Okay, so the other day I was talking about Spock, and I mentioned that my arch-nemesis was John Lithgow. Well, I guess a few people wanted to know more about that, so in the interests of journalistic integrity and also ripping John Lithgow another b-hole, I’m going to relate that story again. I originally told the story on Innerfilth.com way back in the day, but I’ve advanced as a writer and as a man since then, so I’m going to try to really do the story justice this time. The word needs to get out. People have long been under the false impression that John Lithgow is the funny, friendly alien from 30 Rock From the Sun, but I’ve watched that show and he’s not even in one episode of that show, and I’m already halfway through the fifth season! That show isn’t even about aliens, as far as I can tell! That is how deep Lithgow’s lies run! This man needs to be jailed!
Aaron is a friend of mine from college – yes I went to college, thank you very much – and I was visiting him in his hometown of Toledo, OH. This was in March 2006, and we had been dicking around all day playing Mario Cart and Super Smash Brothers, drinking beers and smoking a LOT of weed. Aaron and I were going a punk rock show that night at a bar called The Scar Tissue Lounge. It was sort of in a rough part of town, and Aaron didn’t have a car, so we walked, and just to be on the safe side we both took kitchen knives with us for protection. It was really cold that night, so we had winter jackets, but they still searched us at the door, and told us to either get rid of the knives or to get lost, so we threw the knives into the dumpster, because a band I liked called Bean Farts was playing that night, and I wasn’t about to miss that because of some stupid bouncer.
The irony is, Bean Farts cancelled because their singer, Chachi Moreno, lost his eye in a high-speed fishing accident, which is pretty much as punk rock as it gets. But a bunch of other really great bands played, like Barf Tendrils, Uncle Chester’s Fever, Gorilla (Ape) Gorilla, Sleepy Jesus, and Clarissa Explains Nothing. It was a great show, and we ran into some friend of Aaron’s who gave us some acid, so things got really interesting after that.
Fast forward to the end of the show. When they announced that Bean Farts wouldn’t be coming on stage, things got out of hand pretty fast. People started throwing beer bottles and somebody started a fire in the bathroom. It was crazy. Once smoke started pouring out into the main area, there was a stampede for the door, and then the cops showed. Both Aaron and I were holding, so I knew he wouldn’t be sticking around, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to, either.
I figured I could probably make it make to Aaron’s apartment on my own, but I was pretty nervous because I didn’t have a weapon and I was all by myself, so I walked fast and kept my head down, and that was fine for awhile, but then I started to peak out on the acid and lost track of where I was. It was a pretty bad time, so I ducked into an alley to smoke a bowl and try to chill out a little bit. Well, that was my first mistake!
My second mistake was thinking that I could trust John Lithgow!
He came creeping out of the shadows and for a second I thought everything was going to be okay because I recognized him from Harold the Duck and that Bigfoot movie. I was excited, so I said, “Hey, you’re the guy from Harry the Henderson!” I don’t know why, but that made him really mad, and that was when I noticed the baseball bat. Now, I don’t know about you, but there’s nothing friendly about a man stepping out of the mouth of a shadowy back alley with a baseball bat and red-rimmed eyes like some kind of crazy person. I know a tweeker when I see one. He was pale and shaking and his face was twitching and he said, “What you know about me? Huh? Huh?” and hit the wall with the bat.
“Gimmie your fuckin’ money, dickneck, or I’ll break your goddamn legs!” he shouted.
Well, I only had a ten dollar bill and a Stop’n’Go card with all the holes punched except for one, and that’s a free soda and a hot dog right there, so I figured that’d be enough to keep him happy, but I guess not. I’ve never bothered with crystal – I was always more of a weed, shrooms, and acid guy, myself – so I don’t know how much it costs. Apparently more than ten dollars and the value of a soda and a hot dog. Alls I know is, he was pretty pissed, still, and he was like, “That all you got, boy? You gonna die if you don’t give me somethin’ good. You got any of that weed left? Gimmie that.”
I told him I was all out – and that was true – and I said, “Listen, John Lithgow! Listen to me! Yes, I know your name, yes! And I know your movies! And just because you’re a Hollywood big shot doesn’t mean you can bully people around and steal things! I’ll tell you what! You’d better kill me, because if you don’t, I’ll kill myself and haunt you forever!”
I really believed that at the time, but you know how it is when you’re all fucked up on acid. You get convinced of some pretty crazy shit. I think he could see that I meant what I was saying, because even though he had the bat, he took a step back and his eyes got really wide. “No, man, no! Don’t haunt me, man! Fuck you!” and then he jabbed me in the gut with the end of the bat and knocked the wind out of me, stole my shoes, and ran off.
The next day I went to the cops and gave them a statement. When I told them I was mugged by John Lithgow they laughed at me, but they took my statement anyway and had a sketch artist draw a picture. Luckily, Aaron still had a copy at his place and was able to email it to me for my article. Hey Aaron, next time we go to a show, we’re doing it in Pennsylvania, buddy!
So I’ve had nine years to think about this, and think about it, and think about it, and slowly work on the shrine I built in my bedroom closet devoted to getting my revenge on him, and I can say this: I am terrified of John Lithgow. I used to think that I would kick his ass if I saw him again, or that I would hunt him down one day, but to be honest, if I saw him today, I would probably poop my pants and run away screaming. I think that role he did on Dexter’s Laboratory only proves my point: John Lithgow is a dangerous psychopath who belongs behind bars, and I really hope he doesn’t read this article and stab me to death!
I hope he burns in Hell forever.