Read American Freak Show Online
Authors: Willie Geist
American Freak Show (13 page)
THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, BERKELEY
Application for Admission
PERSONAL INFORMATION
Name: LEVI K. JOHNSTON
DOB: 5/3/1990
Race: WHITE GUY
Hometown: WASILLA, ALASKA
High School: WASILLA H.S.—GO WARRIORS!
GPA: PRETTY GOOD
Academic Concentration: NOT SO GOOD (A.D.D.)
PERSONAL STATEMENT
Grades and scores tell only a small part of your story. Please use the space below to share with us some background or life experience that will make you a unique contributor to the forward-thinking social culture and strenuous academic environment at Berkeley. Keep in mind there are tens of thousands of people dying to get into our elite university at this very moment, so this had better be good. Seriously, don’t waste our time. Also, we’re extraordinarily, even heroically, open-minded at Berkeley about race, religious preference, and gender reassignment, so if you’re just a regular white guy you’ve got your work cut out here. Good luck—especially to the vegan, Marxist, transgender Pacific Islanders.
Well, I don’t know anything about Marxist trannies, but I promise I’ve got more life experience in my left ball than any of the other freaks you’re looking at. Here’s the deal: I’ve been doing the Hollywood thing for a couple years now—acting, modeling, a tiny bit of male exotic dancing, etc.—and I figure it’s time to make people think I’m working on my smarts. My manager says the public sees me as a bit of a mumbling dumbass, so we figured going to a famous college full of nerds like yours is a good move for me. Kind of a James Franco/Natalie Portman thing. (He’s talented
and
smart?! Damn!) Most of the nerd schools are on the East Coast and I sure as hell ain’t moving that far from Wasilla. I’m also looking closely at Stanford. Tiger went there and he is THE MAN!
A lot of people seem to think my life started the day I knocked up Bristol Palin. Not true. I mean, the cool part started then, but there was some other stuff before that. I grew up in Wasilla, Alaska, a town with like 10,000 people outside Anchorage. Our old mayor was a woman named Sarah Palin. Maybe you’ve heard of her. That was back when Sarah was cool as shit before her head got all big from being governor and almost vice president of America. BTW, I can’t believe I’m going back to Palinworld with this whole marriage deal Awkward!
Now I know your whole thing is academics and libraries and experiments and pencils and all, but I’ll just be honest: the books have never been my strong suit. Hockey and huntin’ were my thing. Still are. I’m pretty damn good at both, if you want to know the truth. I hope like hell there’s somewhere to hunt caribou in Berkeley. They only shoot
people
down here in L.A. What’s the fun in that?
I want you to know that despite getting a late start, I’ve really taken to reading in recent months. I check out the “Just Like Us” section of
Us Weekly
all the time. Did you know Nicole Kidman buys her produce at the farmers’ market right across the street from the GNC where I get my protein powder? Crazy, right? I don’t want to lay on the literary credentials too thick, but I’m penning the foreword for the upcoming unauthorized biography of Spencer Pratt written by the editorial board of
Star
magazine.
But you’re not looking at me for my reading and writing skills—you’ve got plenty of superdorks covering you in that department. You want me around because I’m a celebrity. You want me at Cal because I can bring a little cool to your hippy nerd factory. So let me just lay out the “life experiences” you say you’re looking for. The same life experiences, by the way, that made me #11 on Salon.com’s 2009 Sexiest Man Living list (you can look it up on Google or Ask Jeeves.com).
For starters I’ve got this cool little boy named Tripp. I made him with Sarah’s daughter Bristol. You’ve probably read about that part on Gawker. By the way, contrary to those “deadbeat dad” reports, I Skyped with that kid all the time. So I don’t want to hear any of this shit about me neglecting my kid while I posed for nudie magazines in L.A. Skype is like being in the same room as your son except he’s inside a computer.
Anyway, Sarah was all uptight about Bristol being pregnant because she was running for vice president with that weird old guy McCain, so we went public with it. Some New York–sounding lady called the house in Wasilla and said, “Don’t talk to the press. We’ll have you out of that shitty town and into some real clothes within the hour.” That wasn’t very cool, but I just did what they said cuz honestly I didn’t have shit else to do. They bought me a faggy suit and put me on a plane to Minnesota or Wisconsin or Nebraska or something. On the plane, a scary-looking woman told me real simple, “Don’t open your fucking mouth. Ever. You got that, you dumb hick?” I told her, “Yes, ma’am,” and our journey began.
