The Random Griffith

America’s sweetheart, or Nazi swamp poontang?

Posted in Uncategorized by Jackson Griffith on 21/03/2010

We all make mistakes once in a while, we do stupid things we later regret, we insert our Tab A into Slot B for Bombshell means B for Boneheaded, and then things go incredibly sideways and we’re left in a pile of broken motorcycle parts on the garage floor going, uh, whoa, dude, what was I thinking?

So Jesse, I feel for you. Married to the actress who’s been branded with the sobriquet “America’s sweetheart.” And then, while no one but the two people inside a marriage know what’s really going on in that relationship, but for some reason you hooked up for some side action with the kind of woman that, well, there were certain red flags, lit with klieg lights, framed in neon, with bright crimson sparklies dangling from the edges. Did you not see them?

First, the tattoos. Now, a certain amount of tattoos can be sexy, or at least within the parameters of sexy, but there is a general point of overload. And while I prefer women with no or minimal tattoos, I won’t rule tattooed women out, and I’ve met my share of women with, oh, sleeve work, or other tats, and they’re still arousing to me. But when a woman is tattooed all over her body, Suicide Girl-style, and when those tattoos appear to be random and aren’t organized by any overriding aesthetic consideration, than I’d guess there is the potential for a few teensy underlying mental-illness issues to think about.

Especially if there are tattoos that say stuff like “Trophy Girl” in big ugly script across the belly. Or the initials “W” and “P” — which, contrary to what someone might tell you, probably do not stand for “wet pussy” or “Washington Post” — appear anywhere on the body, along with various iconographies popular with a certain expansionist central European government circa the late 1930s. And especially if there is script or stars or teardrops tattooed across the forehead, or anywhere on the face or neck, for that matter. Perhaps there are little blue pills, or biker crank, after which the ingestion of, effective tumescence can be sustained. But that many tats are, to me, what I’d call a major boner soft-boiler.

Second, well, look. You know that Monty Python movie about the Holy Grail, where King Arthur and his entourage are attacked by cows and other barnyard animals fired from trebuchets by the French and they yell “Run away! Run away!“? Whenever girlfriend lists as favorite reading material stuff like Mein Kampf and The Turner Diaries on her Facebook page, you might want to take the King’s advice. Especially if you’re married to a movie star, whose life and relationships — and this means you, podna — are frequently examined and dissected and then broadcast by a voracious 24/7 gossip machine that’s part of an industry, meaning show business, many of whose members are members of the 12 tribes, a group of people that, historically, does not find great humor in swastikas and stiff-armed salutes, unless we’re talking about Mel Brooks’ The Producers, or maybe Hogan’s Heroes.

Now, many of us have been skankbangers in our time. “Crazy-chick sex,” as we call it, occasionally comes up as a topic of discussion with the guys, and it isn’t limited to one gender, either; your wife Sandra, for example, probably was engaging in a little crazy-meathead sex when she hooked up with you, and chances are she regaled her girlfriends or at least a gay hairdresser or two with the details of your fevered ruttings. Women like excitement, too. For us guys, it’s the thrill of meeting someone, say, one random afternoon, and going zero to a hundred, so that a few short hours or even minutes later, and suddenly we’re humping like rabbits. Wheeeee! Yabba dabba doo! Many of us do understand, as we also have experienced the grim consequences when it all goes horribly sideways.

So I hope the sex with that woman — who looks like a fundamentalist tent-revival preacher’s jackoff fantasy of the Whore of Babylon, by the way, or at least the skanky female equivalent of, oh, Billy Bob Thornton — was completely off the hook. One caveat, though, that you should have thought about before you showed girlfriend your personal Sgt. Schultz: You’re married. To a high-profile actress. Who just won an Oscar for Best Actress. Which makes her even more high profile. Um, what part of “duh” do you not understand?

