Monday, November 20, 2006

An open letter to Stephen Dorff

Dear Short Stuff;

Once upon a time, I was very convinced that wherever you led, I would follow. My devotion was that blind, that deep. You were in The Gate for crying out loud, the only horror movie I watched during the whole of my childhood (I hate horror movies) because you were in it. Of course I didn't know you were in it until years later, but still. And this went on for years, through crappy made-for-tv movies and a couple straight-to-vidoes that aren't worth mentioning. But I watched them all. And one in particular I watched over and over, without remorse and I even bought the sountrack. It was that strong Stephen, it really was.

And then, well I don't know whether it was Space Truckers, FeardotCom, or your relationship with Pamela Anderson, but I became less blind. I could see the light. And the light eventually led to a revelation that while you're still cute, you aren't worth the effort. Sure, there's be a movie here or there that you redeemed yourself with, but for every sunshiney day, a little rain must fall. For every Entropy, there must be a Alone in the Dark. And pretty soon, there was more rain on your C.V. than sunshiney days. As much as I worship the ground you walk on for being a part of The Power of One, I can not forgive you for the blight of some of C.V. credits. But I wasn't totally deterred, I was more vigilant, better able to determine the duds from stars, but not deterred.

I wasn't enamored with you any more at that point. I wouldn't force Fighting Nun to watch a Stephen Dorff movie just for the sake of you being in it after that. I only Tivoed and rewatched that video of Britney's you were in a few times (What? Don't give me that look Fighting Nun. He. Was. Shirtless. The Abs. And then there was that scene in the bathtub where Britney was essentially naked and he dove in to get her. I just. I... I just... I didn't have a choice. I don't judge you every time you pause a football or basketball game to ogle cheerleaders. Don't judge me. Besides, that was more than three or four years ago. I get a pass.). You've been like an old high school crush who I run into at the local Town and Country while I'm buying gas and then I spot you dispensing a not so moderate helping of nacho cheese on a plate of nachos and get a good look at you. I realize that, whilst still cute, you've become the victim of "The Spread" and one too many Slim Jims. I no longer see you with rose colored glasses anymore, but I can see what it was about you that the younger, more naive version of me was so enamored with.

But now you've crossed a line and I don't even see that anymore. Where to begin? (you might want to click this link Fighting Nun. It's a video clip so you won't have to, you know, read and stuff.) First off, since when would you date a woman that would think Steve-O was a suitable boyfriend in any way, shape, or form? The dude, amongst his many misdemeanors against humanity PEED ON A RED CARPET IN FRONT OF A BUNCH OF CAMERAS. Peed. On a Red Carpet. Sheeesh. Anybody that thinks he's suitable boyfriend material was either let out of the institution far too soon or was somehow struck by a heavy object right before meeting him, because Yeech. And secondly, if you do date a woman who has succumbed to a mental illness to the point that she wants to get with the guy from some of the more oogey stunts of Jackass (the less said about Wild Boyz, the better), you shake Steve-O's hand, say congratulations, and see those two crazy kids on their way. Then you throw back a Corona and thank God you are no longer dating a person with the same IQ as a Cracker Jack prize. You do not threaten the both of them with physical harm and or death, and you do not, DO NOT leave said threats on the girl's answering machine! Jesus. What are you, new?

So It's over. I know it's wrong to break up with you this way, to called paid to what little we had left together in a letter, but that's the last straw. I'm sorry. I know this is never easy, but I just can't handle this anymore. I need time away from this difficult situation, time apart from you, because you're not the person I thought you were. Who knows, maybe we'll see each other again in a few years. Maybe when you've got a couple more mediocre releases under your belt and can move on to more challenging and possibly more dignified roles, like say a historical figure (of course said historical figure would have to be short. Napolean perhaps?) or a maybe an indie movie about the perils of drugs and Pamela Anderson (at least you'll have personal experience with subject matter). But for now its over. I wish you the best for the future. Really I do. I just won't be there watching it.

Peace Out;

Bloody Munchkin

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