Kristen Stewart

Last month I was in Manhattan for no other reason than to see these huge rats I keep hearing about. Apparently they can grow up to like cat or raccoon sizes and I had to see it to believe it. So I'm at E 96th and Fifth wondering where all the tall buildings are when I see Kristen Stewart approaching with a cup of coffee and her ever-present vacant expression as she's probably constantly wondering how she can breath without having to think about it.

Now, I hate this drooling, zombie-like, slack-jawed douche-monster just as much as the next person, but I love my wife and for some reason she likes the Twilight movies. I'm considering a divorce on those grounds alone and I'm pretty sure I'd win.

Why does everyone hate my stupid face so much? (Inhale... exhale...)

Anyways, my wife would love to have her autograph and would probably twist my head off my neck with her glare alone if I came back empty handed. Summoning every last ounce of willpower, I approach Miss Stewart and give a small wave.

"Hey, Kristen Stewart, I was wondering if you could sign this for me. Err, for my wife. Dammit."

She took a moment to realize that I wasn't some screaming fan, crying my mascara into a mess and speaking only in vowels.

"Your wife? Sure, what's her name?" I tell her and begin to thank her and carry on, but she continues with "You don't want one for yourself?" I stare at her for about ten seconds straight, trying my best to keep calm.

"Are... Are you fucking high?" Whoops.

"Yeah, I am." Not too sure how to respond to that, I give her the double-bird, tell her to fuck off and walk to the East Meadow where I watch three cat sized rats chewing on what looked like a human hand.

I hate New York.

Nicolas Cage

I was walking around Barnes and Nobles one day trying to discreetly add whiskey to my Starbucks coffee, when I heard a man in the next aisle talking very loudly on his cell phone. It wasn't very hard to recognize the voice as belonging to Nicolas Cage.
Keeping my cool I immediately dropped to my knees, clutching my alcoholic coffee to my chest so as to not spill any on the floor. If it spills on my shirt, I can suck it out, but I don't know where Barnes and Nobles' floor has been.
I pricked my ears to try and determine what direction he was facing so I could sneak past without him noticing me, but as fate would have it, Nicolas Cage was actively searching me out. I was fucked.
He stepped around the corner from the Teen Fiction section clicking his cell phone closed with one hand and adjusting his ridiculous leather jacket with the other.
"Hey, man, you're you." He was smiling. It was making my skin crawl. He took a step closer, I took a step back. I wondered to myself if I had put enough whiskey in my coffee as to make it flammable in a last ditch attempt to escape.
"Yeah, I am me. Thanks." I turned to leave but he was instantly 5 feet closer to me than he had been a moment before. I never saw his feet move.
"No no no. I mean, you're the guy that meets the famous people. That's awesome, man. And now you've met me! That's just rad, man. Rad."
"I'm pretty sure there's more than just me out there meeting famous people." I took the lid off my coffee cup.
"No, come on, I mean you're the guy who WRITES about it! That's so cool!"

"You understand how that makes you sound crazy, right?" I threw the coffee onto the ground in front of me and in one fluid motion whipped out a book of matches, lit one and tossed the whole book onto the puddle. The mixture was just right; we had ignition. A wall of flames erupted in between us. Nicolas Cage had his cell back to his ear and was screaming 'Help! Help!' That was my cue.
"Ghost Rider sucked dick and you're an asshole for making a sequel!" I jumped over the bookshelf and ran across the tops of the rest of them until I reached the front door.

I didn't stop running for a full hour.

I still feel kinda bad about burning down that Barnes and Nobles in wherever I was.