I used to go out with a standup comic. Let's call her Pelair... because that was her name. She had fiery red hair, big boobs, a big ass, and her own hair salon, called Pelair Hair. She asked me over to her house for dinner one night after she saw me on stage. I needed a free dinner more than Jamie Lynn needed a diaphragm, so I agreed.

Most of the dinner was uneventful, the usual chit chat and get to know you stuff. I'll rephrase that: she blabbered on and on about her hopes and ambitions and Hollywood and hair and famous people she coiffed and I nodded and wolfed down the food like a Zombie at a Mensa convention. Truth be told, 'food' is a very loose interpretation of what she served me. It looked like she scooped up a bunch of weeds and threw them on a plate. I spent most of dinner ignoring her dreams and looking for anything to give my meal some flavor - dressing, oil, Hershey's syrup. Finally, near the end, I got sick of feeling like a rabbit so I asked her if she had some hot sauce or something.

Suddenly she got distraught and said, "Nothing but goodness and wholeness enters my body." She smiled broadly and shoved a forkful of alfalfa sprout into her face.

"Really? Because the other day, I had a piece of a hot dog." I said.

"I consider anyone who eats meat, evil," she said. "Jamie, do me a favor... don't be evil."

".....Okay."

After I helped her clear the table (hey, I'm a gentleman), I walked around her apartment and snooped through her stuff while she washed the dishes (hey, I'm a Man!). There were angels everywhere. I mean everywhere. If there was a flat surface in the apartment, an angel knick-knack was chillin on it. Bobble headed cherubs shook their heads "no" vehemently whenever I walked by.

A normal person doesn't do this, I was thinking. As I continued looking around, I came across a huge headshot of her in the living room, and then more pictures of her all over the place I went into the bathroom, took a seat on the toilet, looked up, and fucking freaked out again - there was literally a life-sized poster of her directly across from the toilet, I guess as a focal point for anyone having a fecal matter.

A well-adjusted human being doesn't have pictures of themselves everywhere. I mean how do you wake up every day and say, "Hi me. Me. Me. I love me." And then to break up the monotony of YOU, you place angels everywhere?!? Plus who wants their body associated with taking a shit?

I spent a couple minutes sitting on the toilet composing myself before I came back out into the living room.

"Why do you have pictures of yourself?" I asked.

"Because I wake up every morning and give myself a big hug," she said. "Then I sing."

"Why?" I said.

"Because I'm a good fuckin person," she said. A lil pissed off.

Later on she told me how she used to be a biker chick and a huge slut. She blew all the members of Black Sabbath like ten times each when she was their groupie. I realized immediately that she couldn't have evil enter her body, because she'd had so much of it enter her in her youth. She probably hosted the entire Knievel family at one point. She went on to detail even more prodigious tales of youthful sex and sluttery. She was graphic, she was hardcore, she was filthy. I had a boner.

But NOOOOOOOWWWWWWW? Now she was a born-again Christian and a vegan. I was oh so fortunate enough to catch her in her re-born and blossoming phase. PRAISE THE LORD! Lucky me, a re-born vegan! Why do I always find girls immediately after their slutty phase? I have yet to find a girl who said, "It's cool you met me now! I'm really at the zenith of my deep throating ability. Buckle up!"

On the couch after dessert, I nodded and listened empathetically as she beamed about her new found sense of hope and pride, all the while thinking how best to shimmy off her organic cotton underpants. There was a lot of sexual energy in the air and we started making out like two animals, totally grinding. I started biting her neck and pulling her hair. Going crazy. It was ON like Donkey Kong.

Suddenly, she stops me and says, "I haven't had sex in six year. I'm a born-again virgin."

"Oh come on, you're not RRRREALLY a virgin," I said.

"I am in Jesus' eyes," she said.

"....Okay."

I grabbed her tit, took it out of her bra and started nibbling on it because I didn't want to argue with her. She went, "Uh...Yess..No..No...Yes..Yess...No...No..." She would smash my head into her tit until I started to suffocate and then suddenly pull it away. She'd push it and pull it. Push, pull. Smash, slap. I felt like I was either gonna get a black eye or Cauliflower ear.

Finally I said, "COME ON?!?!?"

"Oh my God, my body says yes," she said. "But my head says, No. No. No."

Oh shit, this was crucial, I thought. I have to say just the right thing to tilt the momentum in my penis's favor.

I said, "Um...Why?"

She said, "We're not married and you don't love me!"

"What are you talking about?" I said.

"It's bad to have sex before you're married, my sponsor told me that!"." she said. "I know it wasn't YOU that put your mouth on my breast, it was the devil. I know the devil made you do it."

"No, it was me."

"No it was the devil that made you do that," she said.

"No... it was God," I pleaded "God did!"

"No, God would never make you do that, but the devil would," she said.

Then she abruptly left the couch and ran into her room. I was about to leave when she returned wearing an animal print robe.

For the rest of the night she crawled around her apartment on her hands and knees acting like a cheetah. I would be lying down and she would be crawling over me, going "Rrrrrrrr!" with her robe on. And then when I would try to grab her, she would pull away. "You can't capture this pussy," she would say and then slink away and purr and lick her hand. To this day, if I see a cheetah on Animal Planet, I get wood.

I left, arguably, with the biggest case of blue balls in the history of man. She wouldn't even erk it because "of the evil sperm that would be released in her spiritual sanctuary."

Pelair and I never really went out again.

That night, when she dropped me off at my apartment she said she would give me a free haircut sometime. A few weeks later I followed up on her offer and called her. "Hey Pelair, I wouldn't mind that free haircut now."

"Okay, come to my place tomorrow at 5 p.m.," she said.

At 3 p.m. that day she called and said, "Jamie, I just wanted to let you know that I consider you evil and I don't cut the hair of evil demons."

Then she hung up.

You may find it hard to believe that I was ever this poor and desperate, but if you see any pictures of me from 1994, you'll notice how skinny and emaciated I looked.

Not coincidentally, you'll also notice how fucking long my hair was.

I am doing a film right now called "Finding Bliss," a comedy about porn. In it, I play a guy named, what else, Dick. Ostensibly, the movie is about porn actors trying to cross over into the mainstream as dramatic actors. It stars Denise Richards (and yes, I get a sex scene with her so suck it, haters!) and LeeLee Sobesoda or however you spell her name (google it bitches.)

Anyway, in one of my scenes with Denise, a dilemma came up (will the puns ever stop?): should Dick show dick in the movie? In other words, was Jamie going to show Little Jamie in the movie or not? To show peepee or not to show peepee, that was the question.

Personally, I don't think showing junk on film ever really hurts a man's film career. If you saw that movie KINSEY a few years back, you saw clear as day that Peter Saarsgard is hung like half an acorn, but he's still a hugely successful dramatic actor and has been nominated for multiple awards. There might even be an inverse relationship between Oscar trophies and schlong size. I don't want Mr. Saarsgard to 'google' himself and find this (although if he 'googled' himself more when he was younger he might have turned out larger), so I will say, in his hypothetical defense, that he could be a grower and not a shower (you need to pronounce that correctly or that sentence makes no sense).

I count myself as part of the 'grower' family. Sometimes, after a shower (now pronounce it the other way), I have looked down to find something that looked like a sad cocktail wiener in need of a Zoloft - come on, everyone has had LDS before! No, not Latter Day Saints -- Little Dick Syndrome. It's winter, you didn't eat your Wheaties, and you walk around all day with a crinkled, deflated balloon flapping in your boxers. Fortunately, I feel like I have a circus clown living in my taint who can blow the balloon up to an impressive size; at times long enough to be twisted into a poodle. Okay, a toy poodle. Still, it's quite a difference from the piece of fusili I had five minutes before. Or elbow macaroni. Whatever pasta provides you with the best visual. That being said, even soft, I'm at least a FULL acorn in season. Plus, the day of the shoot, I wasn't having any LDS problems, so I figured, "Hey, I'll go all in. Who doesn't love toy poodles?"

Unfortunately, more than a half pint of blood flow to the package region and the film gets an X. Yes, that's correct, you can't show a boner in a movie or its gets an X rating. I was very disappointed when I found that out. On the other hand, I didn't want to risk getting performance anxiety penis either. I know it can get cold when you're hanging out in the breeze, and the last thing I needed was for Little Jamie to not come out of his trailer.

Like most men who go full monty on film, I needed to look casual yet respectable. Since I'm famous, you have to add another inch for what is considered respectable compared to some unknown, for instance, who's playing a tranny Off-Broadway (cough, Bill Dawes, cough). That meant I needed the perfect amount of fluffing. So, seconds before shooting, I sat down with Little Jamie and gave him a stern talking to. I shook him and smacked him around a few times like I was Ike Turner and he had jut messed up dinner

I felt that the proud Mary beatdown resulted in a pretty good balance between 'blood flow ready for action' penis and 'whatever, I'm just a penis chillin' with my two homey balls' penis. Still, the director informed me that just because we filmed it, I could wait until I saw the dailies of the footage (or inchage, rather) before signing off on whether or not it could be used in the final cut of the movie.

One of the more bizarre, serendipitous things about shooting this film is the fact that one of the stars of the film is Ron Jeremy. If you don't know who Ron Jeremy is, you are probably a gay man who reads or something. In case you are in fact a gay man and you are reading my site by accident, Ron Jeremy is short, fat, hairy and, against all odds, probably the most famous male porn star ever. I saw one of his pornos with a girl I was dating once, and she said those words that every man fears: "Now THAT'S a cock!"

Seeing Ron got me thinking back to my "tuna fish" days when I had my first interaction with him. I had just been dumped both by my most recent job and my most recent girl. Not surprisingly, I was broke. And I don't mean like 'I got to wait for daddy's allowance next week' broke, I mean like below the minimum ATM withdrawal amount broke - if I even had an ATM card, which I didn't.

That meant the real worst part about being dumped wasn't 'no more woman for sex', it was 'no more woman to mooch food from.' Unfortunately, I still had to eat. So I trolled the restaurant circuit with my doctored-up resume looking for waiting jobs. For nearly a week I got bupkis (that means "nothing" for your non jews out there). That Thursday, I went to a new-fangled vegetarian restaurant in Beverly Hills in order to audition for their Friday night comedy show. After my 5 minute audition, the owner, a fat Italian guy from New York said, "Hey kid, you're not funny, but I could use a waiter." And THAT was how I "lucked" into my job waiting tables at "The Tofu Hut."

The owner was like a vegan Tony Soprano. He loved vegetables and he swore if anyone stole his recipes he would have them killed. Whenever a beautiful woman would come into the restaurant, he'd whisper in my ear, "Oooh, I'd like to show her my soy dog!" or "I'd like to TOFUCK her!" That one was actually sort of funny the first 148 times he said it.

Working there wasn't just belittling for the women; it was probably the most demeaning job I'd ever had. He kept asking me, "So, you're a comic, huh?" and then he would tell me vegetarian jokes, like, "What's the difference between boogers and broccoli? Kids don't eat broccoli!" All his jokes were vegan. I'm not kidding. His setups were usually about tempeh and his punch line was always some sort of vegetable. After he finished his joke, he'd threaten me, "Don't even think of stealing my material. I'll kill you."