The McCain guy, who smells like a musty old shed covered in Aqua Velva, pulled me aside when I got to the Republican Convention in Milwaukee (or Michigan?). I’ll never forget what he said. He said, “Son, if you fuck this up for me, I will rip off your head and shit down your neck! Don’t test me because I will do it.” Talk about life experience! The almost-president of America says he’s going to take a dump down my neck after he rips off my melon! I tried real hard to remember that one.
So after the convention, we got on a plane and flew all over the goddamn place. For about a month and a half of my life there, I honestly had no idea what was going on. The campaign people got me a ball of yarn to play with so I wouldn’t get bored as shit all the time. I just stood onstage in city after city with Sarah, Todd, Bristol, and the mean old guy and tried to stay awake by counting the MILFs in the crowd (FYI, Akron, Ohio, is full of ’em). There was lots of talking and waving and none of it did any good because Sarah and the mean, smelly old guy lost the election. The minute the race was over, a couple ladies took all the clothes from my hotel room while I was in the shower and left a $50 Greyhound Bus gift certificate on top of the TV set. The way I saw it, I had $50 in bus credit that I didn’t have a minute before and Sarah’s stupid vice president thing was finally over. Time to go home!
Back in Wasilla, Bristol and I got fake “engaged” for a while. Then we broke it off cuz tons of random hot girls started texting me and friending me on Facebook after the campaign, so I couldn’t be tied down anymore. It got me away from the crazy Sarah lady, but the only thing was that I was stuck with a “Bristol” tattoo around my ring finger. The stupid things teenagers do when they’re huffing paint, right? I spent a while trying to find another girl named Bristol to make the tattoo work, but that’s not as easy as it sounds. I found one chick named Cristal, but that just turned out to be her stage name. Her real name was Aqualita. The tattoo guy said he couldn’t rework “Bristol” into “Aqualita” so we split up. We still talk sometimes.
Once I unloaded the Bristol baggage, my shit really started to blow up. My manager (who is also a private investigator in Alaska—seriously) suggested I call myself Ricky Hollywood. I still don’t really get it, but hey, man, the alter-ego thing worked for Garth Brooks (hello, Chris Gaines!), so why not Levi Johnston?
I did big TV interviews with Tyra Banks (even hotter in person) and Larry King (even more haunting in person). I went to the Teen Choice Awards with firecrotch Kathy Griffin (yes, boys, carpet = curtains). I wrote this big long story for
Vanity Fair
where I trashed Sarah real good. I didn’t write it actually, but some writer dude did and I read it and was like, “Hell yeah!”
A bunch of people even said I was some kind of icon for fags after I posed nude in
Playgirl
. Sarah told Oprah later that I was doing “porn.” That really frosted my balls.
Playgirl
is not porn.
Playgirl
is artistic and full of current events analysis that spits in the face of conventional wisdom.
Just Us Guys
and
Butt
magazines are porn.
Playgirl
is art. On the acting front, I did a random commercial for some pistachio company where I made fun of the fact that I’d knocked up my teenage girlfriend. Priceless! I was on top of the entertainment world.
Admittedly, things have tapered off lately in my acting/modeling/appearing-at-bowling-alley-office-parties-for-money career. That’s why I’m trying to lay low at your dork-a-palooza college for a few years. If you’ve got another applicant who became internationally famous for knocking up the daughter of a vice presidential candidate, I’d like to meet him. You asked for life experience and I just gave it to you. Bam! Do the right thing, Berkeley. Math nerds are a dime a dozen. There’s only one Ricky Hollywood.
p.s.—You said applicants could include a family photo. As you can tell from my essay, my family is totally f**ked up, so instead please find attached a tasteful, full-length outtake from my
Playgirl
photo shoot. I dare you not to admit that, Cal.
REFERENCES
1. Brian “Pucks” Malone
JV hockey coach, Wasilla High School
2. “Big Brick”
Bouncer at Fubar in West Hollywood
3. Todd Palin
Baby mama’s dad (we’re still cool)
4. “Corey”
Photographer’s assistant,
Playgirl
magazine
5. Jack Mehoff
(Just a funny-as-shit name)
TRUE STORY . . .
IS THAT A SONGBIRD IN YOUR PANTS?
