In Which I Call Out Samuel L. Jackson

So, last night, as I am often wont to do, I was catching up a bit with some of the backlog of television programming on my DVR. And one of the programs I've been recording is the new Tonight Show with Conan O'Brien. So far, I've really been enjoying it. Conan might not be everyone's cup o' tea, but I find him fresh and funny, as well as an adept interviewer. Never really cared much for Leno, honestly...His whole approach seemed a little too watered-down and pre-packaged. Not to mention that his obvious habit of having a representative pre-interview each guest to tease out anecdotes in advance was annoying as shit. You can bet if Leno said, "So, I understand you were hiking in the Himalayas recently," it's because the guest told a producer prior to the show that they'd been hiking in the Himalayas recently, and the producer helped them shape the story into a segments' worth of content. And hey, call me crazy, but if someone's being interviewed, I kind of appreciate at least the APPEARANCE of spontaneity.

But, as per usual, I digress.

Conan's first guest on Tuesday night's show was Samuel L. Jackson, he of "Pulp Fiction," "Snakes on a Plane," and "Star Wars" fame. And I dig Sam Jackson. I realize that's a bold statement, on a level with saying, "I enjoy breathing oxygen," and/or, "oral sex is nice," being as I don't know anyone who DOESN'T dig Sam Jackson. The man's an icon. A guaranteed box office draw, and for good reason. Few mix intelligence, charisma and cool in quite such complementary ratios. Plus, he's in EVERYTHING, so it's hard not to have enjoyed any number of his appearances. Thus, I watched the interview, and he was charming and funny as always.

But an exchange he and Conan had during his second segment REALLY grabbed my attention.

Conan asked about a rumor he'd heard: that Sam Jackson has a habit of combing the blogosphere, looking for people who write about him in a critical or disparaging fashion. Mr. Jackson confirmed this, saying he enjoys hunting down people who take potshots at him from behind the safety and relative anonymity of a keyboard and monitor, and then engaging them personally. Challenging their opinions, mano a mano, as himself. He even indicated that, if the criticism is severe enough, he may even call out the blogger, inviting them to meet him out someplace so they might "discuss" their differences face-to-face.

You can watch Sam and Conan's exchange on this topic below (it runs from roughly 28:08 - 29:50 in this clip):



In any case, I saw this, and that's when the wheels started turning.

As previously stated, I'm a fan of Mr. Jackson and his work. I think he's a fine actor, and has proven himself countless times to be a consummate gentleman. I have zero beef with him whatsoever. That said, I'm also a shameless publicity-whore when it comes to the Diary of Fools, and am willing to do nearly anything to boost our readership and raise our profile.

So, it became clear what I had to do.

Simply stated: In order to possibly raise the bar on our hit counter (via the method of drawing a bit of celebrity attention)...I had to give Samuel L. Jackson some shit.

Sure, it's a long shot. One look at the dude's IMDB C.V. confirms that he's busier than hell, and likely as not doesn't have time to read EVERY scrap of derision the internet at large has to throw at him. But what the hell? I've got just as much of a chance as anyone at getting his attention, and drawing a little fire, right? If Mr. Jackson enjoys spending his free time disputing criticism, then why not paint a nice, big target on my back? See, that's what's so great about the online world: the playing field is flatter than NBC's ratings.

Sorry, that was uncalled-for.

Anyway, as I said, I have no issue with the man. But that's incidental to the publicity opportunity this represents! I'm sort of like a Kindergartener that way...good attention or bad attention is all still ATTENTION. And I'm more than willing to put on a brave face, and take one for the team.

Besides, in the clip above, Sam talks about how he frequently asks these bloggers to put their money where their collective mouth is. To emerge from their dank parental basements, brush the Chee-to dust off of their stained anime T-shirts, and emerge into the searing sunshine to face him. Says he does this AS HIMSELF, and that he often offers proof in the form of a phone number in case someone doesn't believe that he is who he says he is, re-asserting his standing offer to throw down 4 realzies in actual offline meat-space.