Ron was one of the Tofu Hut's most frequent customers. The owner treated Ron like royalty. Whenever he entered the restaurant, the owner would turn to everyone and announce, "Hey guys, it's Ron Jeremy!" Like we were in Romper Room or Vegan Cheers. Then he would whisper in my ear, "Listen, don't screw this up. Give Ron anything he wants."

I'd go up to Ron Jeremy's table and ask, "Can I help you?"

"Yeah," he'd say. "I want apple juice. But it has to be organic. No chemicals. Okay?"

"Absolutely," I'd say.

"Okay," he'd continue. "And I want the falafel. Steamed, not fried. Has to be steamed."

"Sure," I'd say.

"And I want the organic baby leaf lettuce with the organic tofu and cheese. But not dairy cheese. Soy cheese. I can't have dairy. I'm lactose intolerant. It clogs my intestines."

In the middle of ordering, sometimes he'd get a phone call on his cell: "Okay, you need me at three o'clock? Anal sex scene? Ass to mouth? How many girls? Four? Sure, I can do that."

He'd take the phone away from his ear for a moment, then say to me, "The pumpkin pie. Yeah. Is the crust organic rice crust or wheat crust? Because I don't do gluten."

Back on the phone, "Another scene at four thirty? Two guys and a girl? Okay, that's good for me. Double anal penetration? Not really my thing, I don't want to rub cocks. I don't do gay. Okay, I'll see you in a bit. Yes, I'll wash my balls before I go. Bye."

I'm not a huge aficionado, but I like a good porn here and there, so I've have seen a few of his classic orgies. At one point, I couldn't help but notice that he never seemed to suck on any of the female porn stars' titties. I didn't think much of it, but then it hit me: Ron Jeremy IS lactose intolerant. He probably has a no-dairy clause in his rider.

The second time I saw Ron was at the Scream 3 premiere. He had his arms around two girls with the zepellin 90's fake boobs and heavily made-up faces; faces that belied the fact that either they hated their life in porn or Ron had really bad BO. I told him that I used to wait on him at "The Tofu Hut" and he looked at me bug-eyed like I had just come out of a pod and asked him to take me to his leader.

We talked for a bit and I tried to get Ron into the after-party, but I couldn't. He said, "Thanks anyway," and then said "Hey man, I've always been a big fan of your work." I was about to say "me too" but then realized that sounded incredibly gay. It was surreal. Ron seemed like a pretty cool guy. Just a normal, cool guy who happened to have enormous cockage.

I tried to think about Ron's demeanor while I played Dick in "Finding Bliss". I actually made the choice that Dick would be a fairly decent dramatic actor, as opposed to the easier choice of playing him as a horrible hack for comic effect. I think it worked and the director was happy.

Unfortunately, as the dailies would later show, it is impossible to act a 10 inch cock.

Recently I went to a bbq thrown by a rather large Hollywood producer; and when I say large I mean FAT. The guy is a fuckin' pig. He's one of the fattest producers in the business, but also one of the biggest career-wise.

I usually don't go to these types of affairs for two reasons. One, I hate banal conversation. Two, I always get the same annoying question: Whatever happened to the Jamie Kennedy Experience? Normally, I can handle boring, mindless conversation, but I can't deal with THAT goddamn question. When I get it, which is almost always, I immediately want to reply

"I don't know, I've never heard of that show. My show wasn't called the Experience, it was called the Jamie Kennedy Experiment.!!! If you're such a big fuckin' fan, can't you at least get the name right?"

Getting the title wrong isn't what really gets me, though. What gets me is that I have to remind a bunch of people in the industry that my show was...ahhh...CANCELLED! And it happened 3 years ago. That's when they go on to ask me why the show was canceled. Oh, I don't know, maybe because networks are assholes??

On this occasion, my agent told me to go because he wanted me to meet with some producers who might be interested in working with me on developing an idea, and all that so on and so forth bullshit. It felt like your basic Sunday morning Hollywood barbecue with all the Hollywood accoutrements: great food, open bar, massage table, ping pong, swimming pool. So I'm talking to these producers, trying to focus on their empty Hollywood speak, when I spot an attractive little sprite out of the corner of my eye, running around without any pants on. And I thought to myself ...so it's THAT kind of Hollywood barbecue.

I turned to get a better look at her and maybe make eye contact when I realized I wasn't looking at a free-spirited Roller Girl kind of chick. I was looking at a girl...a little girl.. YUCCKK.

I fucking hate that!

There's nothing worse than when you think you've seen a hot chick and it turns out to be a fucking 8 year old. I know you're thinking: what are you, fucking sick?!? But you don't understand, this happens to me at the beach sometimes.. I'll be there with a friend and see a girl in a bikini from 200 yards away and kind of mosey on over to her by nonchalantly kicking my soccer ball farther and farther. As I get closer, working on my opening line, I realize she's not wearing a bikini. She's wearing princess panties and a life jacket. I'm trying to flirt with a fucking fetus! Then I'm like, FUCK, that's my neighbor's granddaughter. Puke.

There should be some kind of beach code: Girls under 10 have to carry a bright orange sand pail. Girls under 13 have to wear a 1-piece swimsuit. How young is too young to not to wear pants? The sun fucks up depth perception something fierce.

Any rape, I look down at the kid at the barbecue a little further and I realize she doesn't have any bikini bottoms on either...or as I like to call them, UNDERWEAR! Don't get me wrong, I'm all for freedom of expression and being one with your body 'n shit, but this party wasn't being thrown in Thailand so a pantless 6 year old girl didn't really fit.
What's weird is, she was tall. Like abnormally tall. She was either advanced for her age or had some sort of glandular condition, I don't know. All I can tell you is that she was probably seven and if you looked at how long her femurs were, at the top you could just make out what looked like the beginnings of a bush. I know. I know: nasty! But it ain't me, I'm the victim here.

I'm sitting there nibbling at a restaurant-grade KOBE beef burger trying to avoid making direct eye contact with her 1st grade furburger, and what does she do? She comes up to me and asks if she can have a bite. Then, just to add insult to felony, she gets really wobbly and kid-like so I have to hold her up as she eats. Great, I thought to myself, I've got a hairy stumbling pantless toddler eating out of my hand while my other hand rests near her ass region. The whole thing was incredibly uncomfortable.

Now comes the hard part. My hands are full, my attention is focused on keeping the Skittles-addled rugrat upright, and I have to do everything I can NOT to look down and see her exposed you-know-what.

I know what you're thinking...HIT THAT SHIT, JK!! Oh, I get it. It's okay for Roman Polanski to do it because critics love his movies, but not me. Oh...it's not okay? My bad. Kidding!! Some idiot might believe that.

Seriously though, no matter who it is, no matter how old, fat, young, old, mom or nun, if someone walks in front of you naked...you gotta look. An 8 year old walks into a room, you're going to look at his dick. Make sure it's there. Your mother walks into a room...you're gonna check out her twat. Not in a sexual way. It's just a glance and then bye-bye. No judgments. I looked, now I'm done. That's it. You'd do it and you know it. We all do it. It's our nature.

Of course if you're caught, then you're the weirdo. That's the weirdest part of my whole situation: the fact that I might look at her spot and then be the one who is judged. I'm the weirdo!? What about the seven year old with no pants on?! Or the parent of the seven year old with no pants on?! If you're old enough to spell pants, you're old enough to wear them. I love how I am the only one willing to come to grips with this half-naked reality and I am the weird one! I'll never understand.

Fortunately, JonBenet got her legs under her and finished pecking at my meat before her mother and the barbecue's host (The F(ph)at Producer) came over to say hello and ask about whatever happened to the Jamie Kennedy Execution. I ended up talking to them for awhile. The mother said they're on the girl's 3rd school in four months. She can't keep her pants on, is what the teachers and administrators keep saying. Imagine that. Her mom was totally zen about it though. She told me in her typical Hollywood parenting way, "Hey, at least she has a nice ass."

A friend once told me you're not really cheating if you have sex with a condom because your penis is hitting rubber instead skin. He said you're basically just storing your penis somewhere warm, like a dick mitten. Surprisingly, when I was going out with my old girlfriend--let's just call her Botox--she was always afraid I was gonna cheat because I was always going off on location somewhere. "You're desirable," I told her. "You could also cheat." To protect herself from stupid ideas like my friend's, she wanted a written contract that set the rules and parameters for what we were and were not allowed to do. Okay, I thought, how about something like this?

Oh, one disclaimer!: It's important to remember that SHE wanted me to write this "contract" and, since I'm a retard, I couldn't help but make it kind of tongue in cheek and a little ridiculous.

Disclaimer to the disclaimer: I pretty much meant what I wrote. It's one of those things where you throw out a statement that you really mean but then couch it in some goofy way to defend yourself in case someone gets mad at you: like my one gay friend who, at the end of a night of drinking, starts with just the slightest of homosexual overtones:

"Well, no girls at this bar. I guess we could just go fuck each other now! Hahahahahha! Kidding, I'm just kidding! That's crazy, right? Like, any of you guys would like to go back to my place and just suck dicks? Of course not, that's what I'm saying... although it might be fun... KIDDING AGAIN... right? There are no dicksuckers here...are there??"

My point is, my contract falls somewhere in between gospel truth and an absurdist Beckett piece. It's been so long, I can't really remember which parts I meant and which I didn't.

Disclaimer to the disclaimer to the disclaimer: I AM THE PIG! NOT THE GIRL! If I was talking about the girl I would have used a more appropriate word like "slut" or "sucker" or "merciful angel princess". Duh!

Here's a draft:

1.) I can go out with anyone I want, anytime, anyplace, anywhere.

1.a.) You can go out with anyone you want at any time, unless:
1.a.i) that person is an actor
1.a.ii) that person is a musician
1.a.iii.) that person is Josh Hartnett

1.b.) You can go out with anyone you want anyplace, anywhere, unless:
1.b.i.) I am at the place
1.b.ii.) I am going to be at that place
1.b.iii.) or that place is in the untied states of america

2.) I have to use a condom at all times except for blowjob because you can't feel them that way, right!?

3) No butt sex...for either of us...giving or receiving.

3.) We will negotiate which holidays to spend together since sometimes we may want our space to live it up. For instance: I'd love to spend Thanksgiving with you, but you have to make that pumpkin cinnamon pie with the soy crust I love so much. Christmas is you, Valentine's is you. But Halloween? New Year's Eve? Memorial Day weekend? That may be me. Arbor Day, Flag day, and Chinese New Year is all you, though.

4.) I can go out with other girls to a casual dinner as friends, except December 7th...your birthday. Strippers count.

5.) Threesomes are okay, unless it involves another guy. I would rather you not bring another guy to bed. If you want to fool around do it on your own time.

6.) I will kiss you after you go down on me as long as:
6a.) you brush your teeth first
6b.) it was yesterday

7.) You can't make me feel guilty if I won't let you spend the night. Other girls cannot spend the night. Strippers don't count.