Man arrested at LAX for smuggling rare birds
Add songbirds to the long list of items you apparently can’t bring on a plane in our post-9/11 world. A 46-year-old man named Sony Dong was arrested at Los Angeles International Airport with 14 Vietnamese songbirds strapped to his legs and ankles. A heads-up U.S. Fish and Wildlife inspector became suspicious of Dong when he saw bird droppings on the passenger’s shoes and feathers sticking out of the bottom of his pants. Dong copped to illegally importing wildlife after revealing that his pants were, indeed, stuffed with exotic birds.
Dong smuggled the rare songbirds from Vietnam to the United States, where he expected to fetch some $400 for each of them. One assumes Sony Dong planned to use the money to finance his fledgling Southeast Asian porn production outfit, Dong Enterprises.
THE PEOPLE OF HEAVEN V. JOHN EDWARDS
CASE # 351-CR-8253
TRANSCRIPT OF PROCEEDINGS
BEFORE: THE HONORABLE SAINT PETER
DATE: October 12, 2041
PLACE: Courtroom #17-B
Pearly Gates, Heaven
ST. PETER: Good morning, Mr. Edwards. My time is short. I’ve got a backlog of purgatory cases to get through today, so let’s begin. You are here without counsel?
MR. JOHN R. EDWARDS: I will be representing myself in this matter, St. Peter. As you may know, I was a wildly successful personal injury attorney in North Carolina for some time. Some have called me the finest trial lawyer in the history of—
ST. PETER: You were an ambulance chaser.
MR. EDWARDS: We prefer to think of ourselves as victims’ advocates.
ST. PETER: Right. And you are here today because you want to get into Heaven? Seriously, man?
MR. EDWARDS: I am, St. Peter. I understand you are a jury of one and I respect the system you have in place here in Heaven. I do have concerns that your judgment may have been tainted by unfavorable, and unfair, media coverage of my life.
ST. PETER: Look, I’ve been doing this for a long time. Nobody gets through those gates behind me without getting the OK from St. Pete. I’m like a bouncer at a crazy-exclusive nightclub, except if I let you in, you find eternal life instead of $250 bottles of cheap vodka and skanks dancing on tables. I take my responsibility very seriously and I never prejudge, but I do have cable TV and WiFi up here. Based on what I’ve seen—and maybe I shouldn’t say this, but here goes—you seem like a bit of an evil, phony douche. But again, I’m a fair arbiter and I will base your admission into—or rejection from—Heaven on the facts and only the facts. The burden of proof rests upon you, Mr. Edwards. I am ready to hear your case.
MR. EDWARDS: I appreciate your objectivity, St. Peter. I’d like to begin by—
ST. PETER: I mean, I just have to say though, and then I’ll let you start, that thing with the kooky mistress chick was messed up, man. I’m pretty jaded—I’ve seen a lot up here over the last couple thousand years—but I read that one and I was like, “Daaaaammmnnnn!” It just kept getting worse, you know?
MR. EDWARDS: I’m not proud of that part of my life, St. Peter, but it was a long time ago and I would hope you wouldn’t let that terrible episode overshadow the good works I did during my time on Earth. For example, I once got a client an award of $7 million from the North Carolina Department of Transportation after he picked up and brutally murdered a drifter.
ST. PETER: Jesus Christ, man. What the . . .
MR. EDWARDS: That hitchhiker should never have been allowed to walk anywhere near the highway. That was a preventable premeditated murder. Shame on the highway department for putting my client in a position where he had to pick up and murder that man. That’s just one of many cases of my helping those victims who cannot help themselves. Just the way you and Jesus used to do it. So if I could just proceed—
ST. PETER: I’m just gonna pretend I didn’t hear that crazy-ass shit from a guy trying to get into Heaven. Now, I swear I’ll let you have the floor after this, but I want to get this into the record clearly before we move on: you cheated on your cancer-stricken wife with some nutcase broad who—and I honestly hate to say this because I’m not like this—wasn’t even that hot?
MR. EDWARDS: Well, that’s certainly a matter of opinion, St. Peter. She was interesting-looking. And she challenged me. Our energies matched. I learned from her. For example, did you know that Gandhi and John Lennon were both Libras? Explains a lot, doesn’t it?
ST. PETER: No, it doesn’t. So you’ve got this crazy chick and you figure the smart move is to hire her and let her follow you around with a video camera! A video camera! I’ve got an idea, crazy New Age stalker lady: let’s make sure we document this affair . . . during a presidential campaign! Wow! I can’t decide if you’re ballsy or just dumb as shit. Either way, thank God you weren’t president, right? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!
