O'Brien O'Blivion

Let me say something right off the bat: Pat O'Brien is the single most ridiculous human being currently sucking down oxygen.

Last week he checked back into rehab for the ever-popular "unspecified reasons," and since then I've tried desperately to come up with something witty, insightful, clever, what-have-you to say about it. I've run down the possibilities in my head: a general Schadenfreudian point-and-laugh column recalling the little episode that landed him in rehab the last time around -- namely, the series of voicemail messages he left for a co-worker detailing his desire to "get fucking crazy" with her because she was "so fucking hot"; or maybe a phony letter from Pat to his literally tens of fans thanking them for their good wishes during this difficult time; or perhaps even a pitch to auction off Pat's thoroughly amusing 70s porn moustache in an effort to raise money for his recovery; or, finally, maybe the honest-to-God personal tale of a female friend of mine who, for reasons I'll go to my grave not understanding, once performed oral sex on Pat in the back of a New York City cab.

All of these seemed like good ideas -- until I realized that not one of them was as funny as Pat himself.

And that's when I finally understood: Pat O'Brien is beyond mockery.

There's simply nothing I can say or do to make Pat any more hilariously absurd than he already is; his own self-parody has elevated him to heights neither I nor anyone else could possibly reach.

That moustache. That voice -- the one that lets you know there isn't even a hint of a septum left in that cheeseball head of his that a lifetime of blow hasn't burned through. His insistence on proving how hip he is by turning up at shows like Coachella dressed in Ed Hardy t-shirts, greeting everyone with the ubiquitous "pound" handshake, and constantly name-dropping his best-pal P. Diddy. His complete obliviousness to the fact that he's nothing more than the perfect Hollywood parasite. Those phone calls -- oh, those priceless phone calls.

It all achieves a level of comedic Nirvana that I wouldn't dare sully.

And so, I say nothing.

I simply stand in awe.

Bless you Pat -- and Godspeed.


(For the record, there is one person -- and only one person -- who has ever tackled the leviathan of surreal hilarity that is Pat O'Brien in rehab with any sort of assuredness. His name is Adam, and he's created what could very well be the most brilliantly inspired blog in the history of the medium. Read for yourself at "I'm Stuck in Rehab with Pat O'Brien." And by the way, the above picture is not, in fact, my aforementioned friend, but pretty much says everything you need to know about Pat O'Brien. If you think for even a nano-second that Pat did anything after this photo was taken other than suggest going back to his hotel room for "a little party," you're kind of an idiot. Oh yeah, and the picture at the top of this post came from the website for an organization called "The American Moustache Institute." I shit you not.)

(Update: Because you can never get enough -- behold, the Pat O'Brien Soundboard.)