The Oliver Stone Incident

This one goes back to September of 1999. I was fresh out of prison, on probation, dealing cocaine, and out with a group of friends to celebrate their collective birthdays. At Trader Vic's, we had a copious amout of Suffering Bastards, Mai Tais, and assorted rum drinks when our drunkenness brought us to The Clermont Lounge. I have often described the Clermont Lounge as “walking into a David Lynch movie”, but that night, we strolled into Atlanta’s version of Blue Velvet and found none other than, Oliver Stone.

He was sitting at a table with two bodyguards. We are arguing back and forth as to whether it is really him or not. At the time, I had a girlfriend; she was quite something: tall, Brazilian, with an English accent and big boobs. We were supposed to get married one day. Yeah, right. Anyhoo, rather than have one of us guys going over to bug him, we thought it would be better to send the busty English bird -- she got up and sat down with him while we watched from across the room...

Yep, it was him alright – Oliver Fucking Stone.

So she brings him by our table, we shoot the shit with him for a while, where I am clearly introduced to him as her boyfriend, before she goes back over to his table and they continue chatting. It was becoming clear to me that Oliver was becoming quite enamored with my woman. No biggie, it would be cool to tell everybody tomorrow that we were hanging out with Oliver Stone at the Clermont.

If she was the bait – so be it.

It gets toward closing time, Oliver has joined our group and asks what was going on after the bar closed. We decide to do some afterhours shit at my friend Shane’s house. Oliver and his bodyguard follow us over to the house; they drop him off and leave. Oliver is back on my girl like a mosquito to a blood bank. I was starting to feel like Oliver was getting a bit disrespectful, but fuck it -- he's just an old fossil. A few times, I attempted to join in on their conversation but get rudely ignored.

Ok, Whatever.

At the time, I was in the midst of a dilemma. I was making my living as a coke dealer, but I felt my girl had a wee bit of a coke problem, so we made the mutual agreement lay off the weasel dust. Yeah, I know…what a stupid idea - it’s like suffocating someone, holding a bag of air, and charging them to breathe.

Hindsight is 20/20.

After a while, I leave the room and when I come back; they are both gone. I walked into the hall and by the bathroom; where I can here keys jangling, noses snorting, and a British accent saying, “Don’t tell my boyfriend about this…” Then, while lurking in the darkness at the end of the hall, I see them both walk out.

This was getting out of hand. It was time to check Oliver’s ass, but how best to do it? No point in kicking his ass. He’s an old fart. I had to do something though, I don't care who the fuck he thinks he is – the pompous bastard.

Then it hit me.

I go in the bathroom, lock the door, and pull the massive bag of boogger sugar I was slinging out of my pocket. I chop out a line that would choke Scarface and snort it in one go. I was gacked off my face.

It was time to exact my revenge.

Without warning, I plop down on the couch between Oliver and my ex. It was Showtime! Now, keep in mind, I am taking mercy on you, o’ fine readers, by paraphrasing what followed. Trust me, for every one word printed here - five came out of my mouth that night.

It was glorious.

“Hey Oliver, Hey Oliver...you do movies, right? I got this idea for a film! It’s about these guys who are in college and are living in this house on campus and are selling weed. One day, this crazy Irish guy shows up on their porch and just sits there -- all creepy and shit. These guys have weed in the house, so they are like totally afraid to call the cops. Well, he just loiters there on the front porch for days; not saying a word and really bugging these kids out. So you know how he’s on the porch and he’s Irish, right? They start calling him Patty...Patty O’Furniture!”

Oliver stares back blankly.

“Dude, do you get it? Patty ‘O Furniture!! Doesn’t that fucking RULE?!”

Oliver continues glaring back, barely able to hide his annoyance as I continue:

“So, one night they have this keg party at the house, and, you know, Patty O'Furniture is Irish, so he likes to drink! Right? Then, all these frat boys crash the party and drink the keg dry. So, Patty O'Furniture gets pissed as shit when the alcohol runs out and flies into a psychotic rage and starts butchering the frat boys with an axe. Then, more frat boys arrive with more beer; Patty massacres them all and drinks their beer. Then the other fraternities send rescue parties to discover the fate of the first two groups and he wastes the rescue party! By the end of the movie, Patty O’Furniture has killed every frat boy in town. Wouldn’t that be fucking great man? Making a movie about a drunken Irish serial killer slaying frat boy after frat boy? Fuck yeah. So, if you want, you can help me with it?”

Oliver responds, “That’s great. Now get the fuck out of my face you asshole.”

“No, wait dude, that’s just part one!” I say, grabbing hard on to his sleeve in cocaine frenzy. “Part Two is Patty O’Furniture Goes to Vegas. So anyway, Patty O’Furniture is in Caesars Palace playing some blackjack. You know how, like in Vegas, as long as you are gambling - they keep bringing you free drinks, right? So, Patty has been playing for a few hours when he starts to loose. As soon as he has no more money, they have to stop bringing him free drinks, so he goes nuts and starts slaughtering waitresses, blackjack dealers, and old ladies playing slot machines. The police seal the casino off and Patty O’Furniture is forced to flee. He runs further and further into a secret hidden labyrinth in Caesars Palace. All along, the cops are hot on his trail as he winds further and further back into the catacomb. Eventually, he reaches a dead end, where a secret ceremony is going on. In the room is an altar with a virgin tied to it, Wayne Newton is singing showtunes backwards in Latin, and Sammy Davis is standing before the alter of sacrifice with a dagger giving praise to the mighty Infernal Lord Lucifer. Patty realizes that he has reached the end of the line and runs, attempts to take cover behind the altar but is mowed down in a hail of gunfire and dies right on top of the sacrificial virgin! And that’s how the second movie ends...”

By this time, Oliver’s face is turning red and his blood pressure looks like it’s about to go off the chart. He is so angry he can barely speak, and I don’t give him the chance…

“Ok, Oliver…you know how Patty O’Furniture dies on top of that virgin at the end of my second movie – right?”

He starts screaming at me, “Will you get the fuck out of my face? NOW!”

Undaunted, I forge ahead, “Well that leads into my third movie: PART III: THE SON OF PATTY O’ FURNITURE…”

At this point Oliver snaps and pulls some exacto knife thing out of his pocket, and starts running about the house trying to stab me with it while yelling, “I’LL CUT YOU, I’LL FUCKING CUT YOU! YOU BASTARD - I’LL FUCKING CUT YOU!!”

It was, truly, one of my defining moments.

With that, I left the party. Fuck Oliver Stone! He’s a dickhead. When he makes a picture of my life, it’s gonna be a porno movie.

He never did leave with my girlfriend anyhow...poor sap.