MR. EDWARDS: Again, mistakes were made. I’d like to move past that part of—
ST. PETER: But wait, it gets better—and this is my last interruption, you have my word. You knock up the moony mistress, tell the world the baby isn’t yours, and then ask the campaign guy who picks up your dry cleaning and wipes your ass to say the kid is his?! Seriously, dude, where do you get the sack to even think of something like that? I’m actually impressed in a weird way.
MR. EDWARDS: I admitted to poor judgment at the time. I was eventually very candid about my transgressions. And, for the record, I wiped my own behind almost always during my time on Earth. I’m not sure I like the path we’re heading down here. May I proceed?
ST. PETER: Look, Mr. Edwards, I don’t mean to bust your balls, but you have to admit you’ve got a pretty tough case to make here today.
MR. EDWARDS: And I intend to make it, St. Peter.
ST. PETER: I get it, bro. Life throws you curveballs. Hell, I was just a fisherman who fell in with the right crowd in Galilee. I’m under no illusions. If I hadn’t met J.C., I probably would have ended up working an overnight shift warming up combo baskets at the 24-hour Long John Silver’s up here when it was all said and done. But, as luck would have it, Jesus and I hit it off famously at the dog run one day after my little Yorkie ran off with one of His sandals. Long story short, we became boys, and here I am with the keys to the Kingdom of Heaven. That’s not to say I didn’t earn them, of course. Running around spreading the good news for J.C. wasn’t all the Bible has cracked it up to be. The hours were a bitch. The pay was all this bogus deferred “eternal happiness” crap. And it took months to get reimbursed on expense reports.
MR. EDWARDS: What?
ST. PETER: I’m sorry, you don’t want to hear all this. That’s just life on the campaign trail, right? Spreading the Gospel. Of course, you were spreading some bullshit about “Two Americas” and I was spreading, let’s see what was it again, oh yeah . . . Christianity! Anyway, I’m getting off on a tangent here. What I’m saying is we can’t control the circumstances of our lives. God put Jesus in my life. He put that broken-down wackjob Rielle in yours.
I hope you don’t mind if I give my opinion on that. What do I know about women, right? I spent my life wandering around with a pack of men in open-toed shoes.
MR. EDWARDS: It’s your court, St. Peter, but I think she was, in many ways, a beautiful woman. Her heart was made of gold. Perhaps the problem is that your potential remains blocked by negative energy. Do you practice New Age mysticism? I could get you a brochure.
ST. PETER: No, I’m good. I’m just surprised you took the bait from a broad who had “crazy” written across her forehead. Maybe you were too busy reading each other’s Tarot cards to notice.
MR. EDWARDS: I appreciate your point of view. If I could take it all back, I certainly would consider doing so. Truly. May I?
ST. PETER: I apologize. I’ll shut up now. Proceed with your case.
MR. EDWARDS: Thank you. St. Peter, I’m the son of a mill worker. When I say that, I do so because I hope it somehow will cause you to view me in a more sympathetic light. The “son of a mill worker” thing means my parents had a strong work ethic and implies that, maybe by association, I do too. It means I haven’t always lived in a giant compound with a movie theater and an indoor squash court. It means I’m not just a stuffed suit with great hair. Not that it’s going to make a difference here, but the hair really is great. It has a combination of body and sheen that you rarely find in men.
ST. PETER: I can see that, Mr. Edwards. It’s remarkable. It’s clear you’ve treated it with great care.
MR. EDWARDS: Thank you, St. Peter. You know, the giant, almost obscene house and the perfect hair are all well and good, but it’s important to know that I’m a man with a strong appreciation for what the good Lord has given him. Again, my father was a mill worker, so I would appreciate what I have now based on what he did not have. Does that make sense? I guess that display of humility I just showed is the mill worker in me. Like my dad. He worked in a mill of some sort.
ST. PETER: I understand.
MR. EDWARDS: Like an old-fashioned mill where people made things with their hands. They wore work clothes, perhaps overalls. I have to imagine they would have eaten their lunches from metal pails and waited for some sort of a bell or a whistle to call them back inside to continue making whatever it was they were making by hand. I’m sure there were injuries in these old mills—the kind that probably entitled the victims to millions in compensation from greedy, negligent corporations.
You see, I am related by blood to a person who did these things. I am the son of a mill worker. I would never put myself in your sandals, St. Peter, or tell you how to do your job, but from where I’m sitting, being the son of someone who was in the working class oughta be worth something up here.
