Water Finds its own evel

Me and Mickey Rourke were at some crazy jamaican theme bar in st. petersburg, and Mickey starts table dancing. And Paul Rudd was there, he’d sniffed some speedballs and taken some mescaline, this was his first mistake.  There’s an unwritten law which noone has an excuse not to know.  It goes, don’t sct while in a state which robs you of full use of your brain.
         Paul Rudd ignored this law and, either lacking any sort of decency or self control.  Control, threw a bottle at mickey in a nonchalant manner. His way of saying "get the fuck down, dude." But the bottle cracked Mickey in his left temple and he went down. At the hospital Ruddy (paul's nickname) was like "I'm sososososososo sorry man!!!!!" But mickey, who was not only drunk but had a concussion and alot of blood loss, was like " It's okay dude, I love you." So Ruddy went, "you're so great, I’m gonna write you a song." So he pulled a sharpie out of his pocket and ran to the wall. When he passed out, all he had written was "mickey rourke is so cool, we should open a restaurant calle" with a long marker trail coming down from the last e.
         So that was a fascinating series of events.  They never did open that restaurant though.  They never saw eachother much anyway.  After all, Mickey starred in a movie where Jason Schwartzman tied a naked Brittany Murphy to a bed while Paul Rudd was the male lead in Clueless.  It was not meant to be.
         But in that hospital Mickey had actually told Ruddy he loved him, and being a person with a conspicuous absense of a father figure.  Ruddy took these words far more seriously than they were meant.
         So Paul Rudd began to act as if he really wanted to hang out with Mickey alot.  More than Mickey did anyway.  I’ve been told a story about Ruddy getting wasted and calling Mickey at like three in the morning, too drunk to put a sentence together.  According to legend, they’re converstation went something like this.
         Ruddy: “Hey man, I just checked my messages, you dint call me.’
         Mickey:  “No, I was eatin dinner with my wife.”
         Ruddy: “Oh, so you don’t need anyone, huh?  Well you’re both lucky I dont (some combination of syllables, probably supposed to be the word drink, sounds more like frim) cause thans, real funny, dick.”
         Mickey: “Okay, is there someone over there by you?  Just make sure not to sleep on your stomach.”
         Ruddy: “I know!  That’s how hendrix died!  He was kind of a dick anyway.  Look at me, I’m Jimmy Hendrix!  I’ll never respond to ANY fucking fan mail fan mail, I don’t care if you check everyday to see if I did.  Guess what?!  No fucking way  took the time to write a letter.”  He ended this story by vomiting, not a fun or relaxing way of ending this monologue.  But it worked.
         Mickey, though somewhat didturbed and concerned, decided his best course of action for the rest of the night would be going to sleep and forgetting.
         This seemed as good a time as any to do this.  But even this ability was not outside of Paul Rudd’s sphere of influence on this night.  Somehow, Ruddy had obtained the phone number of Mickey Rourke’s hotel room, he had forgotten, however, that Mickey had rented an appartment for the duration of his movie shoot.  The result of this was mutually disturbing.  Both for a stay-at-home dad from Wisconsin who was taking a vacation with his family and for a comedic actor under the influence of a variety of substances.
         While I don’t know the details of this conversation, it went something like this.  The stay at home dad picked up his hotel room phone expecting to be getting a call from his wife, the rude awakening came in the form of Paul Rudd’s slurred speech.  “Whatchoo doin where!!?”
         The stay at home father on vacation asked the obvious questions, loudly.  “What!?”
         Ruddy did not immediately grasp that he had not, in fact, called Mickey Rourke, but had actually shattered a midwestern couple’s perception of reality.  So he carried on, “where are you?  And don’t fucking say olympus mons AGAIN, that’s not fucking funny.”
         This phone call apeared to deliver at least 60 pounds of concussive force to the solar plexus of it’s recipient.  As the midwestern househusband fell to the floor backwards, a variety of questions shot through the soft parts of his consciousness.  The simplest and most accurate summary of these questions was “what?”
         Ruddy came back at an apparent attempt to shrug him off with a simple “FUCK YOU!”
         They both hung up, and never spoke again.  While this conversation had no impact on Mickey Rourke, this midwestern stranger, a used car salesman and all around shyster, believed it to be a sign from God.  He vowed to never again lie for money.  So I guess it was a sign from god.  Ours is not to ask why.
         But while sitting on a plane back home from L.A, I had a realization.  he’d become pretty angry at everyone and everything.  How could he blame Mickey Rourke for anything that happened?  Mickey was obviously a lonely guy, and he hadn’t done anything to help him with this.  If anything, he’d made it worse, he suggested that theme bar.