There are actors who spend their entire lives climbing the Hollywood ladder. They start as extras with horrible cast names like Girl Shopping No. 4 or Bad Guy No. 36. If they’re lucky, they catch the eye of a director with some credibility and get a little more camera time (Bad Guy No. 35 maybe). Maybe they get a supporting role on a sitcom. Maybe they make commercials only shown in foreign countries (looking at you Sly). Maybe they make a sex tape with a fledging R&B singer, have a huge ass and somehow DRIVE A BENTLEY ARE YOU KIDDING ME KIM KARDASHIAN WHAT DO YOU DO? WHAT DO YOU DO?!?! And role after role, they slowly make a name for themselves, maybe someday getting invited to the Oscars or—slim chance—winning one. It’s the American Dream, all played out in tabloids, on gossip blogs and across the big screen.
Or, you’re Christopher Walken. You sing and dance with a fat-suited, dragged-up John Travolta. You demand more cowbell. You fly through a hotel lobby. People love you. And the voice? His voice alone has probably put more actors out of jobs than all the drug dealers in L.A. combined. If I die before he does, I want Christopher Walken to read my eulogy at my funeral. “He wrote, “Nothing But Net.” OH! I loved that column. It tickled my funny bone, like a feather, to, my, brain.”
Here is ChiWal doing his best Def Jam Poetry impression and reading the lyrics to Lady Gaga’s “Poker Face.” Its infectious. Absolutely stunning. Is it better than Cartman’s version from last week’s South Park? Not my call, man. But Ms. GaGa needs to step her game up, because even when she covers herself in fake blood and wears red Saran Wrap on her face, Christopher Walken and Cartman annihilate her.
