Don't You Know Who I Think I Am?: Confessions of a First-Class Asshole

by Justin Ross Lee

  But for me it was a true learning experience. This was the first time I’d seen this kind of celebrity activity at such close quarters. Even though he was swindled, remember that Shatner got $75,000, flights, meals, and a room at the Ritz-Carlton for basically an hour’s work. And people bent over backward to give him exactly what he wanted. He got his cash and a few free pocket squares. He was happy.

  It made me want to work harder to get more famous, or more notable. And by work harder, I mean the Shatner version of working harder. Passive income. Turning up, saying a few halfhearted words, and getting out of there with a big fat check. Getting some other idiot to fund my lifestyle and my dedication to traveling the world in luxury while acting like an ass. Now that’s working.

  CHAPTER 11

  GOING GLOBAL

  I knew that something was going on in Sweden. I just didn’t realize it was me that was going on in Sweden.

  The first inkling that my status in Scandinavia had reached gargantuan levels beyond even my necessary level of adulation was when my plane hit the tarmac at Stockholm’s Bromma Airport. I was on a JewJetting tour around Europe, causing a stir and generally fucking things up in my own inimitable way. I’ve always dreamed of the JRL brand spreading across the continent, but I had no idea the extent to which JRL mania had gripped the land of ABBA and IKEA.

  I’d sent ahead my manager, Eran, from New York, and I’d been conspiring with Ronnie, my local fixer in Sweden, and they’d dropped hints that something exciting was taking place and I should get there as quickly as I could. But as I looked through the airplane window, I saw a mass of beautifully blond heads collected on the concourse, and I recognized Eran amongst them. “Strange,” I thought, wondering if he had somehow provoked the ire of these Aryans and a lynch mob was in progress. (Things have headed in that direction before. He’s that kind of manager.) It was only when I deplaned and hit arrivals that I realized these people were here for me.

  I was like fucking Bono or something. There were flowers; there were banners; there was some low-level screaming. And there were girls. The most beautiful girls I had ever seen in my life. They were all elevens, and there’s no such thing as an eleven. Mini Heidi Klums with that unmistakably lustful look in their eyes that indicated, “Please understand that I am going to fuck you, and it’s going to be great.”

  I was surrounded by these Swedish nymphos, with Eran and Ronnie valiantly trying to create some space as my fans tried to grab hold of a piece of me. Pieces of paper were slipped into my pocket. Salacious comments were screamed at me in broken English. I had absolutely no idea what was going on, and I fucking loved it.

  I eventually got dragged out of the airport, where I was met with a Ferrari bearing my face emblazoned on the hood. I was stunned. When the last thing you’re expecting is a Ferrari with your face on it, coming face to face with a Ferrari with your face on it is pretty hysterical. I know that sounds like utter bullshit, and I can barely believe it myself, so here’s a photo as proof . . .

  © 2013 Eran Silverberg

  And I know you think I’ve mocked that up with Photoshop, but I swear on my undeserved sense of accomplishment that thing was sitting right there in the airport parking lot waiting for me to enter it. And yes, it did say “I’m Justin Ross Lee. Who the fuck do Jew think you are?” Pretty classy. This was used to whisk me away from my adoring fans and to my fully comped hotel suite. Once there, Ronnie opened up a bilingual folder that set out my next seventy-two hours in Stockholm. Every minute of every day was allocated. There were to be nightclub appearances, photo shoots, interviews, business meetings, and a wide range of other activities. Even my showers had been time-tabled. I was still (and remain) in a complete state of shock.

  I wondered if this pace could actually be maintained, or if Ronnie was full of shit with his folder of fun and, in truth, demand for JRL in a country that I’d yet to visit was that high. But you know what? It could and it was. My stock was hot. The next three days were the most insane and demanding of my life. Every single second was dedicated to inflating my ego as much as humanly possible.

