Starfucking 5: How I Killed Heath Ledger

It was the summer of 2000. The millennium buzz already worn off; the excitement of having just graduated high school fresh in the air. Because of poor academic planning, I had finished my required courses one half year after my fourth year of high school. That’s 4.5 years of learning if you wudn’t good at math. I digress. A couple of friends and I decided that in the upcoming summer, we’d travel across the Atlantic and backpack around Europe for about 6 weeks. So after 4 or 5 months of working odd jobs like, meat slicer at an upscale deli counter, lot boy responsible for parking cars, shammying them, and hiding from the boss, and two telemarketing jobs- one peddling free lawncare estimates, the other bilking unsuspecting poor people in excess of $700 to pay for a free cruise trip just outside of Fort Lauderdale, I had scraped together just enough cashola to make this trip a realization.

Zoom, Zip, Zap. I’m in Europe with my two buddies. Between the three of us, we’ve had sex a cumulative less than 30 times. Make no mistake, we never sexed each other. Just thought you should know.

Our first stop was in London, Ingulund. The most eventful thing to happen to us there was a chance encounter with a fugly stripper from Australia. (This is  foreshadowing. Australia is an important word to remember. Australia. Don’t forget).  She spun tales of frog-licking back in her home town of Canberra. It’s the capital of Australia, you know? That’s as good as it got. But everything changed when we crossed that fateful channel. Life as we knew it would never be as we knew it again. We came to Paris as boys. We would leave as garcons.

After spending a rousing evening frolicking on the grounds of the Tower de Eiffel, our stomachs began grumbling for a tender lick of sweet French vanilla ice cream; real authentical shit. We headed west. But this was no ordinary night. Stretched limousines were whizzing by shuttling international celebrities toward some monolithic structure which, that night, would play host to the 2000 Versace Fall line fashion show. The show’s coordinator, and director of model casting, recognizing our exotic Canadian-Judaic look, requested that we sign lucrative contracts with top model agencies like Elite, Ford, and General Motors and hop on stage to strut our god given bone structure. We declined. That night, we were meant to be spectators. In that respect, Lee Harvey Oswald was also a spectator. As we stood by the front doors, powerful A-listers were ushered inside. P-Diddy, Naomi Campbell, uber-star Marlon Wayans, Christina Ricci, Barry the night manager from Hooker Harvey’s, all within arm’s reach. That’s when it happened. Bulbs from the papparazzos’ cameras began flashing in an unbelievable frenzy. “Who could it be”, we all wondered aloud. “Eat, Eat ova, eyoor”, “give un smile pour le cam air uh, Eat, Eat!” But I knew what was up. I knew that monsieur Ledger was a fellow Aussie. Not saying that I’m Australian, just saying that he is, in fact, a fellow who also happens to be Australian. Heath nudges past the leacherous camera creatures and slowly brushes past me. We make eye contact. Time stops. We engage in the kind of mutual eye fucking you make with someone when you realize you’ve finally met your equivalent in beauty. In all honesty, it was like looking into a mirror that made me look 30lbs heavier with severe eye baggage. But I chose not to tell Heath. Instead, I cocked my hips, sealed my lips, then busted out the most guttural “Aussie, Aussie, Aussie. Oy, oy oy”, a down-underer has ever heard. Heath’s necked snapped back, his torso twisted in way that would suggest he’d just seen a person more beautiful than himself and dropping from his mouth like a speckle of pathetic saliva, was the word, “alright?” And he continued on his merry way.

Five weeks later, my two friends and I boarded the plane at Van Gogh airport and returned to Canada. Eight years would pass by when I got the news that Heath Ledger had been discovered dead in his Manhattan apartment from what the coroner called death from an “accidental toxic combination of prescription drugs”. Sometimes, a broken heart never mends itself.


3 Responses to “Starfucking 5: How I Killed Heath Ledger”

  1. H-bomb Says:

    “it was like looking into a mirror that made me look 30lbs heavier with severe eye baggage”

    ….take it back, boy.

  2. Illdo Says:

    If we’ve learned anything from the Who’s The Boss theme, it’s that there’s a time for love and a time for living. You take a chance and face the wind.

  3. Starfucking 6: Too Soon « Tal and David's Blog of Shit Says:

    […] this time, it’s not mega-uber star ‘Eet Leeadgah. It’s the mildly disgraced, Corey Whittaker Haim. Typically, when I off a celeb, it takes about […]

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