James Franco. (Getty Images)
Culture

Bungalow 69: A(nother) Letter to James Franco

One time, I was Googling pictures of the Chateau Marmont and masturbating to my own reflection when a certain young actor called me. “Hey,” said the actor. “Let me in your brain space. Pay attention to me! PAY ATTENTION TO ME! I’m doing something very important over here!”

“Go away,” I said to the actor. “You’re drunk. Or no…wait, I’m drunk.”

“Do you think I’m James Franco? I am James Franco. Talk dirty to me.”

I sighed, and looked around my office. Copies of Celebrity Anonymous and Palo Alto were strewn around the room haphazardly, like a tornado of terrible words had dropped this wizard of Oz all over my black-and-white Kansas.

“This is getting old, Franco,” I growled like a sex bear.

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