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Phone-tapped!!! The Manti Te’o and Lennay Kekua Conversations


Thanks to Rupert Murdoch’s phone-tapping I was able to come across conversations between Manti Te’o and his late girlfriend Lennay Kekau.

January 21, 2012 – 2:01 p.m.

Manti Te’o: Hey Lennay. What’s up?

Lennay Kekua:

MT: I’m just walking to geology class. I know you go to Stanford so you’re probably studying something really important right now, but I’m just studying rocks.


MT: Listen girl, I don’t know if you’re mad at me or what—I really don’t understand. You’re always so talkative on Gchat. Anyway, I love you.

February 14, 2012 – 9:35 p.m.

MT: Happy Valentines Day, baby!


MT: I really wish we could be together right now.


MT: I guess this is our first Valentines Day and hopefully the last one we’ll spend apart.


MT: It sounds like you’re really tired. Why don’t you go to sleep and I’ll just talk to you because you don’t really say anything anyway. Deal?


MT: Lennay, I love waking up to the sound of what I think is either you breathing or maybe it’s just what my phone sounds like when I’m talking to myself. I really don’t know.


MT: Wish I didn’t have to, but I gotta go babe. Can’t wait to hear your voice (or the sound of you breathing) later!

SPRING BREAK – March 14, 2012 – 10:15 a.m.

MT: Hey babe! I’m in Cabo San Lucas and it’s fucking awesome! Sorry, to swear, but it’s amazing down here and yeah, you can probably tell I’m FUCKING WASTED! I know I’m Mormon and I’m not supposed to have caffeine or Tecate, but it’s my junior year and I love you Lennay Kekau. There. I said it. I love you!


MT:  You don’t have to say it back…


MT: But I wish you would. Anyway, I don’t want to force it, but I love you and I love Mexico! Viva Tequila!

hey girl

SUMMER VACATION – June 12, 2012 – 7:40 p.m.

MT: Lennay, baby, I wish you could see this Hawaiian sunset. It’s like, the sun was setting and it was so beautiful. The wind sounded like your voice. The sun looked like your face or Joseph Smith’s or Brigham Young. Anyway, it was beautiful, just like you.


MT: What did you say? You just got in a car accident? Oh baby. Say it ain’t so! (sniffling, groans, outright crying). Don’t you worry. I’m leaving Hawaii right now. I’m coming to see you.


MT: Leukemia! NOOOOOO! Are the doctors positive? NOOOOO! Should you get a second opinion? NOOOO!

LK: ….

MT: Just tell me where you’re staying. I want to see you. I need to see you.


MT: Fine, if you really want me to just continue going to school and giving interviews where I talk vaguely about you. I will. Love you, Lennay. I love you…

Heisman Trophy Presentation

Between September 10-15, and the time of the above conversation, Lennay Kekau died. Manti sent flowers, gave interviews, and almost won a Heisman. He also got her Twitter avatar tattooed over his heart.

What the future holds for Manti, I do not know, but I do know one thing: without illegal phone tapping we might never have known what was actually said between Manti and his wonderful, soft spoken significant other.

R.I.P. Lennay Kekua. Joseph Smith is looking down on you from Utah.

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Mona Lisa Vs. Carey Mulligan

These chicks are in right now. Like #MonaLisa, #CarrieMulligan, #Louvre, #Drive, trending right now. Maybe Mona’s always trending, like Lady Gaga or weight loss secrets. Carrie on the other hand, I think she’ll have a rich future of trending until she’s at least twenty-nine. Maybe even thirty if she ages well. There’s something to be said for aging well. Look at Mona! Still in the limelight after all of these centuries!

I’ll admit it—Mona Lisa—I don’t get it. I never have. In my youth, I took a class on the subject and all I walked away with was the definition of ubiquitous eyes. Sure, she’s got those. Big deal. Nothing personal Mona, but you just don’t do much for me.

I’ve even seen you a couple times. Granted I didn’t get that close. I couldn’t. Between us there were a lot of Asians. Asians who were heavily armed with long lenses and wanted nothing more in the whole world than two hundred photos of you.

What’s the deal with that anyway? Why would anyone swarm like paparazzi to get a photo of a widely accessible painting? What’s the advantage? Mona wears the same shit everyday. The day you tote your camera to the Louvre isn’t going to miraculously be the day Mona shows up in a bathing suit. You’re not going to catch a “wardrobe malfunction.” And she’s not sliding out of a limo, so if you were hoping for a crotch-shot, your odds are slim.