  As well as the Ferrari, a whole fleet of vehicles appeared, all branded with my gorgeous visage and used to transport me and my entourage from luxurious place to luxurious place. There was even a helicopter with my likeness on the fuselage, which was used to fly me over the archipelago. Why? I don’t fucking know. It was all part of the adventure. I talked to media outlets and Sweden’s biggest newspapers, trying to explain this new JRL phenomenon to a baffled collection of journalists (even though I was as clueless as they were at this point). I’d visit four or five different nightclubs each evening, have a cocktail thrust into my hand, meet a few excited Swedes, and then be dragged off to the next one.

  On one occasion I pulled up outside some swanky spot in my branded Ferrari and emerged from the backseat wearing a robe, like I’d just rolled out of bed and straight to the club. Now I’d evolved into Hefner or something. I disrobed, hurled it at a gaggle of girls waiting outside, and strutted into the place like the hot piece of shit that I guess I was at the moment. I mean, this kind of behavior was jet-fuel dangerous. Even I knew it was going to have a damaging effect on my self-delusion. I didn’t even think that was possible.

  Meals were accompanied with gift bags. Appearances felt like film premieres. The hotel staff treated me like the A-list celebrity I was oddly perceived to be. Everyone dedicated themselves to my pleasure and comfort. It was magical. And then there were the girls.

  Sweden has to have the most attractive women in the world. Hands down. No competition. Blonde bombshells who just exude youth, class, and an unhealthy obsession with the opposite sex. They had absolutely no bullshit attached to them at all. No game playing. No agendas. They just want to fuck anyone famous and non-Swedish.

  These girls were happy to approach me and make it painfully clear, in no uncertain terms, that they were available to be taken home so I could do unspeakable things to them as hard as possible. Which I did. For the first two nights, at least. Forty-eight hours into my Swedish adventure, I was starting to burn out. And I never burn out. I’m JRL. But these women had fucked all of the energy out of me. I was a spent husk of a Jew. So I had to do something that I had never done before and never thought I would do ever in my life until the plug got pulled: I had to turn down pussy.

  Not just any pussy. We are talking about the finest pussy on the planet. Virtual supermodels at my hotel door at two in the morning insisting that I fuck them. Women that looked like Olympic beach-volleyball competitors crossed with Victoria’s Secret models. Perfect specimens of femininity. Young, blond, and full of fun. But, sadly, not full of me. I just had to say no. For the sake of my sanity and my dick, which was completely numb due to all this Scandinavian friction, I had to send them away. It was like some sort of perfect living hell.

  So, after three days of this adulation and sexual abuse, I was finally dragged to the airport. As a final example of my lasting and powerful fame in this land, the woman at the check-in desk didn’t even ask to look at my passport. “Ah yes,” she said, “I recognize you,” and she typed for a second and then whisked me to the front of the security line, as if I were an Academy Award winner or Nobel laureate.

  My next stop was Amsterdam, supposedly the debauched hotbed of Europe, filled to the brim with weed and clubs and hookers in shop windows. But I didn’t even leave my room. I spent the whole trip trying to recover from what Sweden had done to me.

  It was my first hands-on experience of celebrity. And I loved it. Oh, Sweden.

  Scandinavia seems the ideal location to launch a total global conquest. They “get” me there in ways lots of other places don’t. I’ve spent a lot of time mulling over why this socialist paradise signed up so readily to the JRL experience. Why they came flocking to see me at the airport. Why they followed me through the streets like a flock of overtaxed sheep. Why so many of them just wanted to fuck me. Over there it’s a competitive sport. I finally surmised that I w
as a legitimate A-lister in Sweden because I was the antithesis of Sweden.

  This is a country that taxes you at 70 percent, where the state subsidizes everything, and where no one is expected to showcase more than others. The idea that some hideous American would parachute into their country, act like a total douche bag, and be given so much stuff for free without paying a penny freezes their blood like a particularly grim Arctic winter. And that’s why the kids love it.

  It’s like punk rock. To the millennials who worship me in Sweden, I go against everything that their country stands for. I’m the perfect anti–role model. Rich, privileged, and, worst of all, American. So, as the epitome of everything that’s wrong with my homeland, I’m treated like a god. In a country that doesn’t have much of a celebrity culture beyond the odd tennis star or singing group, I embodied the most baffling variety of celebrity. Someone without a product to promote or foist on you except for myself. In a nation like Sweden, that is unfathomable. And attractive.

