Pissing Contest XXL: Your Best Worst Celebrity Encounters

For last week’s Pissing Contest, we asked you to share stories of your worst, most outrageous, and disappointing encounters with celebrities. Lo and behold, your responses were so good that we decided to feature them in their own very special post. Welcome to Pissing Contest XXL where you are the real celebrities.

The World Is Samuel Jackson’s Ashtray by exmaam:

I went to St. Andrews for university, so we had quite a few golf-loving celebs come through, especially during the Dunhill Cup. At one point I went out with a couple of my friends from hall to go watch some of it, and it was just as boring as you’d expect from, y’know, golf. So we’re talking about how boring it is and trying to see any celebrities, when Samuel L. Jackson walks past us. He’s smoking a cigarette, and just as he gets near us he tosses the butt on the ground. Kind of loudly (whatever, I have a loud voice) I said to one of my friends, “Did you see that? Samuel L. Jackson just littered on our Royal and Ancient Golf Course. What a dick.” At which point he turned back, took a few steps toward me, and just… stared. Death stared. Like he was really considering getting the caddy to hand him a nine-iron. I took a step back – dude is scary as fuck. Then he just… walked away.

I’ve done some dumb shit in my life, and intellectually I know I’ve been closer to death than that moment. But lord knows I’ve never felt like I was gonna die as much as I did that day.

exmaam’s story led to this fun reveal about Hugh Grant by Adrastra:

AHH I love it when all the celebs come for the Dunhill, mainly due to the yearly letter we get about how Hugh Grant is banned from all university buildings and residences.

Allow Adrastra to explain why:

They keep finding him drunk in halls surrounded by underage girls (17 year-old freshers) in various stages of undress. Last year he managed to get into ABH and slept with a girl before getting caught due to noise complaints.

Confirmation from chipmunkface:

1) Hugh Grant is banned because he tears through co-eds like they’re cheap pantyhose.

Who also shared another Samuel L. Jackson story, that’s not so much about him being a dick, but is worth sharing anyway:

2) My friend, the only black person in the town at the time, saw Samuel L Jackson waiting to cross the street. They started talking and she asked him if he could do the Pulp Fiction monologue. He sighed and said he always gets asked that, but she said, “Come on! I’m the only black person here! Do it for me!” He nodded, and right in the middle of the street whipped out full on Pulp Fiction “I will reign down in FURIOUS VENGEANCE AND ANGER” monologue while everyone watched. Amazing.

Beer Goggles by Douglass:

It was a typical night out at the bars in Minneapolis & was having a great time talking to a really nice guy. In the middle of a sentence, Josh Hartnett bounds up to the guy and drags him away while shouting, “No. Beer googles, dude. No. Beer goggles. Beer goggles. No. No. No. No. Take off your beer goggles. No. No. Beer goggles!”

I’m not the hottest filly in the barn, but damn! I got cock-blocked by Josh Hartnett. Rude.

Fuck You Very Much by MangoBango:

When I was in college I worked at a fancy golf course. A lot of celebrities came to play a round, and most were perfectly nice. The exception? Maury Povich. I was his caddy. He chain smoked on every hole, blowing smoke into my face while I handed him golf clubs. He was playing poorly. The longer he played, the worse he treated me. When he finished his round, I placed his clubs in the trunk of his car. Sitting in the driver’s seat, he rolled down the window, said “fuck you very much,” threw a single dollar toward me, and drove away. I guess that dollar was my tip for spending 4.5 excruciating hours with him. The recommended tip floor was $30. Eff Maury Povich.

FourFiveSeconds to Get Out of Here by silenzioza:

A couple of years ago, a friend and I were WASTED at a bar for some coworker of hers’ birthday party. I didn’t know the person whose party it was (like I said, we were hammered), but we did manage to notice Kanye West and Jay Z among the attendees. The friend I was with used to work at Island/Def Jam so she actually sorta knew Jay Z, and he came over, introduced himself to me and had a drink with us – NICEST guy, with a calming, benevolent presence – like meeting the buddha.