He also indicates that NOBODY HAS EVER TAKEN HIM UP ON THIS OFFER. Could this BE any more of an open invitation to overnight infamy of the sort that only happens in cyberspace? I submit: NO.

And so, my next move is an obvious one. So, get ready, Mr. Jackson. Because here it comes.

**********

An Open Letter to Samuel L. Jackson:

Dear Sir (or Madam):

Recently, I found myself watching your latest appearance on "The Tonight Show with Conan O'Brien." Although to be honest, when I initially tuned in, I thought I had dialed up the Westminster Dog Show by mistake; so reminiscent is your countenance of the appearance usually associated with the posterior of a Bull Terrier (Mr. O'Brien's resemblance to a hyperactive Irish Setter only compounded this confusion).

"We have a terrific show for you tonight!"

While listening to you prattle on endlessly about your dishwater-dull career as you plugged some insignificant awards show you were slated to host, it was all I could do not to succumb to a narcoleptic episode. As you sat there with your idiotically fruity lavender suit and ludicrous homeless-person hat, bloviating about meaningless twaddle, all I heard was: "I'm Samuel L. Jackson, and I'm a gigantic tool. Please pay attention to me, and bolster my plummeting Q score. Blah, blah, blah." So, in a desperate attempt to keep from impulsively throwing things at my television in knee-jerk response to your crushing mediocrity, I instead busied my hands by ticking off all of the myriad ways you suck on my fingers (not that you suck on my fingers, but I bet you would if given the chance, you panty-waisted nancy-boy).

Here's what I came up with before I ran out of digits. Feel free to have a friend read this to you, provided you have one:

1) I hear you're a vegetarian. Honestly?!? So I guess the whole "badass" thing is just so much Hollywood smoke and mirrors, huh? I can't remember the last time I met a vegetarian who wasn't such a pussy that they could barely snap a stalk of celery in two without help. Vegetables aren't food; vegetables are what food eats. But then again, tearing into a porterhouse requires testicles, so I suppose you have little choice but to stick to the tofu.

2) You famously worked as a camera stand-in for Bill Cosby on "The Cosby Show." How you ever got it into your head that you were worthy to carry Dr. Cosby's jock is beyond me, but as far as I'm concerned, doing so is your most significant show business contribution to date.

3) As Master Mace Windu in the "Star Wars" prequel trilogy, you insisted to George Lucas that you be the only Jedi Master to ever carry a violet-colored lightsaber. Analyzing the base-level insecurity it takes to kick and scream until you get to be the only person in the galaxy strutting around with a giant purple rod in your hands is best left to the Freudians. Which reminds me...how does it feel to be only the third-coolest black dude out of three in the whole galaxy? Billy Dee Williams flew the Millennium Falcon, for chrissakes, so he gets to be #1. What did YOU do except get zapped to death by the guy mentoring #2? And yeah, Darth Vader counts. If not for the costume, then for the James Earl Jones, fool.

4) You golf. 'Nuff said.

5) In "Deep Blue Sea," you got eaten by a shark. This is fitting, being as your career jumped one right around the same time.

6) Apparently, people mistake you for Laurence Fishburne a lot. Here's a tip: stop correcting them. Nothing but good things can come from people thinking you're someone who actually has talent.

7) Hey, I'm not sure if you know this? But you can say "NO" to shit. There you are playing piano for eleven seconds in "Kill Bill." There you are again, making me sit through the "Iron Man" credits for your weak-sauce little fanboy shout-out. I can't even turn on a cartoon or a video game without having to listen to you try to get out your lines and chew scenery at the same time. Y'know, If you love movies as much as you SAY you do? Maybe you should let US enjoy more of them by not being IN as many, huh? I mean, shit. Conan said you recently set a world record as the actor with the highest cumulative box-office total for all of his collected projects. That's not really because any of them were any good, y'know. You've just hedged your bets by hopping onto every turd script that floats down the sewer pipe. You might as well tattoo "Quantity Over Quality" directly onto your goddamned forehead.