8.) If we fool around on each other and something weird happens--a guy has a wart, a girl has chafing, some guy bites your clit off, etc--we must tell each other about it. Otherwise, be cool, and try to avoid herpes.

9.) We have to call each other before we come over, ALWAYS! ALWAYS! ALWAYS!. Not because of cheating, just because I could be running lines and you know how I hate to be interrupted when I'm running lines with really hot girls.

10.) Try not to have expectations. If someone asks if you're involved, say you're open. Unless of course the guy's a scumbag or more famous than me. Then tell him you're six years deep into a committed relationship. And if it's Josh Hartnett, fucking run.

11.) You should purchase all lubes, condoms, dildos, wigs, and heels. I'll pay.

12.) Always know that I love you and care about you and only want you to be happy. I mean, you may get that part in Constantine and Keanu may want to put it in your poop chute. Then where does that leave me? I'm more useful to everyone in this world if I'm honest. I know this contract is unconventional, but so are we. If people can't accept us, they're unacceptable!

I wanna take a moment to apologize to everybody. I think it's been about 2 months since my last post. I meant to post much more frequently but I just got so busy. I may have lost some fans because of it, and for that I really do apologize, but I hope I can get them back. I'm going to try and post once a week. Thank you for all the positive feedback on Heckler trailer. It should be coming out in the not so distant future. I also wanna say what's up to Northeastern University. Thanks for reading.

Now, the next few stories might make me look a little desperate. They all involve things i did to get sex. What you need to understand is that these are stories from when I was younger. Am I proud of some of the things I did or suffered through? No, but that doesn't mean they aren't the truth or that they aren't exactly like the things every other guy out there has done when he was young in the service of getting his pencil wet. But I'm older now so I do my best not to stoop to old tricks to get girls in the sack. I've matured and realized that direct honesty is the best way to avoid long term negative consequences. That's why now when I meet a hot girl I want to sleep with all I do is pull out a copy of Malibu's Most Wanted, point to her lips and point to my face on the cover. DESPERATE!!!!

These are the confessions of a future ex-scumbag.

THE FAT GIRL UPSTAIRS

When I first moved to LA, I was pretty lonely. I spent all of my time trying to fit into the mold of the typical Californian (I haven't quite been able to figure that one out yet) and get acting jobs (which were non-existent), and no time on my love life (which was never-existent). Unfortunately, at 17, my penis was painfully optimistic. Every morning, like clockwork, it poked its head up and did its whole "Go get 'em, today's the day!" thing. I don't know why I'm telling you this; I guess because it's a good long-winded way of justifying the fact that I porked an incredibly fat chick. I know that sounds shallow and un-pc, so let me be more clinical in my description. She was "morbidly obese." I don't want to reveal this woman's identity, though, so let's call her Fatina.

Fatrina lived in my building, directly upstairs from me. She was... well, fat... and word on the street was that she was real slutty. I didn't know her and I had only met her once or twice in passing, but people in the building complained about hearing her all the time. Apparently, the walls reverberated with tales of her libidinous behavior. Personally, I suspected the sounds were just her eating funyuns.

One night she came down to my apartment eating a pop-tart and said "lets go to a club!" Like I said, I was lonely and my social life was non-existent, so I agreed to go. She took me to some hole in the wall and we "danced." I don't know if you could really call it dancing, though. It was more just me standing there frightened and her spastically gyrating around me. To make matters worse, she was nearly a foot shorter than me, so her swirling globs of boob flab and back fat kept hitting me in the ribs. To get away from her and avoid injury, I tried to dance by myself, saying "Sorry, I need to practice my moves." Still, she always seemed to waddle her way over. With her like 5'3" and 258 pounds, and me 6'1" and starved Somalian skinny, we looked like Big Bird and Snuffalufugus on the dance floor. When she tried to hug me, we looked like a lower case "b". After a couple of -glasses of vodka from the bar, she pushed me up against the wall and said, "Im gonna fuck your sweet little ass tonight."

I said "Please, God, no," but my dick pricked up its ears and said a resounding "Yes." Despite my internal and external protestations, despite my claims that it would ruin our friendship, and despite my good intentions, I started getting a boner. I didn't want it, but it happened. I was so young and horny I practically lived in a perpetual state of reluctant wood anyway - the type of wood that doesn't quite reach full mast. It sort of guiltily starts bending at the ¾ mark as if to say "I know this is a terrible idea, but goddammit, I'm on standby if you need me."

She dragged me back to her place, and began to do something to me. What's the word? ... oh yeah: rape. She threw me around like a rag doll, pushing me against the wall, into chairs and onto the couch. My erection just got more and more pronounced with each slam into a piece of furniture. I kept looking at it through my pants thinking "How is this POSSIBLE? Really?" Finally, she got on top of me, ready to just jam me in, when suddenly she jumped up, went into the kitchen, called Pizza hut and ordered 2 large stuffed-crust meatlovers pizzas. I shit you not.

She came back into the living room from the kitchen with a condom in her hand. Why she kept them in her kitchen, I will never know. Maybe they were edible. Either way, I definitely wasn't surprised. Before I could put it on she got down on her kankles and began sucking on my shmekl like she was trying to get the cheese out of a piece of stuffed crust. Before I knew it, she rolled on the condom and began her blubbery crawl back up on top of me. Somehow my wang found an opening. Maybe it was just a fat roll with a great angle, but it was wet and slippery, so I let it fly. I felt like I was fucking Jabba the Hut. When she lowered down onto me, I thought my nuts were gonna pop out of my scrotum like the eyeballs on a stress toy.

I wrestled my way out from underneath her after like 5 seconds and started to have sex with her from behind. I came in about 8, no 7 seconds, and wanted to go home. Fatrina wouldn't let me. She said, "you're not leavin' 'til we fuck again, faggot!" I was scared shitless. I was a teenager who had just moved 2500 miles away from his quiet suburban neighborhood to be an extra. The last thing I would have wanted was for my mom to have to bury her youngest son because he suffocated under the weight of an angry, sex-crazed blimp. So I stayed. In about 4 minutes of a war of attrition between my brain and my balls, I got hard again, and we started where we left off. I just remember doing her doggy style and thinking that I was fucking an elephant. My hands had to be close to six feet apart. But I was so horny I couldn't stop. I kept marveling at the scene; like I was watching one of those nature shows on National Geographic HD where they slow the film down during a kill sequence or an elaborate mating ritual. The second time lasted about 1.5 minutes.

I feigned exhaustion after that and told Fatrina I wanted to go back to my apartment. She said, "Just stay here. Let's wake up together."

I got to go," I said.

Then she said, "C'mon, let's just wake up together, motherfucker." It went back and forth like this for a while. She would bounce from being loving to angry, to really hungry. "I'll give you a little treat in the morning, too," she'd purr.

Finally, I stood up and said, "No. I really got to go,"

She looked at me with daggers in her eyes and screamed "fine, no pizza for you!"

Almost on cue, the pizza man rang the doorbell. She angrily took both pizzas, paid, and slammed the door on me and the pizza man. They smelled so good and I was so poor and so hungry. Through the front window I saw her throw them on the counter in disgust. I didn't even get a slice.

Every once in a while, for the rest of the time I lived in that building, I would hear her having sex as I walked in the stairwell at night. It never got me horny, but it made my stomach growl something fierce.

I know, I know--two months and all I got is a story about a fatty?!? Sorry more to come.

jfk

In September, 2005, a couple months after the release of Son of the Mask, director Mike Addis and I set out to shoot a documentary about hecklers. We toured the country for months, shooting shows, and interviewing comics. As we were on the road, Addis pointed out that, coincidentally, we were going through some of the towns in which some of the most spiteful critics of the movie were living. Being a masochist, I decided I wanted to interview those guys. They sort of fit in with the idea of the documentary, because, in one sense of the word, they WERE hecklers. Isn't that what a lot of critics are? They were not just critiquing the movie, they were critiquing my career, my life, my face. There are obviously good critics out there, but there are also a lot of guys that really are hecklers...just in a written medium. It seemed that comparing critics to hecklers would be a kind of interesting sociological experiment.

Heckling is nothing new--it existed in Shakespearean theater, Vaudeville, Milton Berle's act, The Muppet Show. It's been around forever. Stand-up comedians are trained to deal with hecklers. I've become pretty good at dealing with hecklers in a live environment and found it isn't that hard to shut up and/or humiliate those who attack me. But the heckling phenomenon has taken a new shape with the advent of the Internet. Twenty years ago, there were only a handful of critics writing for papers. Now there are literally thousands...blogging and writing on websites especially. Today, when that same comedian makes a movie, he's attacked on all sides for that work--on the Internet, in papers, on the radio and TV--and he has no recourse. What we found really amazing was the degree of resentment and anger toward those trying to make people laugh (especially if they were getting paid well for it). Sites like "Aint It Cool News," "Hollywood Bitchslap," "Rotten Tomatoes," "WaffleMovie.com" all just try to outsnark each other. They even have AWARDS for movies that are the most poorly received.

Nearly a year into our filming, we got really lucky. Barbra Streisand got heckled and told the heckler to "shut the fuck up." Vice-President Cheney was visiting an area hit by Katrina and an audience member heckled him, yelling "Go fuck yourself, Mr. Cheney" (at least the heckler had enough respect to call him "Mister"). But the biggie that fell into our laps was the Michael Richard's meltdown. Here was a guy more experienced as a sketch comedy/sitcom actor than as a stand-up comic. He was not at all equipped to deal with voluntary or involuntary audience participation, and his run-in with a couple of hecklers is now YouTube history.

Another thing we wanted to make clear is the fact that this film was not going to be a pity party for comics. The problem is not so much that performers get their feelings hurt. No shit. The problem is that the anger, the vitriol, the petty jealousy and gossip trivialize lives on both sides. The moment you decide you want to be a heckler or let a heckler truly affect you is when you lose. But the same can be said of dealing with critics...you let them affect you and you lose again.

Part of putting yourself out there is accepting that your message may meet resistance. Nowadays, politicians are so heckler-phobic they fill the room with planted fans and friends just so no one even asks a negative question. It's called astroturfing, and it kind of defeats the purpose of live performance.

So we focused on the never-ending twisted symbiotic relationship between the heckler/critic and the performer. I don't try to make myself look misunderstood or better than the heckler or critic, I'm just trying to understand the nature of these relationships. So unlike Michael Moore (who we like quite a bit), we had no preconceived notions going in. We really did want to understand this world and build the resulting journey into a movie. And we didn't edit out the people who trash me (and they do trash me hard). I featured them almost more than anybody.

So without further adieu, here's the trailer for Heckler. I hope you like it.

The jacuzzi is one of the greatest inventions of the 20th century. It just screams "sex." Once you step into its confines, you can't help but think porn, Love Boat, and Wilt Chamberlain all in one brainwave. It bubbles scandal.