  They adore celebrities over there, as so few stray that far north. And even when they do, they merely wave on the way to the airport after promoting their latest piece of shit on local TV for ten minutes. I was a celebrity who was almost accessible. They could get within a few feet of me and see me in the flesh. They could bask in my glory and dream of being JRL. Which, after all, is what everyone wants. I was the bizarro version of a typical Swede—Jewish, opinionated, and decadent. Highly aspirational.

  So Sweden played into my palms like a drunk shiksa at a Vegas nightclub. And after getting a taste of this notoriety level, I wanted more. But I’m not crazy. I’ve been doing this shit too long. There’s one thing that’s vitally important to remember: you can’t please everyone all of the time, as I believe Snooki once said through a mouthful of cocks. And I’m not talking about the finely balanced 49/51 split of people who either love or despise me. I’m talking about people who just don’t get it at all. There is an unacceptable number of them around the planet. And if I readily identify a nation as not being worthy of the full JRL experience, then I won’t waste my energies on its citizens. At least not yet. But that doesn’t mean that they can’t still be used and abused.

  In most English-speaking nations, I am beloved and revered for my sensational sense of humor, devastating wordplay, and trenchant wit. That obviously goes without saying. And whether you find my shtick funny or not (and if you don’t, then perhaps you can find another use for that stick up your ass), you at least recognize that others do.

  But there are areas of the world (and I appreciate that most in the flyover states may find this hard to believe) where English is not readily spoken. In these so-called foreign nations, my razor-sharp shtick can sometimes get lost in translation. My material never works quite so well when it’s transformed into French or Swahili. But that doesn’t mean those places aren’t eligible for my particular JRL brand of charm. I just have to find other ways in which to exploit them.

  If it’s a particularly scenic location, then it can be used as a basis for some aspirational tourism. Sure, they might not have any idea of who I am in Malaysia, but if I post a picture of myself on Instagram sitting next to an infinity pool with some garish cocktail in my hand and the rainforest off in the distance, it helps to maintain the myth of JRL. How the fuck did he manage to get to that place? How can I get there, too? How can I be just like JRL? I’ve often wondered the same . . .

  It doesn’t matter that they have no idea who I am in these places. In fact, it’s really helpful they don’t. As the international renown of JRL increases, it’s harder and harder to pull off the social crimes that I’ve patented and used with such success. All these countries have to do is look pretty in the pictures and let me get away with my legendary douchery. I’ll take care of the rest.

  Then there are other places where they get me and know me—they just don’t appreciate me. Like in France. Not everyone loves Americans in France and, unlike the far more sensible Swedes, don’t want to love Americans. And so they view me as some sort of “ultimate American” and as such pretty much the worst human being alive. Canal Plus, a TV channel over there, ran a feature on me during some prime-time magazine show, concerning my skyrocketing fame and unsolicited worldwide omnipresence. It seemed more of a cautionary tale than the raw propaganda that I favor. But I didn’t really give a fuck, as it helped to sell a few pocket squares.

  That’s the beautiful thing about the Pretentious Pocket: it’s such a versatile luxury item. As well as being the perfect gift for irate doormen, club owners, and restaurateurs, it also looks good absolutely everywhere. All over the globe, people wear suits and want to add a dash of vibrancy to their dress. And each time I get some press in a far-flung land, my sales in that location suddenly boom. Even if it’s an article decrying me as Jewish Satan.

  So that’s another way I can exploit nations that refuse to adopt the JRL ethos as their new way of life. They may hate me and fail to understand me, but oddly they still buy my pocket squares. And the bank of JRL is happy to take any form of currency from anywhere. Liking me is not a stipulation when handing over your cash. I’ve shipped everywhere from Venezuela to Cameroon. Maybe they spotted me on Millionaire Matchmaker, which I turned into a forty-four-minute-long Pretentious Pocket infomercial, or in some local tabloid rag that picked up one of my celebrity-baiting stories and smeared my face all over their pages. That happened to me in Croatia. I still don’t know how or why. But they ordered some pocket squares, so I couldn’t give a fuck.

