The Fishwhacker Swindle?

So many people have been emailing, writing and even phoning me (at four in the morning - thanks, you loser stalker freak, whoever you were/are) about this issue that I feel obliged to set the record straight. (Somebody telexed me, and I don’t even know what that is.)

I am not Steve Buscemi.

I don’t know quite how the idea that I was him managed to take hold amidst the collection of social inadequates, weirdos and douchebags that haunts the nether reaches of the internet. You, dear reader, in other words. I have never obscured my identity. I’m an Englishman in his thirties who is variously a morgue attendant, a doctor, and a vigilante fighting against the creeping peril of the undead when they raise their rotting collective head to disturb the suburban peace. Nowhere in that potted CV do I find anything to support the notion that I’m an Italian-American actor born in Brooklyn in 1957 who has appeared in some of the coolest, most iconic films and television series of the last fifteen years and has usually been killed off during these films and television series in interesting ways (more about this in a later post). I mean, I am pretty cool, but I’m that way not because I’m a Hollywood movie star but rather through a combination of good genes, tremendous and sustained effort in the gym, rigorous dietary self-discipline, and innate talent, as well as excellent and expensive skin- and hair-care products. Plus, my tailor is old school: East End Jewish, the third generation inheritor of the family business, and in total control of his shit. A modern-day alchemist, he turns his shit into gold, silken gold in a blue-black navy wool blend with the most imperceptible pinstripe weave. The other day he was fitting the jacket of my new suit over my shoulders as I stood before his full-length mirror with my torso bathed in a pink and white Aquascutum slim-fit shirt which had set me back two Cs and was worth every penny. It was as though I was slipping into an orgasm induced by the velvet friction against my chest and thighs of cloth hand-woven from natural fibres. As I stroked my off-mauve Daniel Hechter tie into a casually perfect half-Windsor knot, I reflected that Steve Buscemi, my demi-hemi-semi-namesake and the man all those rancid bloggers thought I was, would have at best gone for something tacky like Versace or, Madonn’ forbid, Gucci.

So no, I’m not Steve Buscemi.


And if any of you motherfucking cocksuckers says so again, I’ll find you, clip you, whack you and then kill you.

With respect.