Back at the hotel, Bill and I decided to get the girls into Marriott's large outdoor jacuzzi. At first, they resisted the idea. They went with the tried and true "with what bathing suit?" excuse. Like a good (opening) comic, quick-witted Dawes came back with the ol,' "Well...the one God gave you" retort, forcing them to compromise. They decided to come in but would stay in their underwear; which was retarded, but a start. The Friend stripped down to a revealing black silk thong, and Bill pumped a fist under the bubbly froth (I hope it was his fist). "Demi" stripped down to a pair of baggy granny panties that looked like she was wearing a dirty diaper. He gave me a look to say, "Haha, sucka!"

After all four of us settled in, I told Dawes to step it up a notch. I said, "Girls, Bill has to go in his birthday suit because he's....Swedish." (HOOO AH!) This move usually gets girls to feel more comfortable with the idea of removing a little fabric. No going--they were staying in their Forever 21s. Now it's naked Dawes, Jamie in his boxer briefs, and two sober girls in their bra and panties. To add insult to injury, Dawes and I are on one side of the jacuzzi, and they are on the other. It's total 6th Grade Winter Dance. Everybody's uncomfortable, and there are no Pina Coladas. Just floating penii.

Finally Dawes grabs a yellow floatie noodle from the pool, attaches it to his penis, and says, "Look, I'm an Asian porn star!" It draws a few giggles from the girls. Things seem to be getting a little better. I decide to throw my hat in the ring, and I back my buttocks right up to the jet as it shoots into my anus. I did it as a joke, but I have to admit, it felt pretty good. I didn't want to leave. That jet was the ring to my Golem. I started squirming back and forth because I had had the itchiest asshole all day. Then I started screaming "MARVIN MARVIN MARVIN" in the most Jewish voice I could muster. Marvin usually kills...but not to these girls. They looked at me like I was the gayest homosexual on the planet.

I finally stop and say, "Girls, you ever try this on your front side?" Crickets. And a pffttt from my girl. I decide to pull off my underpants and twirl the soggy mess like a stripper at Earl's Famous before tossing them on the cement. Demi folds her arms. Grasping at straws by this point, I do my trick where I say, Hey did you guys see the porpoises?! And then immediately go under water and shoot my ass up above the surface and wiggle it around like a porpoise, then come back up and look for a reaction. Tumbleweeds. After a short beat, Dawes does his yellow floatie trick again, saying, "Oooooh, you rike it rike dat!" and receives more light giggles. (Fuckin' prop comic!)

I've had enough of that shit at this point, so I decide it's time to go into Ignore Mode again, and I pull a Clark Griswold. "I'm goin' in the pool," I say. I hop out and jump right into the pool naked. "Who's comin' in?!" AGAIN, nothing. The three of them are all laughing, and Dawes is slappin' his girl on the head with his floppy faux Asian cock, and nobody cares about me!

I'm thinking when did I become the fat girl?! "Hey, it's nice in here," I shout over to them. "They got a basketball hoop." No response. Now I'm desperate, I'm nervous, and Dawes is having all the fun. I look around, scan the pool, and at the top of my lungs scream...."CHICKEN FIGHT!!!!!!!!!!!"

The chicken fight is always a great call. It's the perfect combination of fun, laughter, exercise, and a girl's legs wrapped around your neck. The girls perked up from the jacuzzi, looked at each other and went, "Yeah!!!" The girls immediately got up and jumped into my pool. Dawes did a cannonball.

Bill, being an athlete, hoisted The Friend onto his shoulders and revved up for a little flesh jousting. Demi, "The Specimen," started to mount my shoulders while we were still in the deep end. After some struggle, I was able to get under her and lift her up, only to see Bill charging towards me. When he got close, we both realized that our penii were waving around in close proximity to each other like little eels. I shot my ass back, and Bill took the opportunity to lower his shoulders so his girl could get in a nice grab at mine (girl, not penis) before rearing back out of our reach. CHEATERS!!! Demi started squeezing her thighs around my neck to balance herself, and I went under. Bill pushed forward again, and Demi squeezed her legs tighter. I was getting choked out like a UFC fighter. I went under again...so cold...so cold....Finally, she fell back, and I was able to get my head above water and take a much needed gasp of oxygen. Through the fog, and oblivious to the fact that I had a Jiu Jitsu blackbelt as my partner, I heard Bill and his girl laughing and high-fiving.

All in good fun, right? WRONG. Demi was pissed. I told her that Bill was a wrestler with a good base, and that I have a bad heart. She didn't want to hear it. She just wanted a rematch. Fuckin' Jersey girls! I knew I wasn't going to win, and I could tell it was extremely important to her that I did. I wish I could have texted Bill and told him to throw the chicken fight, but my phone isn't waterproof. She hopped back on my shoulders, again in the deep end.

The second fight lasted longer, which meant more torture, gurgling, and drowning for me. Bill just kept laughing in my face as I spit water and tried to breathe through Demi's rear naked choke. Once again, I was under while Bill and The Friend cavorted in triumph. To cap off their celebration, they went back to the hot tub and started making out, and really intensely too.

My girl was pissed. I thought she was kidding, but she was really pissed. She said, "What the fuck is wrong with you? Can't you just stand up? I can't believe we lost!" I tried to laugh it off and make out, but she tightened her lips like a dancer at a Duke lacrosse party. She said, "Jesus Christ, you're a fawckin weakling!" Then she told me I was a pussy for not being able to win "one fawckin' chicken fight." I took that shit personally and did the only reasonable thing I could think of. I challenged that wop to a race. One lap across the length of the pool, freestyle. I won by a quarter length. I jumped up and down shouting, "LA crushes JERSEY!!" She squinched her face up even more and told me "I smoke asshole." In defense of myself I threw it in her face that "I don't even have my heart medication and I still won." Gloating and short of breath, I realized this was no way to get her to take off her GRANN-TIES. In my peripheral vision, I saw Bill rounding 2nd base and headed for 3rd just as the jacuzzi timer finished, the bubbles disappeared, and they looked over at the two of us in the middle of some bizarre lovers' spat. And just like that...it was over. Demi walked away from me, and The Friend hopped out of the jacuzzi. They had a quick sidebar and immediately started putting their clothes back on.

Bill and I followed suit and looked at each other perplexed. The girls said they needed to get a cab back to their timeshare. We asked them to stay. They whispered to each other for a bit and said, "No, we have to go back." We got our stuff and went to the lobby to get them a cab. As I put on my boxers and my shoes, I couldn't figure out what was going on. "Bill, what happened? Was it the chicken fight?" Bill just gave me a pffft, like he was from Jersey too. Dejected, I looked down and saw two rather large skid marks in the bottom of my underwear as I was pulling them up. The bottom of my Hanes looked like Jeff Gordon and Dale Jr. went drag racing through mud. Not only was I a bad chicken fighter, I guess I had sharted earlier and stained my shorts. Damn comedy club buffalo wings. What's even grosser is I still put them on.

We put the girls into their taxi and went back to our rooms. Next time, I won't use something as juvenile as a "chicken fight" as my closer. I'll stick to more mature methods like "Spin the Bottle" or "I never." Or maybe I'll just pass her a note asking her, "Will you go with me?"

When you're on the road doing stand-up comedy, there usually aren't many things for you to do. Typically, you get into a city on a Friday morning, and the first thing you do is three or four radio interviews with morning DJs named after animals (Dr. Camel, The Bear) or crazy muppets (Gonzo). Then you do your two shows at 8pm and 10pm that night, you're done by midnight, and you crash. You sleep for 12 hours, do three shows Saturday at 7pm, 9pm, and midnight; done by 2am, crash, and sleep for 12 hours again.

On Sunday, any ambition to do anything constructive (work on screenplays, pitches, or jokes) has gone to shit, and you go see a movie. Finally, you do the Sunday 8pm show, and you're done. Usually you fly home or to your next destination the following morning. Usually, it's just sleep and work and fly. Sometimes, though, you finish your weekend with a drink, or an encounter.

A couple of weekends ago, I finished nine months of touring. I was doing stand-up, doing publicity for Kickin' It Old Skool, and shooting a pilot for FOX all at the same time. When I was done, I wanted a lil reprieve. I decided that the set of shows I had booked at the Palm Beach Improv would be my last for a while.

Keep in mind, the Palm Beach Improv is NOT in Palm Beach, where there are mansions the size of Aaron Spelling's. It is in West Palm Beach, where there are flying cockroaches called Palmettos. The valet at the Marriott swore to me that one of them flew off with his mother and took her to Cuba. I decided that a small town like West Palm was the best place for me to sit and vegetate for a few days while I contemplated my existence.

I convinced Bill Dawes, my opener, to stay with me. He said okay because he didn't have anything to do until that following Wednesday. For three days, we either sat around or took in all the sights West Palm Beach had to offer. We went to the Cheesecake Factory, the movies, the arcade, Starbucks, Tommy Bahamas, Starbucks again, Borders, Linens 'n Things, and Nine West. Basically, we went to a strip mall.

At Pizza City, our last fine dining spot of the week, I gorged myself on chicken Parmesan until I felt like Big Pussy times two. Bill just had a HOUSE salad, hold the dressing (gay?). I was mainlining cappuccino and channeling Quentin Tarantino as I discussed how there was no difference between a male breakdancer in a coma and a male figure skater looking for respect, and how I just couldn't understand why my movie had made 110 million dollars less than Blades of Glory.

During my rant I mentioned that I might finally be seriously looking for a girlfriend, and he told me that a little "upfucking" might be a good career move--meaning that if I get with a high wattage star, my star might burn a lil brighter. That might sound a little superficial and gross, but it's what ALL of Hollywood does, not just KFed--look around.

As I finished my fourth cappuccino and started my second heart attack, a bit of downfucking walked by. Her name was Sheila, and she was one of the cocktail waitresses from the Palm Beach Improv. Bill moved his salad aside, and his little cherubic face suddenly went aglow, like a girl who was just told how good her lowlights look.

Shelia sat down and joined us after giving Bill and me a few cheek swipes of her lips. Bill is perky because this is a girl who he has been flirting with all weekend, and he is convinced now is the time for her to be his. There is only one problem: she has a boyfriend. Being a bit of a cocksman, Bill believes the boyfriend is just a minor deterrent, a mere roadblock on the way to Lake Finechina (vagina). I'm a realist, and I know that this lake is bone dry because A) this girl told Bill she wasn't gonna cheat, B) this girl was in a hurry on her way to buy coke (not cola) for her friend's birthday party, C) this girl lived in her boyfriend's penthouse free of charge and didn't want to piss off "the landlord," and D) this girl used to be one of the top strippers at the Penthouse Executive Club in NYC. She was trying to put her shady past behind her and live on the straight and narrow. I mean seriously, who goes from one of the best pole dancing establishments in the business to hocking honey garlic chicken fingers for bridal showers and drug dealers in West Palm Beach unless she's trying to go square? If it was still about the money and the fame, she'd still be on the pole. And she wasn't going to throw it all away for my opener, who looks like Ellen DeGeneres on steroids no matter how good of an impressionist he is.

