Posted by: stephilepsy | January 24, 2011

Dead Letters to Living Celebrities: Dr. Drew

For this, the first installment of what I hope will become a regular feature on this blog, Dead Letters to Living Celebrities, I have picked a very special, and I hope, you all (we’re now up to me and my dad, folks! Building a following is ever so exciting) will agree, appropriate first victim: Dr. Drew.

Ah, Dr. Drew. Alternately admired, worshiped, lusted after (no, I don’t understand it either), loathed, and, on occasions such as this, called out for being the unprofessional, attention-craving deformed lump of flesh he is.

I suppose I ought to take this moment to pause and reflect, concede to you all that he is doing God’s work after all, admit that celebrities with severe addictions deserve airtime on reality television programs just as much regular celebrities do, like the Kardashians, say (oh lord), but, look, I’m not going to do it. No. Nope. I won’t. I don’t care that my seventh grade English teacher claimed this was how to build a persuasive argument, it’s not happening. None of the folks on the show sign up because they take any of this with an iota of seriousness, so neither do I. And let’s look at some of his recent great success stories, shall we? Jeff Conaway? Heidi Fleiss? That large fire at her home over Thanksgiving was completely unrelated to meth use; I know I’m convinced of it, how about you? Mindy McCready overdosed. You know you’re in trouble when two of the prior season’s shining stars of success are Sizemore and Mike Snow. They seemed to be doing great, don’t get me wrong, but I doubt these were the guys the inimitable Dr. Drew wanted to bring in to show the current cast and say, “See! See, my children! If you listen closely to my words of wisdom and work very, very hard, you too can partake in these rewards which I have promised you!”

Okay then. Here we go.

Dear Dr. Drew,

Hello, there. I suppose I should get the disappointment out of the way quickly, rip the band aid off fast and all (medical metaphor just for you!) and let you know that I am not looking to join your fan club or receive an autographed picture. Oh, and I’m not suffering from alcoholism or any other form of addiction (except cat huffing and nachos, although not in combination) nor was I abused as a child, but I do live with my father currently and sometimes I imagine his smart assed comments would hurt me if: a.) he were as witty as I am, and/or b.) I were still capable of basic human emotions such as fury or sadness. But! No matter. This is not about me. Much.

I was recently catching up on an episode of your critically acclaimed miniseries, “Clean this Fameball! hosted by DJ Jazzy Drew”, and, as a recovering stroke patient, I was somewhat offended by your use of a stroke’s aftermath to frighten your money-and-fame-hungry patients into complying with your aftercare plans. Now, as I am a very busy shut-in these days, I have not yet watched the finale, so I don’t actually know who goes on to a “sober” house (sorry about the quotes, Drewsey, but given that heroin was being smoked there on, like, day one, season one, let’s not kid ourselves, shall we?) but I’m guessing that not very many took you up on the offer of a pathetic amount of money to further humiliate themselves on national television while lining your pockets (and, more importantly from what I gather, raising your profile) as there’s a reunion scheduled this week, and not week one of “Not-Even-Remotely-Sober House.”

Is that why you did it, Drew? Is that why you brought those overgrown, perpetually adolescent brats to see that mute, paralyzed boy in his power wheelchair, along with his grieving parents? Was it to get them to commit to aftercare or to “Sober House”, the next piece in your entertainment — and it is piss poor entertainment and nothing else, Doctor– empire? Frankly, I don’t know that it matters. Propaganda is your stock and trade, but, man, that entire spectacle was ugly.

First of all, as much as I realize how irritating this will sound, while it is not at all presumptuous for you to say that his parents lives are now unendingly miserable, since you can, you know, ask them, it is uncalled for to make those same claims on his behalf. I myself, despite the fact that my health problems have worsened exponentially because of my stroke, am actually considerably happier and more relaxed than I can ever remember being. Reading I’ve done leads me to suspect that, because of the damage done to my left hemisphere, the right hemisphere is being utilized more. I should probably stop there, shouldn’t I? I mean, given your statements such as “There is no such thing as a recovered addict in nature” you either don’t follow or believe in current thinking in neuroscience regarding neuroplasticity and whatnot. And I wouldn’t want to start a fight.

No. Not me.

Never.

Plus, as someone who has had to suffer through being on a respirator, being sponge-bathed in a hospital bed while virtually immobile, having someone else wipe my ass, being stuck in a wheelchair, wondering if I would ever walk again, I can say with complete authority that, yes, these are terrible, awful things to experience, especially when one is in one’s twenties, as I was and as that boy was. But it is not quite the horror show you made it appear to be, and even if it were, it was disgusting to watch you use someone who, unlike other recovering addicts on your charming program, clearly could not consent to offer up his cautionary tale (despite what his mother may believe) and all for the purposes of scaring a bunch of lowlifes into complying with your treatment plan, which, let’s face it, doesn’t appear to work very well. In my opinion, you denigrated all of the work he, his parents, his nurses, doctors, physical therapists, speech therapists, and occupational therapists put into HIS recovery.

But that doesn’t matter, right? He’s never slept with Tiger Woods.

Sincerely,

stephilepsy

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Responses

  1. Awesome! I love cranks! I know you came by it honestly too!

    • Ha! Is that your way of calling my dad a crank?

      I’m telling!


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