Today’s Christopher Walken Dose

Walken, on the Imus flap.

The hook that pulled me into the Imus mess was my buddy Mickey Rourke. As you may know, Mick scrambled his brains trying to be a professional boxer. I remember telling him after his third bout, “Mick, sweetheart. I love what you’re doing. But if you like sleeping on canvas that much, quit boxing and have some sheets made from it.”

Mick is not doing well. His ADD is off the charts, he sometimes calls me “Aunt Susie,” and he claims my ferns laugh at him. But I love the guy, so I let him live in my shed. And when he has trouble sleeping, because the ferns are hurting his feelings, I have Benny or Seymour go out there and tune in a pirate Imus podcast on the laptop. It’s a soft droning sound that doesn’t mean very much, and it knocks Mick out faster than an obvious punch from a fifty-year-old club fighter who lives on food stamps.

That was before the ho thing. Up until then, Imus had been pretty consistent. “Muh muh muh muh weasel muh muh muh muh ranch muh muh pipsqueaks.” You know the sound. It worked so well I had Seymour go out to Mick’s shed and remove the baby monitor. But after? I never heard such shrill whining and pleading. Well, not since I told Tom Cruise he was no longer allowed to eat or mention placenta.