Being the Paparazzo is hard...

I was at home innocently playing Grand Theft Auto IV, and by that, I mean, I was driving down Wilshire when I ran over a Russian Prostitute, though it could have been Helen Mirren [she is so versatile!], I’m not entirely sure. Anyway, I shouldn’t be expected to remember the little details when I am in such a rush.

You see, earlier that day, I was talking with my friend, Miss Cleo, and she had predicted that Jamie Lynn would be giving an extremely exploitive photo shoot that afternoon, you know, selling the pictures of her new baby. So I wanted to be first in line, as I could easily sell those bad boys off to that coke head on The Insider [definitely not TMZ… fascists…].

I had been casually making my way there, obeying all traffic laws, like a good citizen, when I spotted the photographer from OK! Magazine. I recognized her, as she was supposed to do a spread on my gracious home for a September issue, but the spread was bumped by yet another expose on Amy Winehouse’s room at the rehab clinic. Anywho, I had to put the petal to the metal, My Ford Festiva rocked to a speedy 45 MPH, and I sideswiped the photographer’s car, forcing her into a Del Taco drive through. I was almost tempted to turn back and get some fries, Del Taco fries are the best you know, but then thought to keep the lead. I approached the hospital at top speed, careening the Festiva through the doors of the emergency room at 46 miles per hour. The car stalled out in front of the doors, which was fine, it would block the way from the hungry lenses of the paparazzi, those photos were going to be mine exclusively!

“Where is she!?!” I demanded from the nurse at the front counter. She stammered, while staring passed the Festiva at Helen Mirren, who was pounding on the roof of the car trying to get into the ER. “Go around!” I shouted at her, waving her away, then to the nurse, “What room is she in!”

“Room 242,” she finally answered.

I grabbed my Hello Kitty point and shoot camera from the glove box of the Festiva and bolted up the stairs. As I reached the room, I threw the door open and started clicking away. After I snapped a few pictures, I lowered my camera.

“What is this shit?” I asked rhetorically.

“I’m being creative,” answered Madonna from the hospital bed. The limp bodies of William Orbit, Bjork, and Timbaland hanging from the ceiling, their blood being drained through plastic tubing that lead to the back of the evil succubus’ neck.

“It was a rhetorical question, after all, I do have eyes.”

“help me,” cried a weak voice from the corner. I turned to see Justin Timberlake lying on the ground, feebly reaching up for me.

“Oh whatever ‘Michael,’” I said with a sneer, and walked out.