Lindsay Lohan Envies Britney Spears And Oxycontin

Lindsay Morgan Lohan opened her small leather bag by sliding the fat metal zipper from end to end. The sound of the club was supposed to be music, dance music, but it no longer was landing on her ears that way. It was more like a hammer coming down on her forehead. She was alone in the back sitting on a plush booth behind a table. Paris Hilton and Britney Spears were dancing with what must have been a hundred patrons, Paris attracting the most attention as usual. Britney, though piggishly fat and soft, was dancing with better moves than Paris, but she seemed to be more of a quaint curiosity than Paris. Britney had a cigarette dangling from her matronly fat lips as she danced from the memory of some concert choreography. But paris gyrated falsely with her eyes closed, as if she was feeling the heat of her own glow.

Paris and Britney would be irritating to Lindsay except for the fact that Lindsay was not feeling well. This was starting to happen more and more lately. The Vicodin pills that Lindsay was downing daily were starting to become a fixture in her life. And Lindsay had told herself that when she clubbed, she would avoid drinking if she was popping Vicodin. But the fact was that Lindsay was clubbing daily, or more accurately nightly. And tonight she had several glasses of white wine and three Vicodin pills in rapid succession, the mixture sloshing her brain around, making the room dizzy and the music a jackhammer.

When Lindsay opened her leather bag she spied the following: a Blackberry cell phone, a Motorola Razr cell phone, a vile of Vicodin, a pack of Merit Light cigarettes, a solid gold cigarette lighter, three marijuana joints, a purple ultra fine point Sharpie, a palm-size leather notebook which contained phone numbers, emails and other private information, and a set of keys. The nanosecond after she opened the bag, Lindsay forgot what she was rummaging for. Was it for a cigarette? A joint? Did she want to check her email? Make a phone call? She picked up the vial of Vicodin which did not have her name on it. It was the name of a friend who seemed to have an unlimited supply, and gave her dozens of vials that she kept at home in her closet in a wood box behind a pair of cowboy boots. The vial was half filled. These were the strong Vicodin pills, the heavy dose ones. The label said “Take One Every Twelve Hours As Needed.” She had already popped three in the last two hours and she knew that if she popped oned more, she would feel better for about an hour before feeling bad again. But in that hour, she could get home, take some sleeping pills and maybe sleep it off till tomorrow.

“Hey, Lindsay, you want to dance?” asked Britney Spears, startling Lindsay. Lindsay clumsily held her hand over the vial betraying that she was hiding something.

“Not really,” said Lindsay. Britney still had the lit cigarette at the corner of her mouth, with smoke shooting from her nostrils and puffs forming with each word she spoke. She looked disgusting, thought Lindsay who was confident that she smoked a cigarette with more grace than Britney Spears.

“What you got there?” asked Britney, referring to Lindsay’s cupped hand covering the vial of Vicodin.

“Tylenol,” said Lindsay.

“Yeah. Is it like strong Tylenot, if you know what I mean,” said Britney with a smile.

Lindsay hated nosey bitches, and it was none of Britney fucking business what she was doing and what she was taking.

“I have back pain,” said Lindsay.

“Yeah. I had that too. I love having back pain because then I can get Oxycontin. Is that what that is? Oxycontin?” asked Britney.

Damn. Britney can get Oxycontin, thought Lindsay. I mean Vicodin was cool and fun, but the one time Lindsay had Oxycontin it was one of the best nights she ever had. But her friend told her that it is impossible to get, and if caught with the stuff, it was seriously bad news.

“You can get Oxycontin?” asked Lindsay.

“Yeah. So what’s that?” asked Britney.

“Vicodin,” said Lindsay.

“Yeah, I guess you were right. That is like Tylenol,” said Britney as she backed up with a shuffle, to the music, and slowly turned with her hips and arms moving to the music, disappearing into the crowd.

