Saturday, February 12, 2005

dead rubber between your fingers

There's been a lot of talk lately about Tom Sizemore, noted for his proficiency at playing tough, grizzled folk, usually of the military persuasion. It seems that our faux-battle hardened hero was busted for attempting to pass a drug test by using a rubber penis (presumably color-appropriate to his own--you have options) and someone else's luke-warm urine.


Nevermind for a second the thought process that goes into seeing an advertisement for a fake phallus and thinking, "By God, that's just crazy enough to work!" Nevermind the thought process that goes into putting on your thinking cap when faced with a drug test and realizing, "What this country needs are color-specific fake penii to sew to their underwear, and connected to these penii will be 'safe' urine. By God, that's just crazy enough to work! Fetch me my modeling clay!" Only people who are reeeeeeeeeeeeeeally high will have either of those thoughts, and as such they're excused. You're not in your right mind, fake dicks sound smart, so be it. Sorry.

What I'm concerned with is the thought process of the poor doctor. Now, he noticed the temperature was a little off, which meant either the good Sargeant was dead (which is a form of a high, I suppose), or something was flawed in the equipment. Sure, this guy's someone who has given urine tests before, AND given them in Los Angeles, presumably, so he's seen this sort of thing before. But still, there's that moment, that emotionally scarring moment where you must gird yourself just a touch before essentially saying "Sir, I don't believe that's your penis." Under how many other circumstances do those words come out in that order?

Now, tack on the fact that he had to make this request of Sgt. Horvath/Sgt. Earl Sistern/Lt. Col. Danny McKnight/Lt. Owen/Lt. Vincent D'Agosta (seriously, this guy's like three roles away from being named our Defense Secretary), and somehow it trasforms from a mortifying event to something well worth sharing. Of course, ABC News and Reuters took care of that, but I'm sure you took the day's prize around the hospital coffee maker. Hell, maybe you even had details to embellish the story. Maybe size and color tipped you off too, we'll never know. That's for just you and your friends/therapist.

But here's a helpful message for you, Det. Scagnetti, 'cause I know you like checking in with how I'm doing. This is it. Anyone who could have been your fan (who didn't confuse you with Michael Madsen), now knows that you strapped a functional dildo to your leg and tried to pass off someone elses urine as your own. So delicious was the methamphetamine in your system, mild forms of biological puppetry were considered and accepted. If you are not now at what recovery people call "The Bottom," you can certainly see it from where you're sitting. You're probably one, maybe two bad decisions away from joining James Spader in a Corvette convertable for the Palm Springs honeymoon suite. Clean up, man. Andrew McCarthey's not coming. There's a war going on right now as we speak, and surely we're only like six months away from our first batch of crap films depicting it. Who's going to play the tough-yet-fatherly Sargeant from Detroit/Brooklyn/Philadelphia? Who's going to hold Tom Hanks' hand when his trigger finger gets all twitchy? Your nation needs you. So have a cup of coffee, put your Whizzinator away and take stock. Hollywood always offers second chances. Hell, once you've sobered up and gotten your career back on track you can go ahead and get whatever fake parts make you happy. It's your world, Tom.


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