We stuck around, had a lot more drinks, and finally decided it was time to leave – but we couldn’t POSSIBLY take off without saying goodbye to our best friend Jay Z, right? That would be rude! So we went over, told him we were leaving, he gave us hugs (ugh he smelled like fresh cut grass, I love him), and that’s when I noticed he was standing next to Kanye West. Kanye turned to me and said “Aw, you’re leavin’?’” I hadn’t spoken a word to this dude all night, but he grabbed me and planted the weirdest, grossest kiss on me – to this day i can’t quite describe what the hell was going on. He pulled back and asked me my name. my kneejerk reaction was to tell him, and then ask “What’s yours?” I figured maybe that was something like “playing it cool.” Instead, he scrunched his face up and bellowed, “Whatchu THINK my name is?!?!??!!?!””

I grabbed my friend, told her we had to leave RIGHT AWAY, and we ran the fuck outta there.

We still laugh about this to this day.

WTF by maronstoryburner:

I critiqued Marc Maron’s interviewing style on a message board I didn’t know he read. This was during the first year or so of WTF and it seemed to me like every time his guest was a woman or some kind of ethnic/sexual minority, he’d focus so squarely on that aspect of them and ignore everything else. He wasn’t being a bigot, per se, but it made me, and seemingly some of his guests, uncomfortable. It felt like he was on a cultural safari of sorts. I pointed this out, perhaps in an aggressively trying-too-hard-to-be-funny manner. And holy shit did he get payback.

Maron puts on his detective hat and doxes me essentially, not replying on the messageboard, but figuring out my real name and harassing me on facebook. We went back and forth for MONTHS. Dozens of long unhinged messages. Then, not being famous for boundaries, he makes me part of his act, mentioning the exchange on multiple podcasts, making his stalking seem quaint and quirky, and recasts me as some stereotypical mean troll-type, which wasn’t true at all, but I guess others disagreed because I started getting hatemail from a bunch of his creepy super-fans. And that’s how I left Facebook.

THEN like three fucking years later the event becomes the basis for the first episode of his dumb tv show. The whole thing turned me off to comedy nerd-dom, cost me some real-life friends, self-esteem, dignity, etc… That said, I learned a lot and the fiasco prompted a lot of self-reflection/growth and a few years later I’m in a much better place. The story already feels very dated: SOOO 2011, amiright?

But yes, don’t piss off Maron, he’s out of his gourd.

Ham-Fisted by aruneous:

My parents were craft service on that show “Method and Red” on FOX. As like a 16 year old (I’m 27 now), I would frequently come and work doing craft service shit for them unofficially, and unpaid on whatever show they were working on. I did it as a favor to them, but also I was coming out to see friends in LA that I couldn’t hang out with because we recently moved to Long Beach so I would leave after a while. Craft Service has no official union job description, but on most productions it’s food management and dispersal (the people who set up a table full of snacks and shit, it’s a lot more complicated than you think).

Anyway, we got a truck with refrigeration and a sandwich bar, crew could come in, put on gloves, and make themselves a sandwich (Health Dept changed this not too long ago). I’m in there re-stocking the sandwich bar with different kinds of meats when Method Man comes into the truck. Dude is tall, kinda chill, is asking questions like, trying to get to know me to the point where he says to just call him “John John” (I also recall him sayin “Daym you a big ass 16 year old”). So after a lil bit of talkin, he asks me to hand him a piece of turkey. With gloves on, I was stocking the pastrami at the time so I put it down and hand him a piece of turkey. He immediately changes from chill older brother-type to very visibly annoyed and kinda growls, “Why you comin at me with them pork ass hands!?”

I immediately became so fucking nervous, I wasn’t clear on what he was trying to tell me so I threw that piece of turkey away and handed him another. Louder and kinda threatening he says “Dog! WHY YOU COMIN AT ME WITH DEM PORK ASS HANDS”

Just then my mom came in and was like “Whoa whats going on,” I think he said “He comin’ at me with dem pork ass hands!”. My mom immediately came over and was like “you have to change gloves when you put in the different kinds of meat,” She hands him turkey, dude is just scowling at me. She sends me away. I never helped her on that show again.

A Big Night In with Pussy by superduperneato:

It’s the late-aughts and I am living in the Hollywood Hills. It’s a Saturday night and my friend is super sick. She’s asked me come over and take care of her but first pick up some cat food and juice. No problem, I say, I’ll just hit the liquor/convenience store across the street from my place. Do I need to change out of my sweat pants or brush my hair? Duh, no.