Fuck Britney Spears. She was trash but Britney Spears had made millions with her stupid music and her stupid songs, and had now gotten fat and sloppy, looking like she was living in a trailer park with her two stupid kids. But she had one thing that Lindsay did not have. She had access to Oxycontin. Lindsay tossed the vial of Vicodin back into her bag, pulled out a Merit cigarette and lit it, taking a deep drag, inhaling the smoke so deep it filled every air sack of her lungs. Lindsay remembered that she had to be on the set tomorrow, and it was already 1:30 in the morning, which meant she had to be on the set in five hours. Shit. She picked up her Blackberry to call her manager. The Merit cigarette dangled from her mouth. She was going to tell her manager that she was not feeling well and would be at the set by noon. Yeah. By noon. She started to relax and decided to pop another Vicodin as soon as she got off the phone with her manager.

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Judith Regan Proposes Book Deal To OJ Simpson

Orenthal James Simpson sat in the polished black wood chair with fat arm rests and a green and black madras patterned cushion that was affixed to the seat. The chair presented itself as heavy, but when OJ sat in the chair and slid it a few inches to sit, the wood seemed to be hollow. OJ thought “Pottery Barn.” It was typical for corporations to buy stuff that looked good from a distance, but when up close the quality was suspect. He did not expect that of ReganBooks. Judith Regan sat in a similar chair with a higher back behind a black wood desk. The whole office seemed to have been ordered from a Pottery Barn catalog. This was the influence of Rupert Murdoch whose company owned ReganBooks. Murdoch was know to be cheap with anything that smelled of executive excess.

“Thanks for agreeing to meet with me,” said Judith Regan.

“Sure. It’s not like I am so busy,” said OJ with a smile. This had become the usual response from OJ when someone asked he was up to. He had decided that just to get through the day he woul dhave to have a sense of humor, self-humor, about his situation.

“You turn sixty next year,” said Judith.

OK, thought OJ. So she googled me. But it was still creepy.

“Yes. You got it,” said OJ.

“And I think you should start thinking about the written legacy you wish to leave,” said Judith as she tapped the end of a fat Mont Blanc fountain pen, an item that was not ordered from Pottery Barn.

“There’s already too much of a written legacy. I do not need more,” said OJ.

“May I make a proposition?” asked Judith.

“I used to get a proposition a day right after my acquittal. Now it is down to a proposition a month,” said OJ. He actually was amused by this fact, and smiled when he said it. OJ felt that everything was a gift after the acquittal, and so he was enjoying life.

“That is my point. When the propositions stop completely, you will have lost your opportunity to tell your story,” said Judith Regan.

“I told my story,” said OJ. OK, so he hadn’t really told his story. He told a story, but not the story. And it was not like anyone would believe him anyway. So why bother. The story he told stuck, at least with the jury, and so he was best to leave it at that.

“OJ, listen to me, you have a story to tell, and quite frankly I am not interested in you telling me or the public anything except for a hypothetical,” said Judith.

“A hypothetical?” said OJ.

“What if you did kill Nicole Brown Simpson and Ron Brown, hypothetically speaking, of course. How would it have happened, or under what circumstances could it have happened at all. That is what I am interested in,” said Judith.

This woman was nuts, thought OJ. She wanted OJ to get drunk with the guys at a bar and laugh off a few “what ifs” about killing his wife. It seemed to OJ that Judith Regan was trying to throw more dirt into his grave.

“It sounds crazy,” said OJ.

Judith had picked up on a certain “wink” to the audience from OJ, as if he knew he had gotten away with murder, literally, and that he felt lucky and was going to not let anything bother him.

“Clearly you have come to terms with what has happened to you. That is evidence of a man who can sleep at night, a man whose conscious is clear. Given your contented sense of self, I would think that it would be a clear statement of pride to discuss a hypothetical circumstance where you could kill your wife, and it may very well be that you conclude that no such circumstance exists,” said Judith Regan with the sober determination of a college professor.

OJ slept just fine at night, more due to medication than a clear conscious.

“My conscious is clear,” said OJ.

“Think about how the media has ripped you of your pride. I know you may not think about this, but pride and honor are the last pillars that keep us standing. The media has struggled to de-construct you, removing your human foundation. You must re-build. You must regain your pride and your honor. And you must do it with a bold statement,” said Judith.

“De-construct? Human foundation? I am trying to….”

“Yes. Sorry. I get pedantic,” said Judith.

“Pedantic?” asked OJ.

“The point is I can have someone write the book, your record of pride and honor, and you can work with our writer to restore your manhood,” said Judith.

