Throwing Things at David Arquette--Fish in a Barrel Edition

Sorry I'm a little late to the David Arquette party, but I had to stop by the bakery.  You may be wondering, "Why all the hatin' on David Arquette, what did he ever do to you?"

He fucked up my BFF's movie.

My BFF wrote the movie Slingshot.  I read the original draft, and a lot of the novel.  It was good stuff.  And then Arquette had to come along and fuck it all up.  He wouldn't come back for reshoots because he had to go to a baby shower, which, by the way, REAL men don't attend.  He rewrote a bunch of stuff.  And he was just a general bag of douche, which, frankly, he doesn't have the power to be.  You made Eight Legged Freaks, David.  And last I checked, that didn't win an Oscar, so you don't have an excuse to swat a fly, let alone be a dick.

And now it comes out that he is splitting from only connection to the Hollywood scene, Ace Ventura: Pet Detective star Courtney Cox (teehee).  He's done.  He has nothing to offer anyone.  He's a terrible actor who isn't good looking and who probably couldn't pick up rejects from Rock of Love.

The only upside is that if that he hadn't ruined the movie, my BFF would be in Hollywood instead of close to me, and we wouldn't have gone to grad school together and I wouldn't have a blog, which would be a drag.


So because I'm childish, and because I like to kick a man when he's down, today we're throwing:

A WHOLE FUCKING WEDDING CAKE!


That'll teach you to fuck up my BFF's movie, you pot-smoking, skank-banging, fashionless douche-bearded fat-headed sweathog!

This Week in Throwing Things at David Arquette

This week we're throwing . . .

A Burrito!  Eat that, jackass!

Celebrity Fantasies: David Arquette

I have this fantasy that I’m walking down St. Mark’s place towards Jas Mart to buy some of those little pink rice flour cakes that taste like clouds and I see David Arquette (pictured, left) walking on the opposite side, heading towards the Astor Place subway station. He’s got a large bag from Trash and Vaudville and I can only assume it’s filled with striped pants. I have a large, mostly-full Orange Julius, which I heft it at him.

I also, apparently, am a professional shot-putter because it hits him square between the shoulder blades, splattering all over his blue orange Hawaiian shirt and dripping down his green checkered pants. He turns to see who threw an Orange Julius at him. I wait until he spots me to yell, “You suck, David Arquette!” He starts to cry, drops his bag and runs away. Turns out the bag is just filled with some empty Keystone Light cans that he was probably returning for the deposit.

The next day his picture is on Perez Hilton with big white teardrops drawn on his cheek and a dong sketched in his mouth. I imagine it’s the most fame David Arquette will ever know.