Not only do you have a marriage, to a wife who’s probably in knuckle-down discussions with high-powered divorce lawyers right now on the logistics of owning your dumbfuck hillbilly ass for the duration of your soon-to-be-miserable existence, but you have a portfolio of brands — you know, businesses — with investors who, I’m guessing, are more than mildly crestfallen that you couldn’t exercise a modicum of restraint. About West Coast Choppers, Garage Magazine, Jesse James Industrial Workwear, Cisco Burger and Austin Speed Shop: Dude, those are some pretty swell brands. They’ll probably weather this particular storm just fine, because you’ll have enough of a clientele base that considers the boning of tattooed überstrippers to be a plus and not a minus. But according to one public relations professional I chatted with online, you now have the arguably odious taint of sieg-heiling skank about you, and it’s going to affect your businesses, too. Your marriage may be unsalvageable, but your business empire, while not lost completely, may be in for a bit of a recession.

About your girlfriend: I understand mental illness, having been married to someone who was seriously bipolar. Considerably less than a minute looking at Ms. Bombshell’s Facebook page, or her Myspace page, should be enough to figure out that, at least as a married man, that’s one good time that probably ain’t worth the risk. But not to hate on her; she probably has had some awful things happen to her in her life that brought her to where she is today, and when you factor in mental-illness issues like bipolar disorder, or borderline personality disorder, or narcissistic personality disorder, or a cocktail of all those and more, she’s got a hard road to hoe, no pun intended. No one deserves to have that kind of stuff going on in their brain chemistry, and it isn’t their fault. But like I said earlier, for a married man, especially a high-profile one, those are some pretty obvious red flags.

I guess the reason your current travails so interested me are because, like I mentioned, I was married to someone whose behavior played out in some pretty extreme ways. I’d rather spare the world the details, except to say that my stock explanation for what happened in my marriage was like Jimmy Stewart stumbling around in a particularly dark David Lynch movie. So I can really empathize with what your wife Sandra Bullock must be going through right now, because that’s one emotional hall of fun-house mirrors that I particularly and bitterly understand. And I have no idea if she was faithful to you or not, because Hollywood marital fidelity seems to be kinda like Hollywood sobriety; it’s tethered to a different reality than the rest of us perceive. I can say that, if she was faithful, she’ll likely get through the pain more quickly; I still rest assured that, as messed up as my marriage got, I was utterly faithful the entire time we were together, and knowing that helped me ease up on the self-hatred.

In retrospect, maybe that makes me stupid. But fuck that; I really don’t care; I’ll most likely never marry again, and the way my life has been going over the past year, I’m guessing I’ll probably never get into any kind of close relationship again, either. (Inner editor: “Now, you really don’t believe that, do you?” Me: “Um, well, no, but I’m just a little butthurt by my inability to form and sustain intimate relationships in recent years, so maybe I’m exaggerating a bit.” Inner editor: “Thank you for clarifying that.”)

Anyway, Mr. James, good luck on getting through this mess. Having a solid bank account can go a long way toward getting you there, but those divorce lawyers may have other ideas about your continuing solvency. And thank you for giving the rest of us a serious “What the fuck?” reality check. I mean, lots of guys may fantasize about boning tattooed Nazi swamp poontang, but you got down on all fours and did it, and let the goddamn chips fall where they may. And that takes some kind of balls. —Jackson Griffith

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2 Responses

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  1. junk said, on 21/03/2010 at 08:20

    Jackson,
    I hope he reads this piece; well done, as always.
    And I told you, you ARE Jimmy Stewart!!! : )
    And, WTF is it about this spring weather that makes sweet people such as ourselves steep in self-indulgent misery? Thought that type of thing was for rainy season?
    Remember, you had no say (existentially speaking) in your first marriage coming at ya, and the Universe will bitch-slap you (as it is wont to do) upside the head whenever It wants to, offering up a beautiful wife, a good lay, a $50 on the sidewalk, or a deal with Random House whenever It damn well pleases. But it will happen, that much ya gotta know.
    Love ya.

  2. jaxong said, on 21/03/2010 at 14:52

    You told me I was Jimmy S? When? Tip me off as to who you are. Do I know you? And on my birthday, I’ll settle for a good lay. Hell, a hug and a kiss would suffice at this point. –jbg


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