“My manhood is fine,” said OJ.

“Of course. No question. But the media has a way of changing your legacy, stripping you of something that you have, though no one knows it,” said Judith.

She’s got that right, thought OJ.

“Do I get money for this project?” asked OJ. Money was really the only issue remaining for OJ. Everyone wanted a piece of him. He was allowed to keep some money he made as it came in, but the civil judgments, the lawyer fees, the huge financial fallout from the criminal and civil trials had decimated his net worth. Indeed, OJ had no net worth.

“Of course there is money involved,” said Judith. Judith knew that OJ endured a constant financial strain, and money was usually the drug that got most people to agree to anything, even if it was for an outlandish proposal.

“I’ll think about it,” said OJ. That was also a standard response. It was celebrity speak for “yes” let’s proceed, but I have an out whenever I feel like it.

“Absolutely. But I will have my writer contact you. set up a meeting. Start the process. See if it goes anywhere. No cost to you,” said Judith.

“No cost to me? I thought I was getting paid?” said OJ.

“Actually, I will be glad to give you a retainer to meet with the writer for, let’s say, seven five-hour sessions. How about a two thousand per session,” offered Judith.

“How about three thousand, and I’d like you to pay a third party,” said OJ.

“Deal,” said Judith.

“This ain’t going to go anywhere, you know. It smells bad,” said OJ.

“We’ll make it smell good,” said Judith. She did not know whether to believe her own shit, but she at least got OJ to accept the idea and do the first step. One step at a time. That’s the way it worked.

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Secret Service Buys Sony PS3 For President Bush

The time was 11:45pm. A line of people stretched around the corner from the suburban Best Buy in Fairfax, Virginia. Max Fine was number two on the line. Max Fine wore a fleece jacket covered by a beige raincoat. His jeans were new with an iron crease down the front. His Nike running shoes were uncomfortable because they had yet to be broken in. Max Fine was a career Secret Service agent, one of the best, and in the inner circle of agents that protected President George W. Bush. He was 43 years old, his 44th birthday just a few weeks away. Max was not married, never had been, no children, and was thankful for the lack of headaches family seems to bring others. But today, tonight that is, he felt like part of a big family, like one of the kids told to go out and run an errand. Afterall, that is exactly what he was doing.

The number one guy on the line outside of Best Buy looked like he was a college kid, long hair, face stubble, frayed baggy jeans, and Asian. The number three guy on the line also looked like a college kid, long hair, face stubble, frayed baggy jeans, and African American. Number four was a girl. Number five was an older woman, maybe 35, overweight with a crew cut, covered in a fuzzy pink coat with round pink buttons the size of silver dollars. Her skinny bare legs were a mismatch for her rotund upper body. There were of course numbers six, seven, eight…by number fifteen or so, the line turned the corner down the long stretch of the side of the large store that sat in the parking lot separate from the Fairfax Shopping Mall.

Max Fine had gotten to the Best Buy to get online at 6:00pm, as instructed by the President. President Bush said “Max, I want you to be the first in there to get me that thing.” Well, Max would not be the first. Max was number two. The Asian college kid was number one. Max would flash his credentials, but the President also said “Don’t let anyone know you’re buying this for me.” Max had no idea there would be a line. Max also was surprised to learn that Best Buy was to stay open until 1:00 AM just so it could be the first to sell Sony’s Playstation 3 at midnight when it legally was to go on sale. The President said “Dick doesn’t know about these things. There is lots of stuff to learn on Playstation. But Dick doesn’t understand that.” Max Fine was not certain why the President launched into a rant about Vice President Dick Cheney, but he suspected that the President had altered his view of “Dickie Bear,” as he was known in the Secret Service. The resignation of Rumsfeld seemed to change everything. The President chatted more with non-essential personnel now, such as Max was referred to though his job was to protect the life of the President, a task that any thinking person would deem essential. But today, or tonight that is, Max was doing what the Service used to call a “coffee run,” but was now called “doing a Starbucks.” Max was doing a Starbucks at Best Buy to get the new Playstation 3 plus a game. The President whispered it: “Resistance - Fall of Man.” Bush said it was supposed to have the best graphics and blow away anything on the Xbox. “Cheney and Rummie wouldn’t understand the usefulness of Resistance - Fall of Man, but the play action and the 3D graphics would give my administration the confidence to do the right thing in Iraq,” said Bush to Max Fine in the same whisper Bush had uttered the name of the game.