She finally tells Bill she feels weird and shoots him down a final time, but admits if she wasn't on a coke run or had a boyfriend she would definitely like to take him behind the dumpster and see his braciole. As she walks away, Bill tells me to "look at her ass." I do. Now I have a boner and order a fifth cappuccino.

Finally, we leave. We walk. We talk. I'm feeling fat but hard. Bill's just hard. We decide, fuck it, let's go to Tommy Bahama and look at Hawaiian shirts again, when out of the blue we see not one but dos pairs of legs. The kind of legs you notice from eight blocks away.

We try to talk about the movie we're writing, but the conversation begins to take a decidedly ADD-ridden tone:

"So I like the idea of the guys working at a telemarketing firm...holy shit look at those two...maybe we have to figure out how they decide to...my god both those girls have really long legs...so they work at a telemarketing firm...jesus christ she has no underpants on...oh my god!"

Despite wanting to focus my energy productively on my career, there are times when my body takes over and does things that my mind can't control. This was one of those times. Before long, my legs were quickly and covertly carrying the rest of me down the street, weaving in and out of parked cars, ducking into storefronts like a Ninja Warrior. Bill was right behind me, giggling like a schoolgirl who'd just glimpsed her first penis.

Like it or not, this is often what it's like for guys. It's a primordial, genetic thing. The challenge to see if you can get this beautiful animal to come back to your cave. It's the excitement of the unknown. The chase. In this case, literally.

After a five block ninja sprint, we stop. Suddenly, we are right behind them. From five feet, the view is even better than I anticipated--beautiful rump roasts, prime rib asses, the kind of asses that made Fat Albert scream, "HEY HEY HEY!" The kind of butts that come with a soundtrack: baum baum baum. So bouncy they looked like they had shit in their shorts.

Without warning, the two girls stopped in their tracks. Fuck, I thought, we're gonna get busted for stalking and being creepy. Bill quickly put his head down and went with the one-knee-drop-pretending-to-tie-his-shoe gimmick, a premise so old not even Mel Brooks would use it. I morphed into Sidekick mode, where you put the Sidekick phone up to your ear right before you make eye contact. It has to be a Sidekick, by the way, because when it's up to your ear you can catch a glimpse from the side and then flip it to double the size right as she catches your glance; covering the entire side of your face so you see her, but she misses your face. (Sidekicked!)

As Bill pantomimed tying the non-existent laces on his shoes, I faked a conversation full of "what" and "no" as I passed by. We'll check their position, I thought, and then we'll regroup and double back for a second sortie. To my utter surprise, as I walk by (Sidekick over my face) I hear, "HEY, where are some good bars around here?" WHOA! She addressed me? We are now in a different game. I pull the phone down and take my first real look at the fronts of these two.

MY GOD....One of them is an absolute specimen: a brown-eyed, caramel-smooth olive-skinned beauty standing 5' 11" in Manolos, 5'8" naked in my hotel room. Her legs went up to her ears, and she wore white booty shorts that would make the girls in a 50 Cent video go "DAYYUM!" She had perfectly straight hair, perfect nails and toes, not a blemish on her. Her friend had some nice qualities too, but she was clearly...THE FRIEND.

The Specimen was like a young Demi Moore: her voice, her face, her attitude were all raspy. She whipped out a cigarette, but not just any cigarette, a Newport Light; an indication that she may have been quite familiar with the SOULPOLE in her day. On top of that, she had the ol' butterfly tattoo "target" above the crack of her rear and a belly ring to boot. From my estimation, we were looking at a real 8.9 - 9.1--points deducted for padded bra. But for a Monday night in ANY city, let alone West Palm Beach, this is like nectar from the gods. (Note to reader: I'm not one to objectify women, but let's face facts; all women are judged first on their appearance. It doesn't mean they live or die by it, but it definitely starts that way. Don't blame me, blame Wella Balsam commercials.)

She and The Friend were "lookin' for a pahhhty." They were tourists staying in a timeshare with two other girls they were currently pissed off at for "being gay" since they didn't want to "get fucked up tonight." The night before, apparently, they had "partied their faces off" in Ft. Lauderdale and were "SOOOOO bummed" because they didn't, "like, have a car" to "like, to get back there and shit." The pair were probably of Jewish or Italian descent because of their schnozes (racist?). If they were Jewish I knew it would be a long night of opinions, and if they were Italian I knew they may get violent. I didn't feel like talking all night, but I didn't feel like getting punched either. I stretched out my hand to introduce myself. She said, "Stephanie...Dougherty." Who knew we had a leprechaun with a tan on our hands?

I suggested they go to Miami. (Another note to reader: You may be thinking, Wait a minute Jamie! Why on earth would you tell them to go away from where you were!? It's a common tactic some utilize during the mating ritual. You never want to seem interested or desperate.) I began suggesting places for them to go that were anywhere but where we were. I said Miami, they said no car. I said cab, they said too much money. I said bus, they said too ghetto. I said go back to Lauderdale, they said dead tonight. I thought, Lauderdale is dead? West Palm is a coffin! I said, "Here take 100 bucks." They said, "We don't take money from unknowns."

So there we stood: two horny guys and two stranded Jersey girl tourists with no car, little money, a timeshare they didn't want to go back to, and a desire to party. After five seconds of awkward silence (Bill wasn't helping at all), I said, "Well there is always Wet Willies." Wet Willies is a cookie cutter booze bar so low rent that Fat Tuesdays is looking at it going, "Jesus, you're a dump." Its saving grace was its Pina Coladas. They were BOMB. Made with real coconut milk and 151--the super strong rum that goes down so smooth you don't even realize your top is falling off until you are blowing someone in an alley. Pina Coladas are the perfect date ra--I mean date drinks. Fruity, delicious, and the alcohol is completely masked.

They didn't miss a beat. They said, "Sure!" as Bill and I gave each other a quick look. We realized...we stepped in shit!!!

When we arrived at Wet Willies, I noticed the place was crawling with bored frat guys on a study break from finals, and Cuban men who somehow convinced their ladies that this place was a step up from Chili's.

As I was getting our drinks at the bar, I noticed that our two flamingos were already starting to draw a crowd. Almost on cue, some frat guy comes up to me and says, "Jamie, you fuck, I wanna buy you a drink." Now one thing I forgot to mention was, these girls didn't recognize me, and I was having a moment of complete public anonymity. They knew nothing about me, and I wanted to keep it that way. But I also didn't want to be rude to a fan. In my quickest streetwise retort, I said, "Yo money, please don't put me on blast." (For non-rap-listening readers of my blog, it means don't let everyone know I'm here.) He said, "All good homey, I won't blow up the spot." (Google that one, honkeys.)

I got back to our table and told Bill to regulate all the Abercrombies and low-pro our catch. He gave me a sideways smile from his hairless face and hustled the girls to a table in the back corner of the bar, out of sight.

Sipping through straws out of coconuts, Bill immediately goes into his, "Hi, I'm Bill, and everything you say just makes me smile," third degree babbling routine. That's his move--bombard, smother, squish and submit the female verbally. He also has this habit of touching your shoulder or your forearm after every other sentence to show he's "really" interested in what you're saying. He'll also laugh a lot at what a girl has to say, which is extremely odd since Bill is a damn good professional comedian, and one who often upstages the acts for whom he opens. I find it hard to believe that regular people (especially two Jersey guidettes with beautiful tatas) make him laugh so much when he spends so much time not laughing at other comics.

After listening to his shtick for 30 seconds, I texted Bill: "Look iceman, follow maverick on this, just be a dumb blonde." He texted me a frowny face back but nodded his acceptance. I then began the silent treatment. The last thing hot girls like is hearing about you. When they are THIS hot, they wanna hear about themselves.

It's quiet for about 40 seconds--which is an eternity--when The Specimen flops her lil head around, perks up with a giggly smile, and lightly bites her straw and says...WHAT?

After one or two rudimentary questions, I launch into Complimentary Observant Guy mode. I start with a basic, "Your tan is gonna peel, lucky you're black Irish." I follow that with a, "What part of Jersey are you from again?" but then I get real specific about things I shouldn't know. "Wow, you went with the one-strap Jimmy Choo. You know this season he's got a slip-on..." What!?...or "Why do you have a Tiffany bracelet but no Tiffany necklace?"...and...."Wow, you aren't like the last girl I met. You have actual real hair, no extensions..." That can be a closer, believe it or not.

So now we've got their full attention, we're getting cozy, and whatta ya know, somebody comes up to the table. "It's very nice to meet you," she says. I shake her hand, smile, and she leaves. The girls take a sip from their coconuts and The Friend asks, "Why did that girl say that to you?" I tell them I did some work for her father. They shrug and let it go.

It still hadn't clicked with them who I was. I can tell right away if someone recognizes me or not. It's that quick turn and extra smile as their face gets all bright-eyed. They act like they are looking at some sort of alien with that, "What are you doing here?" look. I can't say I blame the girls for not recognizing me. I was wearing my old Puma sweatsuit that I lounge around in. I had on Ted Baker sunglasses that would rival John Holmes's, after he did a gay porn. My hair and nine days of facial hair growth were straight Ted Kaczynski, after he was apprehended.

It's really cool to sit with someone who doesn't have any preconceived notions about you, someone who is just sitting with you because they think you're cute or funny, or because Bill has nice abs, or because they don't have a car and are stranded and bored out of their fucking minds, and they hate their timeshare roommates. Okay, that's probably what it was.

Either way, it was no big deal that they didn't know me or Bill (who would, unless you have every Law and Order memorized). As the night progressed, they started to get wigged out by the people who kept approaching our table. People approach me at any time and say or do whatever they want. They think I'm their brother or their crazy neighbor.

I don't think the girls were freaked out by the fact that people kept coming up as much as they were freaked out by the TYPE of people that were coming up. Many of my fans are hardcore hood. When I say that, I mean vatos, cholos, chickenheads, gangbangers, meth addicts, gun runners, pimps, ballers, players, shot callers, and postal workers. For some reason, Malibu's Most Wanted gave me enough street cred that every motherfucker with a glock wants to talk to B-Rad. Dudes were coming up to me saying, "Ey yo, take a picture, crip!" or, "Damn homey, sign my ladies' titties!" or, "Yo, J you my nigga, hit this blunt SON!" or, "B fuckin Rad, do some Sherm wit me!" or, "Yo Jamie I'll piss in your Bush." (Harold and Kumar)

After about the tenth person, Birdy said, "Hold up, what the fuck do you do? Who the fuck are you?" Bill was about to spill the beans and spit everything out because he was desssperrrraaaaattte. He wanted to play the easy card, but I squeezed his nuts and said, "We work for MySpace."

"MySpace?! You know Tom?!" they squeal with excitement.

"Tom is my best friend," I tell them. "And he's totally a homosexual."

They are disappointed in the news. They ask us what we do for MySpace, and we tell them we are party promoters. At that very moment, Bill points up to the TV across from us and, I shit you not, my name is on the screen during the opening credits for Bait; a movie I did eight years ago where I played a computer hacker. We couldn't help but laugh at the irony. Bill then pointed out the 15 foot poster of me right behind these girls on the exterior of the Palm Beach Improv next door, where we just played.

