Everyone in the court room rises. I rise last and button the middle button on my HArmani blazer. (I’ve tried dozens of different home remedies to take that dreaded ‘H’ off of my knock-off, I-got-it-at-Ross blazer…. to no avail). To my left stands none other then:
***Okay, phew, uh, let me think of something clever… I make masturbate to picture… That’s all I got.***
Lindsay Lohan. Or, Lindsay, for short.
What a sight is she too: Flowing auburn hair. A black tweed pant suit covers her slender body, and I must say, she is looking more and more healthy every single day. Today I watched her from my usual spot, behind a potted plant, eat an ENTIRE GRANOLA BAR! I was like, Woaah! I immediately wanted to call US Weekly and tell them to take out the article where they call her anorexic, because no anorexic eats that much! And also, no anorexic brushes their teeth as often as her either… because shortly after she ate the G-bar, she dashed into the bathroom. No wonder her teeth are so exquisite!
To my right stands my Everest: Mark C, part time lawyer, full time ass-clown. He thinks he’s so cool in his black rayon Gucci suit, royal blue tie and freshly polished Prada lace-ups. More like, Douche-a lace ups, idiot! To his right is his client: some guy from E-trade financial who is trying to defend his position on why my client is wrong when she says, “they used [her] name wrongly. Slandering her and vilifying her image by using the word Milk-a-holic in their most recent baby ad.”
[Fact evidence of these claims can be read HERE and HERE.]
As I stand, I gently intertwine my ring finger with her pinky. She must have had an itch, because she immediately brought her hand up to her chest and crossed her arms.
“The honorable Judge Katherine Johnson presiding…” In walks this woman dressed in a Harry Potter cloak. She is NOT wearing a white George Washington hair piece, and does not carry a large wooden gavel with her.
***Above is what EVERY judge looks like… All of them… even the black ones.***
I jot down in my notes:
“Judge” is a woman and is not wearing standard judge garb… keep close eye on her. Also, keep a close eye on Lindsay… try to catch her staring at you, John. I love you, buddy.
Now, let me back track for a second and tell you exactly how it came to pass that I am in a court room representing Lindsay Lohan.
Or, Lindsay, for short.
About a week ago, I received word that I would be interviewing my biggest star to date: Lindsay Lohan. I arrived at her office, traveled the 20 floors up and went right passed her secretary. This is it, John, I thought to myself. You’ve made it in Hollywood, you’ve fucking made it…
As I was basking in my glory, I was immediately accosted by security and thrown back out onto the streets, where I had to use a pay phone to call:
“Lindsay’s people? Yeah, it’s John MacGregor. What in the crap is going on up there?! I’m here for my interview and you—“
Now, if this was a movie, you would see my mouth drop open, the camera would close in tight on my face and I would say… “No wayyy?!”
Her people told me that now’s not a good time, and they would have to cancel. When I asked why, they said:
“…Because Miss. Lohan is on her way out, she’s heading to the court house. Her lawsuit with E-Trade financial over their most recent baby commercial is about to get underway. Her lawyer, Mr. Goldstein is heading into the office now to talk about it. Goodbye John…” click.
HOLY BIGNEWS BATMAN! This is huge. I need to somehow be a part of this case. Think, John! Think!
Just then, a town car pulls up, and a big jew-y guy in a big jew-y suit spills out. The name etched on his briefcase read: Mr. Goldstein. And this, ladies and gentlemen, along with my trusty chloroform bandana, is how I was able to saunter into Lindsay’s office, sporting the big jew-suit and say… “Hello everyone, Mr. Goldstein came down with a case of Slumped-unconscious-in-an-alley and has asked me to fill in for him.”
Back on top!
Her people all scampered around, clicking keys, poking bluetooths, and eating danishes (so Hollywood) all while trying to come up with a solution.
Her manager finally said, “There is no time! We have to get to the courthouse. If we’re late, we lose a LOT of credibility.”
“And if I may make a suggestion?” I start to say. “We really should get going because if we’re late, we lose a LOT of credibility.”
“Isn’t that exactly…”
“Let’s go!!” I shout, and bounce out the door, into the limo where everyone piled in behind me and we drove to where I am now: staring at some “judge” while I defend the once great name that has since been dragged through the mud. Defending the sexy starlet who made her name iconic for her roles in, Herbie Fully Loaded, The Parent Trap, Mean Girls and… fuckin… tons of other stuff too.
***Seriously, go check her IMDB list. It’s semi-depressing how much stuff I thought she was in.***
My goal for this nationwide televised case is on one thing: getting Lindsay Lohan to have sex with me. And, if we win, that would be chill too I guess…
And as Mrs. Womanjudge asks to hear our opening arguments and I down a hefty gulp of water and clear my throat, I rub my pinky against my clients shoulder. And she must have had to stretch her back, because my client then took two big steps away from me. My client: Lindsay Lohan.
Or, Lindsay, for short.
[Mark C's post on his defense of this "company" can be read HERE... Stay tuned for more articles which will be henceforth known as: The Lindsay Lohan Saga. Or, as the saying goes: there is plenty more where that came from... I got that from Home Alone 2.]
