Dear Readers and devoted Wesley sycophants:
It’s Hugh Diamond once again. David Wesley of The Wisconsin Sun Times gave me his username/password for The Spoof.com. The first part of this article is told in the 3rd person by me and the turnover is an old scroll written in light blue fountain pen ink that I translated from. I found it laying in the sand in terrible condition, high tide at Deal, NJ had barely drenched over the manuscript, but I managed to dry it up before any ink bleeding.
The last we heard from unhinged hedonistic journalist David Wesley of The Wisconsin Sun Times he was hedging disgustingly heroic inside roulette bets with Asian businessmen in Macau while brutally roasting Wyatt Benny on social media over his embarrassing halftarded obsession with avant garde pop star CharliXCX.
But sometimes American heroes are called upon to be saviors at the least expected times and in the most unexpected places.
After nearly a sleepless 33hrs at a crowded limitless single 0 roulette table on a Tuesday evening no less, in which the roulette degenerate was down -$327,000, the heater came out of nowhere, like a magical aqua blue crack of lightning that bellowed through the Galaxy Macau, saving our degenerate hero from a fatal night of a suicidal fentanyl overdose while in the company of a mysterious feral busty dark haired Asian woman with 3 tattoos Of Pink Floyd albums and a penchant for talking at length about Wong Kar Wai films.
Broke Asian coolers surrounding the table were unfazed, with only slight chuckles as Wesley’s magnetism at this casino establishment was well known, having been spotted chatting with the same dark haired femme fatale on several occasions, at one of the Galaxy’s illustrious cinematic inspired high end bar and lounges.
Wesley’s 15min roulette heater was nothing short of epic. Like a deranged circus animal, Wesley threw $1000 chips on straightup numbers 2,3, 8, 12, 27, 33. Then his disgustingly heroic 3 corner bets that pay 8-1. $35K here, $70K here in one spin. He managed to erase the $327K deficit and walked away with $27K. Not bad for 34hrs and 45min of pain, loss, and frustration.
It was like that time Wesley maniacally laughed walking out of a Gamblers Anonymous Meeting somewhere in downtown NYC, then turned to the church chaplain and said, and he certainly wasn’t the first degenerate gambler to say this -“being here is a waste of fucking time. Quitting is for Losers”
It was then that Wesley roamed around the TriBeCa and SoHo section of NYC, getting lost like a retard for a few hours, and calling Wyatt Benny a “disgusting simp” for his love sick crush and a “washed up degenerate” on social media, and in a meta act of performance art recall that would make Doja Cat proud—breaking into Sabrina Carpenter’s Tribeca multi million dollar home and taking a nap in her bed, not because he had anything to do with Sabrina Carpenter, but because Wyatt Benny had once joked about it in a Facebook post.
***
“I can fix this.” Wesley said to Timothee Chalamet's business manager. Remember Winston Wolf in Pulp Fiction. This is easy. No dead bodies. The kid needs to disappear for a few days. Dominical. There’s barely any cell service. Plenty of booze, surf, the most beautiful women.”
"Well, he’s with Kylie Jenner."
"Oh my apologies. I had no idea. No worries. I’m the international sampler for exotic women. I’ll make sure they keep their hands off of him, I’m the number one cure for vaginal dryness. They won’t need to go anywhere near him."
***
Reporting live from a hammock in Dominical, Costa Rica, with a pina colada in one hand and zero regrets in the other.
In what can only be described as the most dramatic plot twist since someone decided to make Dune smell like sand, Timothee Chalamet has vanished from the red carpet circuit. The Oscar frontrunner for Marty Supreme, fresh off a town hall with Matthew McConaughey where he casually declared that "no one cares" about ballet or opera anymore (and joked he'd lose a whopping 14 cents in viewership if the arts crowd canceled him), has gone full fugitive.
Enter yours truly: David Wesley of The Wisconsin Sun Times, resident hedonistic enigma, investigative surfer, and occasional journalist. When Chalamet's phone buzzed with death threats from coloratura sopranos and pas de deux purists, he did what any rational 30yr old heartthrob would do---he DM'd me.
"David," the message read, "I need out. They're coming for me with pitchforks made of pointe shoes. Help."
Naturally, I accepted. Who turns down a chance to spirit away Hollywood's slightly rebellious IT boy? I booked the first red eye out of Milwaukee (via a questionable connection in Atlanta involving a guy named "Rico" who swears he's not smuggling anything), met Timothee at a non descript airstrip outside San Jose, and whisked him south in a rented Jeep that smelled faintly of regret and coconut oil.