They weren't buying our MySpace story, although they totally bought that Tom was gay. They noticed the energy between Bill and me and kept saying things like, "This is shady, are you a drug dealer? What the fuck? Who are you?" Suddenly, The Friend gets up to go to the "bathroom." A minute later she comes back and blurts out, "Oh my god, you're Jamie Kennedy!" Apparently, she heard some girl say, "Hey, that's Randy from Scream."

"Yeah," I say.

"You don't look like you," they respond in unison.

Our cover blown, Bill and I stand up and say, "Oh well, game over, gotta go."

Simultaneously the girls scream, "NOOOOOOOOO WAITTTT!" like a dingo had just stolen their babies. They were way too excited to have us stay. Bill and I began to wonder if we had a couple of starfuckers on our hands???

With their renewed interest, I decide to order another round. It goes down smooth and quickly. We are all feeling good and randy so I suggest we play a game to get to know each other better. "How about a little...Truth or Dare?"

Before you click the little "X" at the top of your browser window and vow never to visit my site again, I admit that it's so 6th grade, and that I'm 37. But let me tell you, it works! It ALWAYS works! And when you are dealing with girls who are gonna be a little work, it's a nice way to bring back childhood memories and break the ice. I have done it many times in my lifetime, and if I told you how many stars in Hollywood played Truth or Dare just to break the ice, your jaw would hit your dick (weird analogy).

After one innocent question, the bottle lands on Bill, and he asks, "Are you a squirter?" Good ol' no subtlety whatsoever Dawes, he just jumps right in. To my surprise, the girl says, "I'm not like a shooter, but I definitely can squirt a little." BOING BOING!! WHAT?!?

Through further interrogation, we discover that The Friend's specialty is deep throating and at some point, she claims to have fucked Nick Lachey...last week. Oh Vanessa. All we find out from The Specimen is that she's had anal sex three times and hated it. (Jesus where's the mystery?) Bill shot me a look to say, "Haha, fucker, 'The Friend' is the better call." Bill also shot Pina Colada from his nose when "Demi" asked me how many women I'd slept with, and I sighed and said, "Eleven." The girls freaked out like it was a lot. Bill, trying not to convulse in laughter said, "Jesus Jamie, keep it in your pants once in a while!" I'm not going to say the real number, but I will say this: The first time I went into the Grotto...I was nine and was diddled by Miss October. (True.)

As the girls drunkenly giggled, I whispered to Bill, "Next person you pick is me and dare me, fag." So Dawes picks me and dares me to lick The Specimen's leg all the way from her Jimmy Choo to her panty line. YIKES was that a long lick. When I got to the kneecap I knew it was on.

Bill and I suggested taking the party back to the Marriott (BALLIN!), and they obliged. We called our driver, he shuffled us over, and it was on like Donkey Kong! Only an act of God could cockblock this night. (Insert foreboding music...)

On to THE MARRIOTT....

to be continued...

Sorry I took so long to post Part 2. I'm an awful speller, and I had a lot of typos. But thanks to everybody who's been reading. The response has been great. * * *

12/7/03
What did I do today? Well I slept 'til noon, ate breakfast, rehearsed with Traylor (Howard), had some ice-cream, didn't have sex, and watched "Scarface" again. Michelle Pfeiffer can't dance.

12/8/03
I fucking hate these vegemite farmers. Fuckin' drama. The lady who does my makeup is really nice, but she talks...A LOT!! So I'm in the trailer this morning getting my makeup done, and my lady is in the middle of one of her very long stories about Russell Crowe, when I touch her by accident. She jumps up and goes "excuse me!" and it went downhill from there.

I say, "Erin, why you freakin' out?"
She says, "you startled me for a sec, that's all."
I say, "I didn't mean to startle you. Don't freak out, you know I can grope you anytime I want, it's part of my contract."

Then another woman in the trailer named, well--lets call her..."Big Fat Toni the other make-up lady who looks like a pirate"--opens up her big yap and says "Ah naheu you cant"
I say, "Are you serious?"
She says, "Yeah".
I say, "Damn I have to renegotiate then." Then I say, "are you retarded, how the hell am I going to getting groping put in a contract?!"
She says, " ..I don't know, most actors are horrible."

I almost fuckin' lost it. I mean, yeah we all know I'm working on a celibacy stamina record down here, but really let's look at the facts! In my career, I've done 3 make-out scenes including one with Carmen Electra and another with Amber Valetta. I have gotten on base with a certain incarcerated socialite. I have had heavy flirtations with a certain Asian superstar, dated Numbers 78, 54, and 5 on Maxim 100 (not this year, a few years back), and have had encounters with extras, strippers, and B-actresses in and around the Continental U.S. But you know what? Let's forgot all that, and start getting into the molestation business. In fact, let's put my whole career in jeopardy for you, a fat middle aged make-up artist from the bush with moles. Let's make YOU the apex of my groping career.

Even Arnold's like, "Jamie, please, you're inappropriate." Dumb fucking beauty consultant. Get a clue!!!

P.S. to reader: it seems like I'm angry a lot, I know. I will start working on it in therapy as soon as I get out of this trashcan of a country.

12/9/03
Nothing really going on today, we're behind though, that's for sure. They are rigging a scene where the baby pisses at me with the strength of a fire hose.

I said, "That's stupid."
They said, "Are you kidding?! That will help us at the box office, pee sells."
I said, "Why don't you guys give the kid a 10 inch cock, that'll sell. I'd pay $8.50 to see that."

They looked at me like I was Michael Jackson in a room full of kindergarteners. Nobody gets my humor here. I'm about to complete the world's biggest piss joke.

12/10/03
So I'm in this scene with Traylor and the little baby and I'm supposed to be scared and nervous and dripping wet. The whole time, all I could think about was Traylor's legs. I kept thinking, "Damn...my movie wife has some nice gams." I know I'm supposed to be connected to my scene and all, but I couldn't take my eyes off her calves. I wonder if Bob DeNiro does that?

I constantly think of other things when I'm in the scene. The words bore me. It's been happening a lot lately. I guess I'm not very "method." During my close-up where I'm hollering at the neighbor, I kept thinking about the pumpkin pie I had at lunch. I'm still craving it.

12/11/03
I just watched The Hulk in my trailer, who cares.

12/12/03
I'm tired as hell. One more week before Christmas. I've been here almost five weeks already, and it's flown. I was kind of depressed today until I took a shit, then I felt much happier... gross but true. The scenes are becoming a blur. I've never worked so much in my life. I like it and feel lucky. From June 2001 until now, I haven't stopped working. I'm too scared to stop.

12/13/03
You know what question I really hate, "How was your weekend?" There's so much pressure. It always feels like my answer isn't good enough and that I have to make up a big lie or something.

A guy said, "Hey Jamie, how was your weekend?"
I said, "I mostly slept and did some laundry."
He was like "Oh" and then acted all disappointed. I feel like saying, "Screw you asshole, that's not good enough for you? What did you do this weekend, climb the Himalayas?"
I asked him back..."what'd you do this weekend?"
He said, "I went to a BBQ."

Oh Bigman, like that's soooooo much better? Wow, I'm impressed. It doesn't matter now anyway, because that question was fucked forever last Saturday night when Saddam Hussein was captured. Think about the guy who captured him. Who's ever going to top him???

I mean imagine asking him that question. "Hey what'd you do this weekend?"

Well, Friday was boring, I slept mostly... but Saturday I managed to infiltrate a farmhouse on the outskirts of Tikrit, and there in a hole.... I managed to find the evil dictator Saddam Hussein! Then Sunday I watched "Bruce Almighty" on dvd!

You're like, "okay, fuck, you win! You're the master of the weekend!"

I did laundry, but the soap machine broke. I used Dove, but made too many bubbles. Then I asked some girl out at the dryer, and she shit on me.

12/14/03
Dear Diary, today the baby cried and cried. Why it was so upset, no one knew. But he was very tired. In other news, Steve the dog trainer also cried....because Bear could not put his hands over his head and the producer decided to pull the plug on the gag.

He said, "We'll live with what we got."
Steve got so upset, he said, "One more chance goddamnit, please??"
Producer said, "Nope, moving on."
Steve got livid and screamed, "Aw fuck it then, it's all shit anyway! Shot's so far away you might as well use a goddamn bird."

12/16/03
I'm really starting to like Sydney now, but my sex problem hasn't gone away. I went up to a girl on the street last night and told her she had the most plump lips and all I wanted was a kiss. After a few funny looks she obliged. I thought, shit! That's all I have to do? This is just a numbers game. So any lips I like, I'm gonna use that line. The trick is to not take it personally when the women tell you to stick it up your arse!

12/17/03
Traylor is really funny. Half the lines that are funny, she wrote. She's got great timing. She's Tea Leoni but with a better ass. God she's got a nice butt. Sometimes I just wanna squeeze it, but I can't because that has nothing to do with the scene. I guess I could squeeze it and say I was just rehearsing and doing what my character would do to his wife when he got home after a long day at the cartoon office. Is that unprofessional? I guess it is...but Hollywood's great like that. It's the only place where touching and sexual harassment are encouraged. Before you do a take you get touched by so many people: makeup ladies, wardrobe, camera operators, sound guys. So naturally you get used to it. Postal workers don't get that. Poor guys. They don't even get hugs after they deliver a big package.

I don't know, all I'm saying is that in Hollywood, people kiss you and it's not weird. Doctors can't do that shit. They can't be like "Hey baby, how are you? You look great. I'm gonna remove your spleen and after that you'll be pissing fine...ok kisses."

12/18/03
I just looked at my bank statement. The government steals all my money. It's bullshit.

1/12/04
HAPPY NEW YEAR!!! I hate Australia. Here's why the place doesn't work for me. First of all, everything about it is overrated. Second of all, it's not a service oriented country. Waiters and waitresses get paid $17-$18 an hour. That's why nobody tips. If you're already making $18 an hour, you're probably earning more than most of your customers. So when they ask you for some eggs, you're like "yeah, whatever" 'cause you're not working for their tips. There's no incentive. They also make you feel like it's a privilege for you to come and sit at their table! They are sooooo pretentious.

They all wear trucker hats here. Oh, that's real cool guys, that's a cool NEW fashion! Even Ashton is like "guys it's over...lose the lids." That whole fad was never in anyway, so gay. The girls here are such rats. They won't look at you unless you have a trucker hat on. They also say the word Heaps! "Hey can you pass the sugar, sure I'll have Heaps!" Who says that? Yeah, I had Heaps of sex. Retards!

This place, quite frankly, makes Canada look like Italy. We should make Canada the 51st state and Australia the 52nd. They think they're so "with it." You guys are so cool, you just started playing "In Da Club" here like it's brand new. There's only 20 million people here! Fuckin' assholes, we got more people in Burbank. When they start talking shit about US Policy I wanna say, "Oh yeah, who's gonna help you when you come crying that the Cambodians are invading your ass? Uncle Sam? If it wasn't for us during World War II, you motherfuckers would all be speaking Japanese and eating Shrimp Fry Ry!"