Here we are, under the florescent lights, nodding hello to Abraham behind the counter. I grab all the cat food they have on the shelf. I snatch two huge jugs of cranberry juice, as it’s the only juice option. I remember I’m about to be trapped as a nursemaid for the next 48 hours so I select an uncomfortably large handle of tré cheap vodka. I haul my booty up to the register and as I set it down, the cans of cat food cascade from my arms. As I collect them, I ask for a pack of cigarettes. Not all my 2008 habits are admirable.

Behind me, I hear a muffled snort and suddenly, all the items in front of me come into very sharp focus. I see myself from behind and the vision is one of defeat.

“Planning a big night in with your pussy?”

Ewww. Really? I turn. It’s Jason Segel, who I recognize from his recent hit movie “Forgetting Sarah Marshall”. I had seen this movie only the week before.

He’s holding a can of catfood that escaped. I smile and take it, not rising to the bait. But he’s high, so obviously high, and he gives it another shot.

“I just feel like I’m learning so much about you and your pussy right now.”

“Well,” I say, my stomach clenching because talking to humans can sometimes be tough, “I guess I know a fair amount about your flaccid dick so now we’re even.” [his floppy ween was a hot topic of discussion, see: http://gawker.com/381454/finally…]

He laughs. I laugh. Abraham laughs. We part ways.

And that’s my Jason Segel dick story.

And this story by Nora Future is not about a celebrity being an asshole, but it’s too good not to share:

Not a dick to me directly, but to my shitty ex. He deserved it.

Scene: It’s 2011 (maybe 2012?), I’m 20 and staying with my parents in a Very Nice hotel, in the “big” city I now live in. At the time I lived in a small city, about 2 hours away, but was dating a boy who lived in Big City. The trip was easy, so the we got to see each other about once a month, despite neither of us driving. My parents planned a weekend away, and were awesome enough to bring me with and let me ruin their sex life by sharing their room. All so I could feel fancy and suck face with my boyfriend, Crow.* Right on, Mom & Dad.

Crow is an attractive, unreliable, sulky jerk. Terrible at keeping jobs, paying for stuff (even his own stuff), the usual warning signs. We had planned a night of dancing at a local club (18+, natch), with him bussing to my area and escorting me. I have no fucking clue where anything is, and this town is just big enough to be scary. In the process, my parents would get some alone time, so everyone wins. I beat my face & am ready to go when I get a call from Crow. I go out in the hall, next to the elevator, to take it.

Crow is cancelling 15 minutes before he is due to meet me. He’s mad that I can’t figure out the (convoluted, often described to me by him as dangerous) public transport and bus to the suburb where he’s crashing on a friend’s couch indefinitely, so we can bus back into the city together. He doesn’t wanna go dancing. He is mad I’m not inviting him back to the hotel room with me (that I am sharing with my parents, two queen beds in one room) so he can sleep there/bone me. I am in the hallway, crying on the phone with him, as the elevator doors open, and out spills an entire camera crew, dudes holding mics, a pack of beautiful men wearing nice clothing, and in the middle: Janice Dickinson. I knew her because of reality TV, and that’s a miracle because she caught sight of me and, cameras rolling, marched right up.

“Is your boyfriend making you cry?”

I managed a terrified nod, and Janice then grabs the phone out of my hand, yelling at Crow “Don’t make girls cry, Asshole!” Hangs up on him. Gives me my phone back.

“Don’t you dare call him back. Come with me.”

I was swept up in a crowd of beautiful people and bored looking camera crews, to the end of the hall. Turns out Ms Dickinson was staying a few rooms down from me, with her entire entourage in a suite. They had me fill out paperwork in case this made it on the show, and she kept me in that room for two hours, inviting me out to party (underage, sadly), showing me her fur collection and regaling me with the numerous ways she has gotten revenge against irksome lovers. Most of them were on the aggressive side of passive aggressive,but she was so convicted that it was hard not to love her. Eventually, she and her pack of men need to go par-tay, so they sent me home with a pat on the head and a chorus of “fuck that dude”s about Crow. I should have listened.

Crow didn’t believe my story/know who she was and spent the rest of our relationship nursing a grudge because I didn’t fend stop her from taking my phone. My dad was not as impressed as my mom (who found the whole thing HILARIOUS), and at 3:30 in the morning someone in the entourage was pounding drunkenly on my door for me to come after-party with them. I did not, and regret it to this day.

So thank you, Janice Dickinson. You’re a saint.

*Not nearly as goth as this nickname makes him sounds

Have more stories about celebrities acting like jerks? Share ‘em in the comments or shoot me an email.