I hate to disappoint you, but day in, day out, it’s the same drab Mona. She’s not a song and dance girl. No sir. What you see is what you get. Take it or leave it. A lot of people have taken it. I left it.

I didn’t get it so I split, but I’ve since returned. I elbowed through a sea of amateur photogs with phallic like lenses, which were seemingly attached to their faces. And these men, mostly men, they stop, stare. They gawk. We’ve all been there before—stopping and staring.

While were on the subject of gawking…

I saw Carey Mulligan last night—what do you think I was doing? Minding my own business? Checking my email? Listening to my friend’s story about getting a Boston Terrier? Hell no. I was drooling on myself in a dark bar on the corner of Selma and Wilcox.

Do I wish I had whipped out my phone and snapped a quick picture of her? Um, no. Why? Because the world wide web is full of images where she looks better than she did last night. And say for some reason, I was really into low quality pictures of hot chicks—why take one myself when surely there’s some half-night vision, half-POV sex tape of Carey Mulligan and a Portuguese Tuna Canning heir. Which no doubt, is readily available on the vast wasteland I’ve come to know as the internet.

This was the second time in a week Carey and I had been in this situation. Yours truly, drooling on myself, and her, blissfully unaware of my presence. Of course, the first time I was reclined at the Arclight and she was about sixteen feet tall. On the screen, she didn’t look that great. They put a lot of work into making her look shitty, which I’m sure was no easy task. They went with the obvious: ethnically ambiguous son, a criminal husband, a minimum wage job and an oily face.

As I do, I was in the theatre furiously taking notes. Be forewarned, I’m big into the suspension of disbelief. Naturally, I was deep in thought. My prompt: How does one convince Carey Mulligan that we should drive down the LA River whilst listening to synthy jams?

First, the obvious, get a toothpick. Second, get a thrift store jacket with a reptile on the back. After steps one and two, it becomes more complicated. You need to be handy. Under the hood, under the sink, Stanley Kowalski sweating-in-a-wifebeater-handy.

Grease is good. It’ll break down the physical barrier between the two of you when, inevitably after a long day of fixing something arcane, Carey Mulligan has to walk over to thank you. She’ll bring an ice-cold beer, which you’ll thank her for. You’ll take a long pull because you deserve it. Then she’ll laugh and you’ll smile, but you won’t know why. She’ll reach out to wipe the grease, which is perfectly smudged beneath your eye like some sort of relic of your handiwork. Shortly after you share this moment, you’ll consummate the relationship in the thinned-walled room next to where another man’s son sleeps. She’ll tell you to be quiet, but she won’t mean it. The kid will wake up to some greasy stranger nailing his mom through the headboard, but really—who cares?

I will admit Mulligan has certain advantages over La Gioconda. First and foremost, she has eyebrows. Mona, the eyebrowless wonder, looks like a cholita who left her Sharpie at home. Secondly, the hands. My god, have you seen Mona’s hands? They’re meaty and pallid, like two big dead fish slapped across her waist. Lastly, they say there’s something enigmatic about Mona’s look. I usually dig that, but when pitted against Carey Mulligan it becomes complicated. Why? On screen there’s almost nothing complicated about Mulligan. She plays the damsel in distress. She’s a throwback to an era before Beyonce’s anthems of independence. And as Irene, Mulligan is one misogynist’s loving portrayal of the perfect imperfect woman. Bravo, Nicholas. Bravo.

Carey Mulligan 1

Mona Lisa 0

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Nouvelle Adage

In the hood, ‘protect ya neck.’ In the workplace, ‘protect ya tweets.’

The Neapolitan Mastiff

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Steak and Politics with Nick Clark

Nick D. Clark is an American actor and writer who was been known to, on occasion, partake in a ‘cleanse’. The range of cleanses he dabbles in as a taxing paying citizen are nearly as vast as those he dives into as an established thespian. Clark is well known for abnegating caffeine, booze[1], jalapenos, and animal products. Once while still a university student, he gave up food, drink, and general merriment for a year and eleven months[2] and subsisted solely on a daily cocktail of lemon juice, honey and a bit of cayenne pepper. Needless to say Clark, as both an abstainer and a glutton, is a force to be reckoned with.

With this in mind, I tracked down Clark at his Los Angeles office located on Grand Avenue in downtown’s Civic Center. When I arrived he was cradling his head in his hands and mumbling something about the residual effects of owning oversized martini glasses and the benefits of pickle juice.