8) In "Black Snake Moan," your character spends the entire movie with a half-naked, nymphomaniac Christina Ricci chained to a radiator as she constantly writhes around on the edge of carnal ecstasy. So, just like every other dude in the universe would, you tap that six ways to Sunday in every position imaginable, right? No. No, you don't. Instead, you try to "cure" her of her insatiable sexual appetite via the liberal application of religion. BZZZZT! You're DOING it wrong, Buzzkill McDouchebag. What's next? Gonna knock the ice cream out of a little kid's hands, or drown a sack of puppies?

9) You got nominated for an Oscar for "Pulp Fiction." You lost to Martin Landau, who played Bela Lugosi in "Ed Wood." In other words, you got punked by a good actor playing a bad actor in a movie about a horrible director. Which, by connecting the dots, means you were worse than all of them. But hey, as least you got to rock that sweet jheri curl. So I'm sure that more than makes up for it, right? Right?!?

10) Hey, say "motherfucker!" Aww, c'mon, do it! Yeah, I know a lot of washed-up has-been bands hate taking the stage at the county fair knowing everyone's just waiting for them to play their one hit, but they do it anyway, don't they? So say "motherfucker." Pleeeease? Hey, look what happened to Gary Coleman and Jimmie Walker. They flat-out refuse to pull out, "What'choo talkin' about, Willis?" and "DY-NO-MITE!" these days, and where are THEIR careers? Same place yours is headed, and they were both better actors than you. Better-looking, too. C'mon...say "motherfucker." I'll give you twenty bucks. Hell, if it'll make you feel better, I'll even point a camera at you. I know you can't resist that.

And that's where I ran out of fingers. I almost considered removing my shoes and continuing, but by that point, Jimmy Fallon was on. Which meant I could safely turn off the TV and go to bed.

In short, Mr, Jackson, you are a ruffian. A thug. A ne'er-do-well, a rapscallion, a hooligan, and a scoundrel. You couldn't act your way out of a wet paper bag. But that doesn't stop me from wanting to put one on you anyway, simply to save myself from having to see your big, dumb face every time I turn around. In short, you are a scourge, a boil on the rump of the film industry. And I'm convinced that the only reason nobody's lanced said boil yet is for fear of having to put up with all of the infected sludge inside issuing forth at once, rather than only a dismal, putrid trickle at a time.

You suck,
Merton Sussex.

P.S.: I almost forgot: you smell like room-temperature Gorgonzola, and your wife blows bums behind the 7-11.

Die.

**********

So, there you have it.

Again, I feel a bit disingenuous manufacturing mock outrage. I don't really feel this way. But if it gets Mr. Jackson's attention, so much the better. Because if he reads this, and calls me out? I would agree to meet him, pistols at dawn or not. In fact, that's sort of the whole point. Were that to happen, I'm sure I could convince him that the whole thing is a lark, deliberately constructed to result in a scenario where we'd wind up hanging out. We might even have a laugh over the whole thing and walk away friends. And of course, we'd both benefit from the publicity, which is the important thing to bear in mind.

But even if he still wants to beat the living shit out of me? I'm fine with that, too. It'd be an honor. Christ, kicking ass is what the man does for a living. He's a professional. That's a beating you could be proud to tell your goddamned GRANDKIDS about. And it's one your buddies couldn't even give you any grief over.

"Hey, I heard you got your ass kicked! Ha-ha!"

"That's true, I did. I got beat down. By Samuel L. Jackson."

"Ha-ha-h...Oh, wait. Really? Wow. That's...um...That's actually pretty cool."

"Daaaamn right."

So, what say you, Mr. Jackson? Are we on? Ball's in your court, sir. Whether or not it gets hit back is entirely your call. I eagerly await your reply, you doo-doo faced chump. Don't let me down, now. You're not getting any younger, ya know. Nonny-nonny-boo-boo.

I hate your face, and stuff.

"I'm Delroy Lindo, and I approved this message."