Angry much? You bet your ass! I hate Australia. I hate it so much I wrote a rap about it. Beatbox to this dickheads!!!

I hate Australia, can't even catch a cabbie,
food is shit.
What's a fried fucking Yabbie
Girls here are bitches, straight cock teasers, better known as skeezas. Better learn how to please us
trick
cause we're Americans, not Russell Crowe, bitch. I hate Nicole Kidman, nose looks like witch.
Fuck vegemite, where's da blowjobs tonight, show me some titties and ass and it best be tight.
I hate your country, all dirty stinkin convicts. I'd like to jab your assholes with little broken sticks,
you pricks.
Pass the fuckin' Budweiser true-blue
and this is how we do
this is Jizzle Kizzle,
comin straight from Malibu!
Fuck You!

1/14/04
Nothing going on today except getting a bunch of tiles thrown on my head. There are absolutely no girls on set, so I sleep all day, get hit with tiles, read my book, more tiles, then sleep. Not a bad life I guess.

1/20/04
Wow, today was a huge day. I got to play Virginia (a black woman). I was completely covered head to toe in makeup. I wanted to take a picture of me with my pants off cause I had on black woman face makeup with a white dick. I thought it would be good for the internet or something.

1/22/04
I wonder when the premiere for this movie will be? I remember when I took my father to the Scream premiere. These executives kept crowding around the hummus tray and my dad started talking to one of them.

He said, "Hey buddy, what do you do?"
The guy said, "I'm a movie producer."
My dad said, "Well what have you produced?"
He said, "I just produced a movie called "Under Siege 2" with Steven Segal."
My dad said, "Oh, the movie on the train."
The guy said, "You saw it?
My dad said, "That movie was a piece of shit." The guy looked like he he'd just bitten into a sour lemon and walked away.

Can't take my dad out, he says too much. He can't stop himself.

1/28/04
There's not much going on right now. I just run around with the fake baby a lot. Sometimes when we are doing shots in the street, in front of a large group, I drop the baby on purpose just to freak people out. Most people scream and cry, then when they find out it's an animatronic baby they just call me names and give me dirty looks.

1/30/04
I've had training for everything in this movie. Now I've got a boxing coach. A guy who's been following me around the whole day saying "put ya dukes up." Saying "stick and jab", like I need that? Isn't that what a stunt double's for? I just wanna sleep in my trailer and watch American Idol. Now I gotta jump rope? People are in my ass, plus this guy's gonna beat the shit out of me. I can tell he just wants to wail on some actors. I wish I had a make out coach, or a hand job coach, or maybe just a spooning coach.

1/31/04
I just got the shit beaten out of me by my boxing coach. I can't even grip this pencil to write. He connected three times to my head. He said it was an accident, but I think it was because his girlfriend is hot. He told me she was a kick boxer and I told him that I'd like to spar with her. I said "actually I just wanna wrestle with her," then I got popped. He told me in the Down Under, in order to keep my legs, I shouldn't have sex; it will build stamina. Hey we got no problem in that department!

2/3/04
Larry is fuckin' nuts! I mean, I'm in the middle of a scene with Alan and he goes, "Hey Jamie, it just doesn't look real when you reach down and pull the grenade out like it's floating in air." I said, "Okay, I'm pulling a grenade from out of a coat that's as big as a car, but yet I'm not real?" He's constantly telling me, "Now remember don't make the pig boy face, pig boy isn't real. Remember this madman has stolen your baby and you're scared like in Exorcist." Then he begins to walk away only to come running back and say "Oh yeah, don't forget to break out into song when you're being chased by a giant flowerpot." WTF????

2/4/04
Well, as I write this I'm in green face. Yes, Al Jolson would be proud. It's the first day that I'm doing the mask face. And they changed the script again. Well what else is new? They have shot down four different accents I've tried for the voice of the MASK. I don't know if I should say, "Smokin!" Maybe I should say, "Steamin!" or, how about "Smolderin!" Brillant!!!

Jesus, if they don't want me to use my talents, why hire me? I don't know. On the mask, my lips are painted red. I look like a psychotic transvestite. I also have hair like the jolly green giant. I think the mask should turn me into a transsexual.

2/6/04
Brutal week, brutal! Glad it's over. Wearing the mask for four consecutive days, my skin is burning, my scalp tingling. This part of the movie is making me insecure. There are so many special effects. I'm wondering if it's gonna be funny? It's weird that a movie can be fun to watch, but not fun to film. Who knows what's gonna happen.

2/8/04
I'm so fuckin stupid! God I'm Stupid!!! I just lost $25, 000 in the stock market. I should have known from the start that my stockbroker was a moron. His email address is nakedwaterskier@yahoo.com He actually sent me a picture of himself water skiing ....naked!!!. And after I saw it I still gave him money. What a fuckin' idiot I am. I'm like, "Cool you got that one leg trick down pretty good, well here's my money." I'm a fucking IMBECILE!!!

2/10/04
I just played basketball on set against a 9 year old girl. She was pretty good. I could tell that when she gets to be 19, she is going to be beautiful. She is already pretty, as far as 9 year olds go. If I wanted to go on a date with her now, it would be illegal and people would say I'm a creep and I'd go to jail and be on "To Catch a Predator: All-Star Edition"; but in 10 years people would say "Wow, where did you meet her?! She's smoking, you're the man." Isn't that bizarre? Oh my god, what am I writing?????

2/11/04
I just met Jessica Biel. She is down here doing Stealth. She's fuckin' muscular. Goddamn, she must have stolen some shit from Barry Bonds. Selma Hayek is down here too. I'd like to meet her, but she may just find me annoying. She's got some serious junk in the trunk. Sam Sheppard was eating in our food line today; he went to the wrong tent. Everybody's like "there's the guy who wrote Tru West", and I'm like, "There's the guy that ate our last poached egg." The baby actually laughed today. Finally it's enjoying itself. In 15 years I'll be getting chicks from this film.

2/16/04
My friend just told me that you're not really cheating if you have sex with a condom on. He said it's because "your penis is hitting rubber and not skin". He said it's just like storing your penis somewhere warm. Yeah, tell that to your ballsack. Who's fuckin' protecting them?

2/17/04
Are black people neurotic? I don't think so. You never hear a black guy say, "hey man I don't want you enabling me right now. You are making me feel rather depressed. I'm gonna take a jump in that big lake called ME." I did hear one black guy tell me that he felt like he was on "motherfuckin' suicide watch" though!

2/22/04
My ASSistant, William, is really asking for it. He walks around set like he's too cool for school with his fuckin' hair that he gets relaxed like a bartender at RAGE. He got the job right out of USC so he thinks his shit don't stink. He makes me feel stupid for asking him questions more than once. I'm like "Hey did you pick up my dry cleaning?" He 's like "didn't I already answer that?" Motherfucker, am I your assistant? But there's nothing I can do. He has me trapped. He has all my credit cards, all my info, connections to my house, cars, agents, family secrets, inside info, etc. If I fire him, he could say so much shit about me. He could tell anyone my business. FUUUUCK!!!

He used to always hit on my girlfriend (now ex) too. He was always asking her personal shit like how was our sex life, and are her tits real; totally unprofessional things. I'm not one to talk, but Jesus get to know me a day before you start asking my chick if she's got her clit pierced. The kid is good at typing, though, so what are you gonna do?

I wanna pull an X on him, just to teach him a lesson. Something like this: she would just be getting out of the shower and we would put her in stilettos and she would walk around naked. That wouldn't be weird to him because he caught her sunbathing naked at my house once. He wouldn't think twice about it. Then I would have her seduce him. After he gets all excited and thinks he's got a shot, I'd have her take his pants off and grab his dong and act like she's gonna put it in her mouth. And just before she does I burst in with a camera and say "You've been X-ed!! Nobody is blowin' your nerd ass ....now get me some green tea bitch!!! Where's the fuckin' honey???" Or I could say, "You've been X-ed and you're fired you fucking college lowlife!" Or I could slip some shit into his water that makes your dick go limp and have her jack him off and then say "You've been X-ed and you got a limp cock and you're fired and you're takin' the fuckin' bus back to USC queer. Gooooooooo Trojans!"

2/25/04
So I finally got a date. Finally ...YES!!! I asked her out for sushi on Saturday night. As we were eating unagi she mentioned to me that she'd just seen one of my films.

She said, "I saw your movie Scream on TV last night."
I said, "Oh cool" trying to act coy and not desperate or impressed.
She said, "Yeah I really liked it. My mom really liked it too...you were funny, really goofball.

Well this wasn't the stroking I was looking for, but okay. She took a huge bit of her spicy tuna and said, "That Skeet Ulrich ...he sure is fuckable, huh? Damn my panties got wet just lookin at the TV. Jesus he's hot." As she said that, the waiter brought the lobster she ordered. I think it was hugest fuckin' lobster in the entire Tazmanian Sea. And I'm like, great...it's on me, I'm glad you wanna blow Skeet. Why don't you have some sweet shrimp while you're at it? I'll be in the corner with the dog trainer.

I wish I took her to Hungry Jack.

2/27/04
We had a week off so I just took a little trip to France. I'm sitting in a cafe in Paris right now. A whole group of kids just sat down across from me. These kids are smoking so much, they think it's so cool. Why does everybody wanna grow up so quick? I'm sitting here inhaling tons of secondhand smoke that, quite frankly, I don't want to. Why do I do it? Because I'm an idiot. That's why. I wanna strangle these kids and say "hey second hand smoke kills." I've been asked like 10 times to smoke hash tonight. Everybody wants me on hash. I'm also catching all sorts of eyes. All guys. I guess I'm gay or just gaybait, or maybe I just have a gay vibe. Jenny Craig is on a lot of billboards over here. God, Europe loves Jenny Craig.

3/03/04
They just made me get another physical. For the hell of it I got an AIDS test too. The doctor wanted to give me the results on Friday. Fuck that!!

I said, "I'll wait til Mon."
He asked "Why?"
I said, " 'Cause if I had it, it will ruin my whole weekend."

3/10/04
Jesus Christ, how long have I been here?

3/11/04
I'm at the beach today. Girls in bikinis are such hypocrites. They walk around the beach with these big beautiful bodies, strutting around like they're the Queens of Sheba, and then they get mad when you look at them. They always catch me staring and they're like "what the fuck are you looking at, you fucking pervert pig!" I feel like saying "HEY, if you didn't want me to look, why are you wearing tape over your areolas and dental floss up your ass crack?

3/13/04
People are so scared of Asians for no reason. I was just hanging out with my friend who's Chinese, and we almost got into a confrontation with this big South African dude, who for some reason just backed out. Every time he was about to jump at us my friend would stare at him very intensely and not say anything, and the guy would go from "come on you two dickheads" to "now hold on fellas, no reason for a dust up." It's like they go through this weird association process, where they look at him and go, "little, yellow, Chinese...OH MY GOD KUNG FU!!!!" Then they back off. All he does is stare. It's awesome. He's not even a fighter, he's an engineer. I wonder if we could get free meals that way. Just stare down the waiter when he brings us the bill.