ST. PETER: For one thing, Mr. Edwards, we don’t admit people into Heaven on the basis of nepotism. We judge the life of the individual on its own merits. I want to be very clear on that. I make no exceptions. Just ask Nancy Sinatra.
More important, your father e-mailed my office and asked, as a personal favor, that we deny your application. He wrote, and I quote, “Put John on the elevator to the bottom floor, if you know what I mean.”
MR. EDWARDS: Daddy said that?
ST. PETER: He sure did. It’s harsh, I know.
MR. EDWARDS: Well, he’s a loser anyway. F**kin’ guy worked in a textile mill his whole life. No ambition. Pathetic. You can tell him I said that, too.
ST. PETER: Oh, dear. Mr. Edwards, you may proceed, but I have to tell you this is like watching a man drown slowly. I have that conflicted feeling when someone is struggling in the water right in front of you: Do I play the hero or do I keep these chinos dry and hope someone else dives in? Don’t put me in that position, man. They don’t pay me to hand out legal advice around here, but I’d get off the “son of a mill worker” thing.
MR. EDWARDS: Very well, St. Peter. I’m sure your heart broke the way mine did when you watched the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. It was bad for obvious death and traffic reasons, but good because it allowed me to resurrect a slogan I coined that everyone had previously ignored—the one you were kind enough to shout out a moment ago: “Two Americas.”
ST. PETER: That was not a shout-out.
MR. EDWARDS: Well, thanks just the same. To give you an idea of how concerned I was about the “Two Americas,” I launched my presidential campaign in New Orleans in the part where all the poor people live. Do you know that not one of the homes in the 9
th
Ward has a billiards room with vintage movie posters and pinball machines? Not a single one. It breaks your heart.
To show my compassion, I wore a pair of jeans and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up on that first day (it was back to the Armani suits with the tags cut out after that, of course). The jeans and rolled-up sleeves were to let America know that I was willing to get my hands dirty and be around poor people. Don’t tell me Jesus wouldn’t have loved that. That guy lived for the poor people photo-op.
ST. PETER: Honestly, I’m not even going to tell Jesus you were here.
MR. EDWARDS: I was very concerned about the “Two Americas,” St. Peter. I even had a bunch of folks from America #2 pour the concrete for my wine cellar. That’s not just talking about the “Two Americas.” That’s doing something about it.
ST. PETER: Your defense has gotten so bad it’s almost good now.
MR. EDWARDS: Thank you, St. Peter.
ST. PETER: Hey, let’s talk more about that weirdo chick you were banging.
MR. EDWARDS: Really? I’d rather not.
ST. PETER: Just out of curiosity, what was the plan if you won the presidential nomination that year? Or if, God forbid, you became president? Just move the baby mama into the Lincoln Bedroom? Bring her to the state dinners?
MR. EDWARDS: Again, St. Peter, I have said repeatedly that I am sorry for my behavior at that time. With due respect, I’m a little frustrated by the line of questioning here today. My assistant back on Earth was told that if I said I had allowed Christ into my heart, he would kind of assume the guilt for the sins and we could fast-track this process. My name should be on the list. Is there something that can be arranged?
ST. PETER: No, Mr. Edwards. There definitely is nothing to be arranged.
MR. EDWARDS: I would like to request a change of venue. The court clearly has been biased by media coverage and by the facts of my life.
ST. PETER: There are no other venues, Mr. Edwards. This is the Supreme Court to end all Supreme Courts. The end of the line. Do you have any closing remarks or should I just pull the trap door and send you downstairs now?
MR. EDWARDS: St. Peter, from my hardscrabble upbringing as the son of a mill worker I rose to a position where I actually had a working textile mill on the grounds of my property. My clothes were handmade on the premises. I would often visit the factory floor to check on the progress of a cardigan sweater or a blazer and think of my father, the mill worker. So it is with great humility that I ask you—
ST. PETER: I can’t listen to this shit anymore. I hope those mill workers made you some lightweight linen slacks, Mr. Edwards. It gets warm where you’re going.
Your application is denied. This one wasn’t even close. Bailiff, see Mr. Edwards to the elevator.
MR. EDWARDS: Wait! There are “Two Americas”! Get your hands off me! Mill workers! My dear wife! Mystical powers! You can’t do this to me! Don’t you know who I am?!
ST. PETER: Laverne, I’m going to lunch. And tell Jesus I’m not gonna make it to racquetball this afternoon. Just make something up.