Max looked over at the Asian kid. “You ever hear of Resistance - Fall of Man?” asked Max.

“Yeah,” said the Asian kid.

“You buying it?” asked Max.

“Nope. Can’t afford it. Barely enough for the PS3,” said the Asian kid.

“Don’t buy it,” said the African-American kid to Max’s right.

“Oh, yeah. I heard it was good,” said Max.

“You heard wrong. All the idiots think it’s good. The game has no style, no grace. There’s no room for nuance,” said the African-American kid.

“I see,” said Max.

Everyone on the line started to come to attention. It was almost midnight. The end of one day, the beginning of another, the two days separated by a consumer marketing moment. Max thought of his job description. The last sentence of the description says “And anything else the President requests.”

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Lindsay Lohan In The First Person Driving To The Ivy

I sat at the wheel of the borrowed black Cadillac Escalade driving to the Ivy Restaurant. What I do is pull the car up to the garage around the corner, and then someone drives me one block to the restaurant where I get out and run in past all the photographers. Of course, the photographers all know I park my car around the corner, so they have two opportunities to accost me. Once when I dash from my car to the black Chevy Suburban that takes me to the Ivy, and then a second time when I get out of the Suburban and run into the Ivy. They have two chances to take my photo.

My hands were shaking. I am trying to quit smoking. My last cigarette was about four hours ago and I am already getting the shakes. Well, not really the shakes. I am just dying for a cigarette. I do not know how I let it happen, but I got up to almost two packs a day. That wasn’t good. But it happened so fast, and the damn little things just became part of my life like breathing. My palms were sweating all over the steering wheel. So I turned the corner onto North Robertson and saw the crowd of people in front of The Ivy. It looked like a busy afternoon, as usual. Mostly photographers, of course, and I saw three big video cameras too. They all recognized my Escalade, and started getting all excited and moving into position, thinking that I might stop and get out. But I didn’t. I did slow down though.

Now why did I do that? Why do I even come to the Ivy when I hate the crowd of photographers and the phony questions they ask to pretend that they are being nice or friendly. They don’t give a shit about me, really. If I had a heart attack right there in front of them, or fainted, they would love it. They would all be taking photos of me on the pavement dying or dead, not one helping or trying to revive me. The photo of me, Lindsay Morgan Lohan, unconscious or dead would be more important to them than helping me. The first thing they would do is run off and call US Magazine or People or some other fucking magazine that would offer thousands of dollars to these assholes for a photo of me dead.

I made the turn to get to the garage and wondered again why I was even coming to the Ivy. I mean, I come here like four times a week. Why? I know the vultures are all there waiting for me. I know this. And I hate it. So why do I do it? I must love it? No. I can’t love it. I hate it. Damn, I needed a cigarette. The Ivy is like this addiction. Driving in big black cars and pulling up to the crowd is like an addiction. I hate it. Yet I can’t stop doing it. I feel compelled. Where’s Harry? I need Harry, my boyfriend. Well, I am not sure he is still my boyfriend, but he does give me pills, and I need some pills right now. I like dropping them right before the photographers start snapping their flashes. It makes me say “hello” rather than “fuck you.” It’s important that I say something nice even though I want them all to go to hell. The pills help me say nice things. Pills are easier than cocaine. Harry started me on the cocaine, but it is really is a hassle. The cocaine makes me nice. The pills make me nice. But I didn’t have any pills. I didn’t have any cocaine. And I needed a cigarette. I did not feel very nice.

OK. Here’s the garage. And there they are. Maybe twenty people, all with cameras. Here I go. I have to race to the black Suburban and then be taken to the Ivy. One block. God I hate this. I need a cigarette. Where’s Harry?

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Lindsay Lohan Brought To Emergency Room Unconscious - Part Three

Continued From Yesterday.

Dr. Sarah Sheehan filled a hyperdermic by stabbing a small glass bottle with the needle.

“I am going to wake her. So tell me, what did she take for her pain? I need to know right now because I am giving her this medication and I do not want it to ract poorly with what she took,” said Dr. Sheehan.