  And I do want to go further. Because I love to travel. Jew-Jetting may be all about the flight and the experience, but I have a passion for exploring new places that haven’t troubled me before. I want to invade and colonize these unknown quantities. Like China, for instance. I’d love to flood China with my products and my philosophy. Imagine. A few billion JRL clones throwing off the shackles of Mao and adopting the philosophy of Me. There’s a lot of people and yuan floating around that ludicrously massive landmass. I’ve just got to get my hands on it.

  The Swedish adventure proved to me that it could be done. This insane journey I’ve been on and my attempts at self-generated fame on my terms and using my methods can obviously have the desired effect. It turned me into an A-list figure in the flesh. In the United States, I’m followed, loved, despised, and envied. I’m stopped several times walking through an airport to have a selfie taken. I enjoy all the perks of fame and use it to maintain a healthy lifestyle. But in Sweden I tasted true celebrity. Brad and Angelina levels of madness and decadence. It was exhausting, but I lapped it up.

  Welcome to Charm School

  Look, I’m an asshole. That has been unequivocally expressed and proven time and time again over these pages. I look like a douche bag, I act like a douche bag, and I live like a douche bag. And if I wasn’t already aware of it, there are plenty of people out there willing to let me know on a continual basis.

  But unlike many of the douche bags that pollute this planet, I’m self-aware. Being a screaming asshole for twenty-four hours a day toward every single human being you encounter might sound like a lot of fun, but the returns are going to be diminishing.

  Total fucking dickwads soon develop a reputation, and, unsurprisingly, people avoid them. Unless you are so rich or so powerful that you can treat every single person you meet like utter shit without any form of consequence, then you need to limit your assholery to those who truly deserve it.

  This applies across the planet. No matter where you are, you don’t take it out on a busboy at the bottom of the chain, as they are the people whom you rely on. Or, alternatively, they are the ones who can really help when you want to extricate yourself from some bullshit situation or plan to undertake some convoluted social scam. You always need friends or accomplices.

  As everybody knows, the valets hold all the power in Vegas. They know where the bodies are buried, they know who is sleeping with whom, and they know the best places to get things done. And this applies across the board. If you
’re trying to get some vital information or some shit for free, you’re not going to approach the CEO of Starwood or United Airlines. You go to the guy behind the bar or pushing a broom or working security. And you charm the shit out of him.

  I’ve managed to get so much free crap and unparalleled access by being decent to someone who gets treated like shit for eight straight hours a day. You just have to be understanding and offer them the tiniest glimmer of respect. Because that never happens. All the time people who look exactly like me walk up to them and treat them like gum squashed on the bottom of their Louboutins. You offer them a sympathetic shoulder to cry on, and they’ll love you like a lonely fat chick at a wedding.

  The security guard at my prep school, the taxi driver in Hartford who would personally chauffeur me everywhere, bouncers at Manhattan nightclubs, the guys who clear the tables at the sushi restaurant I use like an office, and thousands and thousands of others—I’ve got them all in my pocket, because I don’t act like a total ass around them. And I make them laugh.

  Look, it’s totally possible that you can laugh a woman into bed. And you can certainly laugh a service worker into doing your bidding. You make a joke about their boss, you offer up some zinger about the customers, or you make some crack about their wife. You add a bit of humor to the endless dreariness of their day. And they’ll love you for it!

  And the beauty of all this is that it’s universal. In fact, it’s more effective when you’re overseas. I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but Americans have something of a reputation when it comes to foreign travel. Basically everybody fucking hates us, or they’re oddly fascinated by us. This is because compared to our cosmopolitan European neighbors, hardly any Americans travel abroad, and the ones that do represent us poorly, as they’re so far out of their comfort zones and there’s not a fucking Olive Garden on every corner. Rather than try to speak to people rationally, they just bark at them in hopes that the increased volume will suddenly make them understand English.