Let them eat cancer.
How could he care?
. .
He dozed into cancer dreams.
Steve Jobs approached him on the street, asking for money. He had huge tits.
“It’s for Aaron Sorkin,” he said. “He needs the money for his mastectomy.”
Jobs’ smile was vulpine, his beard sickly, his breath rotten and prodromal.
“What’s the matter, Michael? Aren’t you going to help Aaron?”
EXPLICIT [Jerzy]
DikiLeaks
“I
already got her sis, & now I want Elle, I want to see her cunt, know what I’m saying? Dakota’s cunt we have. But her sister. . I see her in Vogue with her slutfriends Hailee & Chloë, I watch her goo-goo giggly on Leno in her Chanel & I pray to God those parents are hiding sixteen more lil orphan Fannings in Sleepy Hollow! Cause let me tell you something straight up: Harry Middleton WILL NOT SLEEP until he sees every hair on their chinny-chin-chins. And you’re the one who’s gunna make sure that I do! You’re the one who’s gunna show it to the world. As the song goes, Baby, it’s you!”
He took a deep breath and focused.
“You are the Chosen One. Make no mistake, I have not had a hand in this. God has chosen you to memorialize all the cunning Lady Fanning cunts.” He bounced in his chair & sang; he burst into song all day. All the single ladies! All the single ladies. . All the single ladies! All the single ladies. Now put your hands UP—”
Sometimes he sang the whole deal, every verse, and you just had to sit there. Well let him. Jerzy was shocked. Hired just 10 minutes into the interview. Never happened. Like, ever.
His birthname was Jerry, Jerry Jr. to make things worse, from Jerome, his dead dad. Their mom gave them shitty names, Jerilynn sounded supertrash (which Jerzy thought was supersick, in that Jerilynn was yet another nod to dead dad, only problem being, his ½sister’s dad’s name was Ronny) and Jerry just sounded Jewy & forgettable, a name that should fucking be suppressed, like J.D. (Jerry) Salinger suppressed his. Even more fucked up and insidious of the mom was that Jerilynn & Jerry were sort of the same. Victor/Victoria——. . growing up, his assmates at school idiot-brilliantly called him Jerry’s Deli, the local place families went on the weekends so fuck that loser name. When he was a senior he read The Painted Bird by Jerzy Kosinski & dug the name. So he did a little reinventing, tweaked an r to a z & called it a night. He wouldn’t respond to anything but Jerzy, not to his teachers or bitch mother or anyone & if friends fucked around and called him Jerry or Jerome he’d just slap their fucking faces till they got it right. Which they did soon enough.
Jerzy Kosinski was a rich & famous author who made up everything about his own life. Jerzy the Second wiki’d the shit out of the guy & there was like nothing about him that was real, it was such fucking genius! He had college kids writing his novels and still won all the awards. The guy was married to some sort of heiress, he played polo & acted in movies, & was handsome too. You’d think life was perfect but he killed himself — took a bunch of dope, got in the tub & put a bag over his head. Jerzy the Sequel took his hat off to anyone with that kind of schweddy balls, really admired them, he’d wanted to die so many times in life but was too gaping a pussy to do anything about it. He was kind of fascinated too by the way people offed themselves: gun, dope, gas, jumping, hanging, drowning. . occasionally there’d be a fucked up one on the internet, like that chick stabbing herself over and over or the bullied fagteen who chugged Drano.
In contrast, the man interviewing him — owner of http://www.TheHoneyshot!.com/—veritable duke of his domain—THE HONEYSHOT! proudly serving horndogs online since 2003—in contrast, you could call him whatever the fuck you wanted to and he probably wouldn’t mind, probably wouldn’t even notice. Plus nobody cared enough to even hang a bogus, brilliantly retarded nickname on his perved, grody ass. His name was Harry, Harry Middleton, & Jerzy nicknamed him Harry around the Middleton but kept that to himself. Come to think of it, J2 didn’t know which was worse, Jerry or Harry. If you had em both, you might just have to commit Jerry-Harry hahahahaha.
THE HONEYSHOT! paid cash money for their niche-market specialty, celebskin flashes, of which the genus he trafficked in Harry cannily estimated to be 95 % accidental (the remaining 5 percent being exhibitionistic/PR-ploy dross), all submissions welcome but only nipple slips & xxxtreme wardrobe malfunctions need apply. Harry called his boys the Smarmy Sidewalk Army — but his happiest coinage & contribution to the skinternet was and would remain papsmearazzi, perforce THE HONEYSHOT!s distinct, some may call it obsessive, emphasis on the mossy, shrouded nether regions. You clicked on the homepage & the 1st thing heard was the Stones singing “It’s just a shot away!”—THE HONEYSHOT! — with its Cash Money MondayShots! (Mondays were big after a weekend of premieres/celeb debauches etc) — THE HONEYSHOT! — with its Thighs on the Prize deep page CUNTdown to Victory! — IBL to CradleSnatch!, Harry’s controversial bonus rogue gallery of underage starlet/up-&-cumming HONEYSHOT!s-to-be (each one represented by the most tasteful & demure shots Harry could find — such was his brilliance!) — THE HONEYSHOT! — with its Times Square toteboard of the ticking hours/minutes/seconds left before his “hairly legal hits & Missies!” turned 18—THE HONEYSHOT! — with its splash page banner searchandizing all cummers to a nostalgic subweb showcasing commemorative 18th-b’day papsmearazzi honeyshot!s of years gone by: the Em&Em’s (Emma Watson & Emma Roberts) & iHoneys (Miranda & Victoria Justice) Dakota & Katniss & Selena, Bianca Ryan AND fuckin Sunshine Corazon & so & so & such & such. . . . well, THE HONEYSHOT! was hot hot hot. Daily traffic was definitely on the upskirt Upton upswing.*
THE HONEYSHOT! posted celebrity skin of all ilk, with that very special emphasis on the classic Bermuda ∆ crotchshot, a cash crop that yielded panty shots & the occasional much-coveted, crème de la crème panty-less twat shocker. If you were 18 showing cameltoe by the pool in Maui (Xmas in Hawaii was a very busy time for papsmearazzi: tis the Four Seasons to be jolly!), scuba-diving in Sorrento, aimless in Amalfi or aqua-marooned in the Maldives, one of Harry’s minions would be on you like ants on feta—“Wherever there’s a wench with an uncovered stench-trench,” said Harry, in his best Tom Joad, “I’ll be there.” If a papsmearazzo looked perplexed, he’d say, “What’s the matter? Didn’t you ever see Henry Fonda in The Rapes of Grath?” Then (of course) he’d bust into I’ll Be There (Jackson 5).