The Abrupt Opening Sentences of the Shocker’s Celebrity Profiles
By Chris Alarie, Katie Heindl, Emily Lever, Adithya Pugazhendhi, Bradley Geiser, Corbin A. Smith, Alex Siquig, Micah Wimmer, Damon Agnos, Louis Keene
Over the last few weeks, inspired by something called a “Seth Rosenthal”, the staff of The Shocker conducted dozens of interviews with various celebrities with the intention of publishing a series of shocking celebrity profiles. Unfortunately we got too busy getting buff and swole and ripped and never got around to actually writing the profiles. However, we did manage to write the introductory sentences for those profiles. Please don’t enjoy.
Jonah Hill wants me to tell him that he’s handsome.
Martin Scorsese is too busy to remember the names of any of his movies except for, “what’s that one about the clock — Hugo?”
Beck is functionally illiterate.
Glenn Beck stinks — he stinks bad.
Kelsey Grammer sleeps nude in an oxygen tent that he believes gives him sexual powers.
Kristen Bell is attempting to use LSD to dose the Disneyland employee portraying Mickey Mouse but she can’t find an opening in the costume.
DRAM enthusiastically explains blockchain to the waiter at the restaurant of the Chateau Marmont.
Sarah Chalke wants me to meet Brendan Fraser’s horse.
It’s midnight in Mississauga, Ontario, and I am peeing in a bathtub in Helen Mirren’s house.
I’m in a castle in the Alps and all Britney Spears wants to do is show me her spider collection.
Kevin Garnett is being injected with an adrenaline needle.
Janelle Monae is not that interesting in person.
Jackie Chan owns hundreds of cookie-cutters, from plain circular ones to fragile vintage ones in the shape of prancing horses or orchids to custom-made outlines of his and his loved ones’ profiles, but he doesn’t do much baking.
“I’ll never apologize for Hiroshima or Nagasaki,” Catherine Zeta-Jones hollers at me, as we eat coagulated porridge on a hot brick roof. “Never.”
“You want to know the secret to life?” Mr. Worldwide asks me, yelling over the din of the helicopter rotors.
Portia Di Rossi is ordering an exotic plant protein. “It mimics skunk.”
David Beckham has a problem and this time it isn’t kangaroo semen.
“Two words: Etsy cryptocurrency,” DJ Khaled says as we settle into his courtside seats at American Airlines Arena.
Grumpy Cat is horny, and nobody here knows what to do about it.
Jeff Daniels doesn’t remember what year it is.
The sun’s almost up but Quentin Tarantino wants me to kill one more water buffalo.
Kevin Durant doesn’t like clubs. Never has.
Kevin Durant likes clubs. Always has.
Kevin Durant likes the three of clubs. Always has.
“My least favorite turtle son is Leonardo,” Splinter, a mutated ninja rat, wheezes at me in an opium den as he takes a massive rip from a sick opium bong, “I think he sucks.”
“Let me show you my sex dungeon,” Conan O’Brien says with a smile.
Dick Cheney hasn’t taken a nap in twenty years.
Chris Evans is getting his nails filed.
Ray Romano is smiling because he’s pissed his khakis…again.
My editor calls me to ask if Dane Cook is dead yet.
Nobody warned me about Billy Corgan’s balls.
Larry David hands me his test results with a great sense of urgency.
Mike Myers thinks he is hiding but I can clearly see him giggling behind the houseplant.
Amy Poehler absolutely refuses to stop playing “Chopsticks” on the piano.
Karl-Anthony Towns is confident that he will soon usher in the Fifth Aeon of Man — a new era in human existence free from the toils and petty hang-ups of contemporary society, an era where Chaos reigns supreme — but for now he just wants to find a frozen yogurt place that has his favorite lychee berry toppings.
Charlize Theron won’t stop shoplifting her precious MLB souvenir hologram coins from 7–11.
Tony Iommi has been trapped in a toilet for nearly 36 hours.
Bill Wennington wants everyone to know that he thinks Prokofiev is “total bullshit.”
George Clooney is harboring a dark secret: even though he tells everybody that his favorite book is Jude the Obscure, he’s never actually read more than the first couple of chapters.
Madonna has spent the last few hours unsuccessfully trying to convince me that I’m obsessively afraid of my shoelaces turning into snakes and then biting me and injecting me with poison causing my feet to necrotize and have to be amputated.
Topher Grace loves nothing more than he loves following the rules.
Emma Stone tells me that the secret to solving all of the world’s problems lies in everyone chanting a single, mysterious word: crub.
Billy Joel is covered in blood.
Rasheed Wallace holds the two potted cacti up, he smiles, “Which one looks more like it’s waving hello?” he asks me.
Prince isn’t dead he’s just trapped here with me in this IKEA ball pit.
Democrats have rendered Kirk Cameron impotent.
Impotence has rendered Kirk Cameron democrat.
Kirk Cameron has rendered impotence democratic.
Paul McCartney is still an asshole.
Heavily armed and holding an asleep ground squirrel, Russell Crowe comes over to ask me if I’ve gotten enough to eat.
Diana Krall is fluent in seven languages and learning another two, but none of this matters as she screams directly into my ear in plainly translatable terror, the parachute we share not opening.
The golden hour is just settling upon the Burbank Renaissance Fair and unfortunately I’ve killed Rivers Cuomo.
Bill Gates wants to know if the material they make trampolines out of can be used for his new skin.
Ron Howard is on the other side of the partition, eating all of my heroin and it is making me angry.
Jean-Luc Godard is showing me the fruits he thinks look the weirdest on his 4th generation iPad.
“Fuck Jonathan Franzen,” says Oprah, through a mouthful of cash.
“The ACL,” Tom Thibodeau rasps, “is a fiction.”
Jared Kushner has a boner.
Three-Six Mafia is watering a plant.
I wasn’t expecting Kevin Hart to cry like this.
