoulders so tightly that I feel my thumb pop out of its socket. I ignore the pain and with a big smile I drive my forehead into the bridge of his nose.

The blood shoots out and down like a broken faucet and the gargle that comes from him must have been a scream, but it doesn't matter now. With his foot behind him he doesn't have proper footing and starts to lose his balance. Before he goes completely down he spins, spraying blood, snot and tears all over a short woman who can barely keep her breasts tucked into her too-tight 'Kiss Me, I'm Irish' shirt. Her boyfriend is not happy.

There is blood in the water now and on the day when 'Everyone is Irish' it doesn't take more than the smallest spark to ignite this powder-keg of booze soaked idiocy.

I take my leave and return to the bar as the storm of fists and feet begin to rain down on Jared Leto.

I only saw him again for a brief second, but after the lights came up and everyone was herded out to taxis or police cars to take them either home or to jail, there was no sign that Jared had even been there except for the puddle of blood, urine and a few misplaced teeth.

Happy St. Patrick's Day.

I know you were hoping to see this picture anyways.
You're welcome.

Morgan Freeman

I don't really have a lot of clothes that require dry cleaning, but from past mistakes I have learned that I am not smart enough to clean my own sweaters unless I want to go into business selling little argyle sweaters for dogs or Kate Moss.

There is one dry cleaner that I go to and I refuse to go to any others. Not because they are the best or the owners speak the most English, but because I can see them from my front door and I didn't feel like Google-searching dry cleaners reviews. Same reason I pay $2 extra for a 12 pack of shitty light beer than other people: I'm lazy.

I open the door on a lazy Tuesday afternoon and in the corner next to the shreds of decades old Newsweek and Time magazines with a few plastic lawn chairs is Morgan Freeman idly sipping on a coke.

I walk over to make sure I'm not just seeing things, but yes. It's Morgan Freeman. Just hanging out in a dry cleaners.

"Hey, Mr. Freeman. Are you picking up an order?" And in his worldwide recognizable baritone that is both comforting and yet a force to be reckoned with, he answers "No, Nate. I'm just wasting time."

"Wasting time at a dry cleaners? I think your options for time-wasting activities would be a little more exciting, no offense."

"Oh, none taken. I just like going to dry cleaners from time to time and judging people."

"I'm sorry, judging people?"

"Oh you know. A lady comes in. Picks up her clothes. Turns and sees me. As she gets that gleam of recognition in her eye, I look down at her shoes or her dress, or whatever, then back to her eyes and sadly shake my head."

"So the joy of seeing Morgan Freeman in public is quickly replaced by the crushing depression inflicted by him hating on your outfit?"

"Precisely."

"That's odd. Are you drunk?"

"No, why do you ask?"

"No reason. Well, it was nice meeting you, Mr. Freeman. See you around. Maybe."

"Aren't you picking up some dry cleaning?"

"I'm not gonna risk it. My day is going too good."

And just then, Morgan Freeman's eyes quickly glance down to my old pair of Wal-Mart jeans that don't fit right on my pale little chicken legs, and then back up to my eyes. His lips draw to a tight thin line and, almost imperceptibly, his head gives a little shake.

That was a shitty day.

"Maybe shop Target, you cheap sonofabitch."