The Reluctant Whore

In what I would genuinely suggest is now a bit of a trend, Mary Kate Olsen continues to be more interesting than her sister, Ashley, with a report from the New York Post that states she is refusing to be interviewed about the death of Heath Ledger by the Federal Bureau of Investigation unless she gets immunity from prosecution.

The investigation has so far concluded that all the drugs in Heath Ledger’s body were prescribed by two doctors except for the OxyContin which he overdosed on along with everything else he took.

Clearly, what’s being implied here is that Mary Kate gave him some OxyContin and he died as a result and so she’s freaking out because she could be responsible for some part of his death. And in a city where someone can be awarded tens of millions of dollars for slipping on a pile of bird shit that should have been cleaned up earlier that morning only to walk away with around 20% of the money because they were deemed 80% responsible for what happens to them – who knows, maybe she’s not insane to go through a hard assed lawyer and demand immunity.

OxyContin or not, I am pretty comfortable believing and asserting that she is, in fact, insane and therefore finally interesting on a fundamental level. We’ve seen the book about her influences (hopefully including an interview with a Tootsie Roll – fingers crossed!), we’ve see the way she demanded a new kitchen at a cost of 30,000 dollars for no apparent reason, we’ve seen her acting work where she plays cult members who smoke pot and now we’re watching her run from a vague, unsubstantiated yet pretty daunting passive accusation that she was the one who gave Heath Ledger that final handful of meds that killed him.

What else are you hiding behind those huge Jackie O sunglasses, wooden jewelry, mumu and headband, Mary Kate? What else is going on inside that weird, pouty lipped monkey head of yours? Mary Kate, Mary Kate, Mary Kate. Gosh, I just can’t stop thinking about that name.

I also can’t stop thinking about those tacos you used to be able to get on Bedford Avenue at the back of a bodega made by short Mexican women who would flirt because they thought a naïve white boy was their ticket out of there and to a Greencard. Gosh, what a waste flirting with ME was. [source]