The Neapolitan Mastiff: Why am I here today?

Nick Clark: I see you’ve decided to come out swinging.  Fair enough, Hardball.  I’m gonna call you Hardball from now on.

I smiled as a professional is obliged and took the verbal abuse. He lit a cigarette and a teenager wearing a maroon vest put what looked like a vodka and grapefruit into my hand. I didn’t decline. I tasted and it was unquestionably a greyhound. We raise our glasses because it was 11:00 a.m.

TNM: I heard you once quoted as saying that you enjoyed hanger steak. Is that an acquired taste like malt liquor?

NC: I would argue that neither taste is really “aquired.”  I think if you got a bunch of kids—like little, y’know, innocenty-type kids—together and fed them all hanger steak and malt liquor, and then they were all totally honest with you about it, they’d thank you .

TNM: If you were to —

NC: I’ve decided not to call you Hardball, by the way.

TNM: Haha, thanks… If you were to, say, slaughter a cow and you could only procure a single cut and a single serving at that, would you pick one of the eighty or so pounds of hanger steak that the cow’s carcass has available, or would you opt for a less available cut like filet mignon?

NC: Look, just because something is uncommon doesn’t make it delicious.  The least “available” part of a cow is probably, I dunno, the hypothalamus, or—wait the ballsack… use “ballsack,” edit out that hypothalamus stuff.  “Ballsack” is hilarious.

TNM: Having grown—

NC: I think this is going well, don’t you?

TNM: Having grown up in the Bay Area, which hometown–

NC: That ballsack stuff is good, right?

TNM: Let’s just get through this, man…  Having grown up in the Bay Area, which hometown hero had the greatest impact on you growing up: Andre Nickatina, Danny Glover, Jerry Brown or Jim Jones?

NC: Ooh, that’s hard.  I would say Danny Glover, but that’s only because a friend of mine’s sister once dated a guy who looked exactly like Danny Glover, except that he was white and English—that’s not a joke, that’s true.  But that’s not really… that doesn’t count, does it?  I guess Jerry Brown…  Y’know for years I thought Jerry Brown was black?  I got him mixed up with Willie Brown.   It honestly wasn’t until his resurgence against this Whitman dildo that I realized they were different people—and then I was bummed that he wasn’t Willie!  That woulda been sweet, I always liked Willie Brown.  Could you add Willie Brown to your list?  Because then it’d be Willie Brown.  Yes.  Willie Brown had the greatest impact on me.

TNM: What’s your stance on the carpool lane?

NC: Oooh, look who’s back, Hardball…  I like the carpool lane, but I think it should be 3 people, like it is up in the Bay Area—that might have been Willie Brown’s doing, by the way.

TNM: If you could banish one person from the U.S.A. who would it be?

NC: Banish? Where to would be important…  I would maybe banish Sarah Palin, but only to a place that still had cell service—I derive too much amusement from her Tweets.  If we’re talking banishment to, say, a cage full of bears, it’d have to be Glenn Beck.  I feel like those are really obvious and tellingly liberal answers, but those two are doing an awful lot of damage.

TNM: Did I see you on The Office?

NC: Not if you blinked.

TNM: Did you mean what you said about hanger steak? What about a nice rib eye?


TNM: Okay, settle down… What’s the name of that web series that everyone en el mundo should watch until they’ve committed it to memory?

NC: Vicariously.  It can be—sorry about that outburst, man, someone will get you a new greyhound… JARVIS!  I SPILLED HARDBALL’S GREYHOUND, GET HIM ANOTHER!—anyway, the show is called Vicariously, and it can be located on the internet at www.vicariously.tv

TNM: Meg Whitman, Serena Williams and Catherine Heigl: You’ve got to date one, gag one and pick one to replace Rahm Emanuel as Chief of Staff. Who will do what and why?

NC: Serena Williams is absolutely Chief of Staff.  She’ll throw out more F-bombs than Emanuel did, can you imagine?  I’d gag Heigl–not that anyone is listening anyway—and I’d date Meg Whitman so that I could shit inside of her heart.

Nick Clark is the co-creator and star of the series Vicariously. You can catch him every week slanging cuvee and talking cattle at the L.A. Music Center, but we’d prefer if you just watched him here.

The Neapolitan Mastiff

[1] This claim has not been confirmed.

[2] The exact amount of time he remained true to the cleanse is debatable.

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