Yikes. Now Harry Morton had to be honest. If he told the doctor a lie, and things went poorly, then he would be responsible. Dammit. Maybe she won’t give a shit where he had gotten the pills. Hell. Just be honest. There are times when you have to be honest.

“Oxycontin,” said Harry. There he said it. But he was not going ot tell the doc about the cocaine. That would be a mistake. She would have to report that one. But they won’t pick it up. The Oxycontin wold cover any sign of cocaine.

“Strong stuff. But this will wake her,” said Dr. Sheehan.

Harry did not know that Dr. Sheehan already suspected it was some kind of narcotic and that what she was giving Lindsay Lohan would not create a problem.

Dr. Sheehan jabbed the needle in Lindsay’s arm and pushed the plunger of the stimulant into her. A huge lungful of rancid air came out of Lindsay’s open mouth with a gurgling sound, as if the air pushed through mucus.

“Where, what, owwww, my arm,” said Lindsay Lohan as she stirred on the gurney.

“I think the arm is broken. We’ll have to take an x-ray. Hi. I am Dr. Sheehan. Your name?”

“What? My name? Is Harry here?” asked Lindsay, her eyes barely open because the lights were bright.

“Yes. I’m here,” said Harry.

“Your name?” asked Dr. Sheehan, who already knew who it was.

“Lohan. Lindsay Morgan Lohan,” said Lindsay.

“Well Lindsay, it appears you may have broken your arm. And it also appears that you have been combining a narcotic with alcohol. You shouldn’t do that. You came in here to the emergency room unconscious but with a strong heartbeat. And you are OK. But you should consider yourself lucky” said Dr. Sheehan.

“Narcotic? I don’t take narcotics,” said Lindsay.

“Your friend here, Harry is it, said you took Oxycontin. That is a very strong and addictive narcotic,” said Dr. Sheehan.

Dammit doc, thought Harry Morton. Did she have to get into this right now. He had introduced Lindsay to Oxycontin a few months ago, and he never fully explained to her that it was sort of a narcotic. But then, Lindsay was not stupid. She read the label. She could read. Harry was sure she had Googled “oxycontin.” It’s not like he was trying to pull the wool over her eyes. Although, he did tell her it that it was no big deal. Of course, he did not really take it. Oh, he told Lindsay he took it when she popped a pill or two. But he didn’t. Harry did not want to get addicted. He knew the stuff was strong. And the whole purpose was really to addict Lindsay. Well, not rally to addict her. Just to control her. To make her want Harry around. And so far it was working. In fact, he could not believe how well it was working. The sex games, the drugs – it all was keeping Lindsay Morgan Lohan close to him.

“Can I get this x-ray like now and get out of here. I want to go home and sleep,” said Lindsay. She was starting to wake up.

Good. Harry saw that the word “narcotic” had not fully landed in Lindsay’s brain, and she was already on to the next topic, which was to move on, get out of where she was, and find some new place to rest and make believe she was healthy.

“I want to take a shower. I have to wash my hair,” said Lindsay.

Great. Great. Now Lindsay was thinking purely of how she looked. The whole talk of drugs is history. At least for now.

“OK. I’ll have the nurse come in to prepare you for an x-ray. But I am gong to have to admit you for one night. You can have a private room. It is very private. And you can take a shower there,” said Dr. Sheehan.

“Thanks. Thank you so much, Doctor,” said Lindsay.

“You’re welcome,” said Dr. Sheehan, who then turned and walked out through the curtain, leaving Lindsay and Harry alone.

“You OK, sweetheart,” said Harry.

“No, asshole. I am not OK. I feel like shit. My arm is killing me. And I am here, back in the fucking hospital,” said Lindsay.

“I love you, Lindsay. And I will take care of you. I will make certain that you get out of here looking great, and you will have like a little cast or bandage on your arm and it will look like a fashion statement. It will be cool, with your long black flowing hair and great clothes with a little wrist cast. The media will love it and think you are strong,” said Harry.

“You think?” asked Lindsay.

“Leave it to me, baby. You will come out of this looking better than before. You are strong. And you are beautiful,” said Harry.

“And talented,” said Lindsay with a smile.

“Of course. And talented,” said Harry.

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