Our destination: Dominical, the sleepy surf hamlet on Costa Rica's Pacific coast where the waves are consistent, the Wi-Fi is spotty, and the only opera anyone hears is the occasional howler monkey doing an impression of La Boheme
Upon arrival, we ditched the Jeep and hit the beach. Timothee, still in his signature disheveled-chic-hoodie, stared at the pounding shore break like it had personally offended him. "I've never surfed," he admitted. "I once tried paddle boarding in Malibu and fell off immediately."
"Perfect," I replied, handing him a board the size of a small yacht. "Dominical doesn't judge. It just breaks you."
While Timothee learned the ancient art of face planting into white water, I carved clean lines on chest high peelers, flanked by the usual rotating gallery of goddesses: yoga teachers with Sanskrit tattoos, a crypto heiress who only speaks in affirmations, a marine biologist who swears dolphins send her DMs, and most improbably----Emcee Flapchunks the 3rd.
Yes. THAT Emcee Flapchunks the 3rd."
Doja Cat's most unhinged alter ego had apparently also chosen Dominical for her latest disappearing act. She rolled up on a lime-green e-bike wearing a bucket hat made of recycled caution tape, platform Crocs encrusted with rhinestones, and a crop top that read" SOPRANO TEARS FUEL MY VIBES" in Copperplate font. No one knows how she found us. One minute the beach was normal; the next, glitter was falling from the sky like cursed snow and someone was auto-tuned-yodeling "Paint the Town Red" over a Bluetooth speaker the size of a carry-on.
"Yo, Skinny Dune Boy!" she bellowed at Timothee as he pearled spectacularly for the 15th time. "You really told the opera heads they're irrelevant?" That's diabolical. I respect it."
Timothee surfaced spitting saltwater and existential dread. "I was....kidding?"
Flapchunks cackled so hard her bucket hat nearly flew off. "Kidding is for cowards. Own it. Now get up on that board before I make you freestyle battle a howler monkey."
To everyone's shock---including mine---Timothee actually listened. By sunset he was popping up (shaky, but vertical) while Flapchunks rode shotgun on her own board, barking bars at incoming sets:
"Wave comin left, better pop or get left/ Timmy said opera dead, now he surfin' with the best/Sopranos mad, sending threats in falsetto/ but we out here sippin margaritas and Imperial beer, puro flow, no stress, though/
The local surf crew lost their minds. Phones came out. Clips hit X faster than a riptide. "Doja's alter ego coaching Chalamet in Costa Rica" started trending between "Timothee canceled" and "Is Opera actually dead though?"
Later, back at the bungalow, we sat on the deck eating ceviche while Flapchunks taught Timothee how to moonwalk on wet wood and I tried (and failed) not to stare at the breath work instructor doing sunrise salutations in the background.
Timothee looked at his phone--stil permanently on airplane mode--and sighed. " They're never gonna let this go, are they?"
Flapchunks snorted. "Baby, they'll be mad about something new by Thursday. You just gave them free content. Now you're the guy who dissed Puccini and learned to surf with Emcee Flapchunks the 3rd. That's legacy."
I raised my glass. "To bad decisions, perfect waves, and zero encores."
She clinked her aquablue raspberry margarita on the crystal pole of the canopy we were chilling under. " And to never explaining yourself to people who clutch pearls for sport."
Timothee finally cracked a real smile---the first one I'd seen since we landed. "Pure vida?"
Flapchunks grinned, all teeth and chaos. "Pura Vida, motherfucker."
So if you're hunting Timothee Chalamet, skip Lincoln Center and the Met. He's in Dominical--half drowned, half re-born, getting roasted and coached by the most feral alter ego in music, riding small waves, and living rent free in the heads of every outraged coloratura on Earth.
And me? Still just your friendly neighborhood Wisconsin hedonist, filing dispatches between barrels, taking insane reckless risks at the roulette table in Macau that could make me homeless, surrounded by beautiful illustrious women with breastacular racks, one glitter bombed rap performance artist that is a ray of light in the darkness, and the sound of absolutely no arias whatsoever.
All love to the opera community
But if you want forgiveness, try sending some Voodoo sativa joints
If you want absolution, come surf Dominical
If you see Wyatt Benny, tell that disgusting dipshit he still owes me $3270"
Signing off,
-David Wesley of the The Wisconsin Sun Times
