Like most of us, when confronted by the blandly complacent face of James Franco, I say “Man. I just wanna kick that guy in his neck till he’s fucking dead.” I know. You feel it, too.
Whether it’s Franco on General Hospital, or Franco hosting the Oscars, or Franco’s collection of stories, cause he’s a fucking writer all of sudden, or Franco teaching a class at the NYU called “Editing James Franco with James Franco”, or Franco cutting a record with Danger Mouse, or Franco opening a gallery show of his watercolors, or Franco taking over for Vin Scully up in the broadcast booth for a couple-few innings of the Dodgers-Pirates, or Franco’s feud with wait-what?-are-you-shitting-me? Bruce Vilanch? The “joke writer” who each year makes the Oscar ceremony feel like it’s a grueling test of human endurance.
If I encounter the misapplication of the phrase “renaissance man” slathered on this vacant-eyed shitwad by some slack-jawed copy editor one more time, I won’t ever quit puking. I am not even exaggerating, here – if I leave this stage and you speak the phrase “James Franco, renaissance man” within earshot of me, I will puke out my fucking rectum right on your table. My whole intestinal tract will come rocketing out of me, coiling on your table in a puddle of bile and ropey gut snot.
And then I’ll have to stuff it all back down my throat so I can scream at you.
There are literally thousands of reasons to hate that squinty-eyed shit hammer, but when I learned of Franco’s participation in the Museum of Non-Visible Art, that’s when I clicked my laptop shut and burned my own house to the ground.
The Museum of Non-Visible Art is a “project” by a husband and wife team who go by the name of Praxis, because, apparently, they feared that their real names Brainard and Delia lacked sufficient capacity to annoy.
At the Museum of Non-Visible Art – which is a website – you can BUY for real currency, nothing so shabby as an object or experience, but the privilege of receiving the DESCRIPTION of an art project that will never get made. This is pretty mind-blowing if you’re eight, or really high, or living a hundred years ago. Hey: Praxis - Google “Marcel Duchamp”, you exasperating secondhand squirrel turds.
Here is an excerpt from the Praxis Manifesto, which goes on for I-shit-you-not three pages:
“The only surface worth painting is the mind of the viewer.”
What a bunch of beat-offs. Now, if this was mouldering in the cyberspace, ignored as it ought to be, I wouldn’t have shit to say about it. But, these douche cannons had the epic temerity to ask for money to support this “project”. And they FUCKING GOT IT. They enlist Franco, and some star-fucker simpleton pays TEN THOUSAND FUCKING DOLLARS to get this dickhead to describe a shitty idea. TEN FUCKING THOUSAND FUCKING DOLLARS.
So, obviously, like any rational person, when I heard this, I felt like executing every shitheel dickface moron who shares genetic material with the fucktard who dropped TEN GRAND on this. It’s like the guy went: “How do I skull-fuck the poor WHILE doing the dumbest fucking thing anybody ever heard of.”
And it’s not just the money – it’s the fact that I could pitch a shot glass into this crowd, and fucking anybody I hit is gonna rattle off a dozen ideas better than anything Franco has ever conceived of. And describe that idea more vividly than that cipher whose inexpressive face and empty head exist solely as transport for that pile of fucking hair of his.
If there was any justice in this life, we’d never have heard of this idiot piece of shit, and James fucking Franco would be wearing a jester hat and juggling devil sticks at fucking Burning Man, instead of being granted a global platform for this derivative wad of self-congratulatory monkey shit.
I fully believed that I could not work myself into a more complete fucking froth of paralyzing rage. I was convinced that it was literally impossible for me coax anything more out my already overtaxed Jesus-Fucking-Christ-O-Meter – I thought I was red-lining to the fullest extent possible.
Then I learned that Gwyneth Paltrow had a fucking website. Where she doles out lifestyle advice. So. Treat yourself. If you are after a more vapid distillation of Oprah-fied self-indulgence, I defy you to find a better candidate than Paltrow’s GOOP-dot-fucking-com. Gwyneth, when not a film and recording star, is dutiful wife to the frontman for Coldplay, which the data shows is the shittiest band of this or any other century, had this to say about the launch of GOOP:
“When you go to Paris and your concierge sends you to some… restaurant because they get a kickback, it’s like, No. Where should I really be? Where is the great bar with organic wine? Where do I get a bikini wax in Paris? People know that I know that…”
Now. I am baffled. An anorexic millionaire can make such a statement publicly, and we somehow fail to be engulfed in class warfare. In another age, this kind of blithe and towering self-regard would have earned Ms. Paltrow the chance to deposit that well-tended head of hers into the basket at the base of a guillotine.
So. The time has come to act. Here is what I propose: we must beat James Franco to death with Gwyneth Paltrow. Now you may be saying: “Can’t be done. Gwyneth Paltrow weighs like forty-six pounds and has hollow bird bones. There’s just not enough mass there to beat anybody to death.”
I hear you. I do. But I THINK if we crush her into a blonde little nugget, and drive railroad spikes through Franco’s shoulders so he’ll stay still, and we really put our backs into it, I think we can do it, you guys. We may have to work in shifts, pummeling around the clock. And even if we can’t – even if the physics of using a bird-boned waif as a weapon preclude us from clubbing every last breath out of this smug and galling heap of chickenshit – even if it proves totally impossible, I think it’s really, really important that we try.