3/17/04
I gotta start banging casting directors. They're all women and some are pretty. I could get lots of parts and it's a good in. You wouldn't even have to pre-read. You could go right to producers. Who do I start with? I'll probably have to start with a heavy one because they're probably the loneliest; just do my goofy guy thing, take all their directions, and then start pulling their hair. You never know with these things, it's such a crapshoot.

3/26/04
I have never in my life been involved with something where I have no idea how it will turn out. One minute I think it will be amazing and cool as shit. The next minute, I think it will be Monkey Bone. Who knows? Audiences are gunning against it anyway, so they may not even give it a chance. But we will see, I definitely love creating and putting it out there. It is a definite feeling of achievement.

3/30/04
They have a custom in the movie business in this country that if you make a mistake while doing a take, they scream out "Slab" (case of beer). Like last week, my phone rang during a take (1 Slab). This week, I dropped my cottage cheese. They start screaming "Slab!" But it was during lunch. It's total fuckin' extortion! I've bought 37 cases of beer for my mistakes, and I didn't even know what they were.

4/3/04
It's the last day of production, and it's been an insane fucking experience. I mean, this is the kind of movie you don't always do, with all these elements. I have many feelings, but mostly I'm feeling excited about the future. I'm feeling fortunate for my position in the world. I have no idea what's going to happen. I don't know if my show or pilot will get picked up. I don't know if this movie will do well. I just know I feel like I gave it my all, and threw it all against the wall and I'm lucky to live the life I live!

I thought I had a good barometer for what people liked. The first four jobs I got in this business were Romeo and Juliet, Scream, Boogie Nights, and As Good as It Gets. I remember reading those scripts and another script called Meet the Deedles. I knew those first four were going to be great and Meet the Deedles was going to be complete shit. Today, Meet the Deedles might make 200 mil. Today, I wouldn't know. It's so unpredictable, it makes me wanna puke. I can't take the instability.

Which is probably why I went into a deep depression after I did Son of the Mask. Here was a movie that was going be like a live action cartoon with inventive animation, sick special effects, and a simple theme that people could relate to: the fear of growing up and actually having a first child...who may be able to fly and shit.

I know it looks nothing like that now, but that was the script and the idea in the beginning, and the plan was very exciting. Plus my only other offer at the time was Without a Paddle. It was like choosing between constipation and diarrhea; I chose diarrhea. People say, "Hey, didn't you read the script?" Yeah I did, and it was pretty good, but it changed throughout production...A LOT. Believe me, I have read a ton of scripts that were horrible, and you just never know how they are going to turn out. EVER. Some end up being HUGE.

I have the first Pirates of the Caribbean script at my house that I got from my friend at Disney. It's 76 pages long with a totally different ending. Johnny Depp's character dances and ends up living underwater in an Atlantis type setting. NO SHIT!!!!!

I have the script for 300, and the scene where they battle for Thermopylae , it just says, "Soldiers fight here." Who knew?! I have the first Scream script where Neve Campbell's character kills Drew Barrymore. Things change.

You just never know.

I recently turned down Delta Farce (the Larry the Cable Guy movie) and decided to do Kickin' It Old Skool instead. Delta Farce is tracking higher. I would never have guessed that a movie about three soldiers who mistakenly believe TIJUANA is IRAQ would be more exciting to people than a breakdancer who's been in a coma for 20 years. (I know, make fun of me here.) I turned down Daddy Day Care to make Malibu's Most Wanted. Daddy did triple the money.

Mike Fleiss and I did a TV show called The Starlet. The New York Times called it the PERFECT reality show. We were pumped, we thought we had Next Top Model on our hands. We even got Faye Dunaway. The show debuted to a .5. For those of you who don't know ratings, that basically means my mom watched it. I'll never understand why it tanked so fantastically.

The point is, I thought I knew what people wanted, but maybe I don't. Maybe I'm destined to be on a third rate sitcom on TBS. The only thing I do seem to have a hold on are my thoughts, and I guess I can share them with you. If you like them, then cool. If you don't, then cool too.

But I'm not up for reading every comment people have, telling me how dumb I am, or what a whore my mother is, or how my acting style is a mix between Saddam's hanging and a Pauly Shore abortion (a real description about me, by the way). If you want to be critical, be critical in context, or constructive. (That's the plot of my next movie: Heckler. More on that to come later.)

So why am I writing this to you? I don't know. I guess I'm looking for new relationships and fresh perspectives outside of the Hollywood quagmire in which I've been ensconced for these past 18 years. Since I've started in this business, those were the only relationships I really had, and I look forward to developing some new ones with you, the reader.

I keep a journal on every movie I've ever done and, rereading this one now, I don't know whether to laugh or cry. My hope and naivete are kind of sweet, I guess, but sometimes I want to go back in time, throttle myself by the neck, and fire my agent. I just hope that if you liked me before, maybe this will help you get to know the real me better. If you hated me, maybe this will make you at least neutral. If you don't care at all, maybe you'll laugh a little.

Here's the first half of my journal from Son of the Mask.

JK

"Mask 2 Diaries"- Journal into Green Madness

11/9/03
I just landed in Sydney. It was Friday night when I left, now it's Sunday morning, weird. It's kind of like being in another world. Everything is a little different, but it's similar. The flight was so long that it felt like we were flying to outer space. When I arrived at the W, it smelled like fish and mothballs. My room is the size of a shoe box. Why do I get treated like the red-headed stepchild? At lunch the waiter asked me if I wanted a fried yabbie. What's a fried yabbie, I ask. He said it's a cross between a lobster and a crawfish. When he brings it, it looks like a cockroach!

11/10/03
I pretty much have everything I need. I've got a car with a driver. I've got a nice rental car. I've got a bus that's my trailer, and all the tofu I can eat. They even gave me a cellphone with all the pertinent numbers plugged in. They take great care of me down here. I feel like I'm in some crazy summer camp. Each day I come here, and we have dog training, baby holding class, stunt driving lessons, drawing class, workout, nap, rehearsal with Traylor [Howard], rehearsal with Alan [Cumming], make-up test, and rewrites. In bed by 11:00pm, and up by 6:00am. No time to get into trouble. The dog is getting pretty good. He's funnier than me. There are no girls here. I haven't had a boner in four days.

11/11/03
I met the babies for the first time today and they are really cute. They even look like they could be me and Traylor's kid. I always said that the number one way this movie has to be good, is to have a cute kid. Well, they got two of them since babies can only work 15 minutes every hour. I also did some car driving today; it was actually good because the steering wheel is where it is supposed to be, on the left hand side. The guy said "Can you handle it?" I said "I'm from L.A."

11/12/03
Third day in a row for dog training. Yeah, he's cute, yeah he's smart, but do we have to practice him jumping on my chest everyday? I mean Jesus!! He tells me how this dog can do a back flip and how there has never been a canine in the history of film, who has flipped on screen. He said it could be groundbreaking! "I'll mention it to the director", I said.

11/13/03
I got my haircut today, and the director (Larry Guterman) freaked out. He called at midnight and said, "The hair's gone?" I told him it will grow back. He's like "You need to be disheveled, not neat. People who raise babies are disheveled." He's right, but the girl who cut my hair was so hot, and prettier than all the Spice Girls put together. I just wanted to sit in her chair for the whole day. Every time she would trim she would say "Is it short enough?' I'd say "Maybe shorter." She smelled like mangos, ahhh! I guess I went too short! Ooops. I also went to the rugby final tonight! It was pretty exciting. I have no idea how the game is played, all I know is the Wallabies won. What's a Wallabie anyway? It's a kangaroo but different. This guy told me that if I wasn't careful, he was gonna shag Traylor in front of me. Well shouldn't he ask her first? That's how these dudes are down under they just scoop girls off the street like Vikings and the women have no say. Traylor pissed me off tonight btw. In the middle of the second half she finishes her Heineken and says flippantly, "Go get us some more beers!" Excuse me, I said, I didn't know the name of this plantation I was workin on. "Why don't you fucking go get it!" I said. She said, "Boy you're becoming a real diva! So used to everybody kissing your ass, you can't even go to get us a couple of Heineys?" I said, "No one's kissing my ass, you could at least say please first, and I'm a diva because I don't want to walk through a bunch of Russell Crowe sound-a-likes painted like yellow kangaroos?" So I go to the counter and get her some beers. Then later I go to the ATM and she tells me to get her out 1000 bucks, she forgot her per diem. I'm like, I have mine, wheres yours? Oh I never carry cash on me , she said. I said "how bout in a foreign country?". Then she screams, "god you're so fuckin' cheap." I give her $500. When did I become the asshole?

11/15/03
Okay, I feel like food here is getting weirder and weirder. At dinner tonight, the waiter tells me the special is seared spatch cock. I asked what it was and he told me it was like chicken but more like a tinier, daintier bird. I said I'll pass, and Traylor said, "Come on don't be so closed off, eat it and live a little." I said I don't eat anything with the word cock in it, "if that makes me closed off, so be it." She huffed and said fine, "I'll eat it, ill eat the fuckin spatchcock." Again I don't know why she had to curse at me, but this is our working relationship. I said " I'll have the whitebait please." The waiter said it was an excellent choice. Well, cut to 20 minutes later and it was exactly what it sounded like; pieces of bait, real bait fish used to go fishing with, fried and served with Tabasco sauce. Wtf! I'm not a Mexican dolphin. Traylor smiles and said, "My spatch cock is delish!"

11/16/03
This week is gonna be brutal. Today I got picked up at 6:45 a.m.; there were tons of make-up test rehearsals and wardrobe fittings. Got home at 9:00 p.m. Even if I had the energy to get a boner, which I don't, it wouldn't matter because I still don't see any females ANYWHERE! The women here are kind of tomboyish, which is fine if you're a lesbian. And everyone here has real boobs. Which isn't great. Why? Because they sag. And they're all freckly. I know it sounds shallow but I miss those two protruding missiles walking down Rodeo Drive with vanilla soy lattes in hand. All the girls here wear turtlenecks and sneakers. I'd kill to see just one pair of Frankie B's and fake melons. Come on ladies, show some skin!

11/17/03
Okay, it's official, the dog is a fuckin' scene stealer. He's doing flips, bouncing balls, playing hockey. We get it, you're cute and lovable. But save some screen time for the rest of us. Every time he does a trick, he gets a treat. A nice piece of turkey. I'd like that, wish someone would give me a little treat. They just say, "Jamie, don't talk so loud you'll scare the dog. Just let the dog lick your face for eight licks Jamie." Well, if you want me to do better, give me some kibble. Im startin' to hate that fuckin' mutt. No matter how good that dog is, he still has to wake up in the morning look in the mirror and say fuck I'm still a dog, Jamie can speak and I can't.

11/18/03
The W Hotel is a bunch of con artists, $35 for eggs? Come on, even Donald Trump woul