James Franco Wrote An Insufferable Short Story About All The Times That Lindsay Lohan Tried To Sex Him
In case you didn’t get it the first time, James Franco would like everyone who cares to know that even though his name is on Lindsay Lohan’s list of slam pieces, he never stuck his douche stick in her freckled carniceria. Massengill’s answer to Jack Kerouac wrote a 10 million word short story for Vice’s “fiction issue” about the times that the Chateau Marmont’s resident hussy Lindsay Lohan tried to get into his piss-stained, worn out chonies. In James’ piece titled “Bungalow 89” he goes back and forth between a story about Gus Van Sant stuff and LiLo stalking him, because he’s a literary mastermind and that’s how they do it. Within the first few seconds of James’ vomit puddle of words, it’s one hundred percent apparent that this is a work of fakery, because Chateau Marmont era Lindsay Lohan could barely string together two words let alone eight.
There was a Hollywood girl staying at Chateau Marmont. She had gotten a key to my room from the manager. I heard her put the key into my front door and turn it, but I had slid the dead bolt and that thing—I don’t know what you call it; it’s like a chain but made of two bars—that kept the door from opening.
She said, “James, open the door.”
Across the room was a picture of a boy dressed as a sailor with a red sailor cap, and except for his blondish hair (closer to my brother’s color) he looked like me.
She said, “Open the door, you bookworm punk blogger faggot.”
Eventually, James let LiLo into his room, but he only read to her. Because James Franco is that older boyfriend you had in high school who was a community college art major, always wore black and would read you the works of Allen Ginsburg under his Andy Warhol poster as you played with the edges of the Serge Gainsbourg vinyl cover he bought at a record store in “the city.”
My phone rang. She let it ring until I answered.
“You’re not going to let me sleep, are you?”
“Do you think this is me? Lindsay Lohan. Say it. Say it, like you have ownership. It’s not my name anymore.”
“I just want to sleep on your couch. I’m lonely.”
“We’re not going to have sex. If you want to come in, I’ll read you a story.”
“A bedtime story?”
“It’s called ‘A Perfect Day for Bananafish.’”
Do you think I’ve created this? This dragon girl, lion girl, Hollywood hellion, terror of Sunset Boulevard, minor in the clubs, Chateau Demon? Do you think this is me?
James read Salinger to Lindsay Lohan (“Wasn’t that movie starring the chick from Clueless the TV show about me torture enough?! ” – JD Salinger’s ghost) and she kept trying to bump crab bushes with him.
Now we were lying in bed. I wasn’t going to fuck her. She had her head on my shoulder. She started to talk. I let her.
LiLo tells James a rambling, incoherent story about Meryl Streep and White Oprah and fucking a Greek guy in the bathroom of Bungalow 8 and then James ends with this:
Every night Lindsay looked for me. My Russian friend, Drew, was always around like a wraith. He, like the blond painting, was my doppelgänger, writing scripts about rape and murder. A Hollywood Dostoyevsky, he had gambled his money away. We played a ton of ping-pong. My room was on the second level, the exterior walls hugged by vines. Every night Lindsay looked for me, and I hid. Out the window was Hollywood.
Who should I feel sorry for more? James Franco? Lindsay Lohan? Salinger for being dragged into this? Or myself for reading that entire mess before bedtime last night?
This is obviously a coke-infused fairy tale, because it’s pretty damn obvious that LiLo and James made beautiful music together and by “beautiful music” I mean they both simultaneously screamed “IT BURNS!” when their down low parts touched. And you have to give it to James Franco. He found the most pretentious and insufferable way of saying, “I fucked Lindsay Lohan but if I keep saying I didn’t, I’ll start to believe it and those warts will go away.”
Here’s LiLo looking liked a cracked out Lawrence of Arabia while trolling around London last night.