Here Is Why I Hate John CusackPosted: June 3, 2012
ONE DAY several years ago, I opened the door of my car into the side of the vehicle parked in the adjoining space, a red 2001 Kia Sentra unremarkable except for a miniaturized crystal ball hanging from the rearview mirror.
Just seconds before I could cleverly drive away, I heard someone begin to yell angrily. I could see some ugly-ass bitch in a kerchief yelling at me and running toward the car. I lowered the window.
“Sorry!” I yelled at her as I pulled out, “But you can’t complain if it’s only a Kia! It has to be a Toyota or better!”
As I drove away, in the rear view mirror I very distinctly saw her raise her hand, palm-out, and pass it across her body slowly from left to right as she said two words. There’s no way I could have heard her—the window was back up and I was driving away—but I could swear I could hear the words in my head just as she mouthed them.
Of course, had I known she was a gypsy I would have run her over before she had had the time to curse me. But unfortunately, I did not. However, ever since that day I have lived with the curse of John Cusack. And damnit do I hate that man.
The first time was on a train, not long after the above incident. I sat minding my business when I saw something of a commotion at the front of the car.
A disparate group of people were standing around one of the seats, which was facing away from me. Under other circumstances, I might have assumed some sort of altercation, or perhaps a fatty having a heart attack and needing attention. But some of the people appeared to be smiling and laughing, which ruled out an altercation. And I usually make note of any nearby fatties so that we do not accidentally bump into each other, resulting in having grease smeared on me. So it probably wasn’t that.
At this point still only passingly curious, I watched as some people walked away and others approached. A couple held pens, one seemed to have a notepad with her. Then it hit me… it must be someone famous. People were approaching that person and asking for an autograph.
It still did not hit me, of course. Since the incident I had thought but little of the woman, only occasionally thinking with a smile of having caused some damage to a Kia, or else of my evident wit in yelling out the window at her. It did not yet occur to me that there might be consequences.
Only when the woman in front of me returned to her seat from a visit to the front of the car did I first recall the incident. She leaned over to the man beside her and, clutching what I presume to be a signed sheet of paper to her chest, said gleefully, “You’ll never believe it… it’s John Cusack!”
John Cusack. John. Cusack. It took only a couple seconds for me to realize why those two words rang so in the dark recesses of my brain. Involuntarily, a shudder ran down my back.
Still, being above all else a levelheaded, rational man, I decided that there was no reason to fear for myself. Never mind that John Cusack, as I have since discovered, lives hundreds and hundreds of miles away from me. Never mind that it was only a scant few weeks after I had dinged the gypsy woman’s Kia.
No… I thought myself safe, and thought only how trite it was for the woman to be so excited for the celebrity at the front of the train car when she scarcely realized the man behind her was in fact me—Shaun! But… I did not then have a website through which to broadcast my amazingness to the world, and so I suppose that she may be forgiven.
Regardless, the hubbub had died down quite a bit when I finally disembarked, but morbid curiosity had reared its head within me: Was it really John Cusack? Did he look just as bland and talentless in person as he did in his films?
I chose to walk down that side of the train on my way to regain my vehicle, and as I did so passed a casual glance towards the window that would have been his. I am sure now that my glance must have frozen into a stare.
It was indeed John Cusack, and he was staring at me. Right. Fucking. At me. On his face was neither hatred nor surprise, but only the sort of utter disintrest that would seem appropriate to watching paint dry, or perhaps a woman’s sporting match.
And then, as the train began to pull away, he raised one hand and pointed to me—still with the blank stare. Just as the train pulled far enough away that I would have lost sight of him, I could swear that he had turned his hand around and flipped me the bird.
Shaken but not altogether worried—he was just then traveling away from me on a train you recall, so what had I to fear?—I proceeded onward to my car. What an odd coincidence, I thought.
My car was smashed to bits. Someone had clearly taken a baseball bat or other implement to it. The headlights were smashed, every window was smashed, the rear view and side mirrors were smashed. The sides had been keyed, scraped, and banged. The roof, hood, and trunk had been either jumped or stomped upon. The tires were all flat—not properly slashed, but shredded, even stabbed. The interior, I noticed as I got closer, reeked of piss. And right on the hood, where other cars might have a hood ornament, was a colossal shit of such breadth and length that had I not immediately known whose sphincter had gamely released it I would have denied that a human body could have produced it.
Was my car a Toyota or better? Perhaps, reader, perhaps. We all have our taste in cars. But yes, I did indeed complain.
The police seemed utterly disinterested. They refused to acknowledge John Cusack as a main suspect. They refused to even perform DNA testing to match the feces to him (yes this is possible, look it up). As time went on and I grew more insistent, they even seemed to grow exasperated and did not appear to feel very sorry for me.
Suffice it to say that the mystery of who smashed my car has not been officially “solved.” Justice, for sure, has not been done.
I have seen him since, or else I think that I have. It is never for long. I only get a glimpse of him before he disappears behind a tree, or a wall, or through a doorway. Each time I drop whatever I’m doing and rush to my car—but it always appears fine (save one time a flock of birds appears to have flown over it but whatever, it’s still better than the monstrosity Cusack left on there).
I know it is a matter of time before he strikes again though. Had the gypsy’s demented lust for my misfortune been satiated by the mere destruction of my car I am sure that I would simply never have seen him again. Now he haunts my dreams, always staring, sometimes flipping me off, other times shitting on the hood of my car.
Now, as for John Cusack himself… I don’t know. Is he a man? Is he a demon? I don’t understand how he trashed my car since he got on the train before me and presumably left it afterward. Obviously he did. Perhaps he is possessed? Or part gypsy?
All I can say for sure is FUCK THAT FUCKING FUCKER. YOU TRASHED MY CAR PISSED INSIDE IT AND SHAT ON THE HOOD SO FUCK YOU AND DIE. I HOPE ALL YOUR MOVIES BOMB LIKE THE FUCKING RAVEN YOU HUGE-SHIT-TAKING FUCKING HACK.