🧊 IP2 Andy Dick - From having his own tv show and being in movies with Pauly Shore to sleeping on a cot eating liver and onions, he truly is "living his best life"

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Ass Dan said:
The skid row lifestyle takes its toll. It's genuinely mind-blowing that he's still alive, let alone that he still apparently has friends who care about him.
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I'm not sure he has friends so much as people who remember him before he was the walking corpse he is now.
 
hotcheetospuffs said:
Eddie Furlong had also called him the night before and told him that he could get sober if he did. Billy told Eddie that he liked him in Detroit Rock City and he said that Eddie thanked him for that sentiment three times, and seemed like a really nice and genuine guy.
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The druggie who played the kid in terminator 2? He fucking bombed his own life multiple times. He celebrated returning to be John Connor in either Rise Of The Machines, or Salvation by relapsing at a club in front of a lot of people after signing an agreement to not use drugs with the studio. I mean I get it, you support other addicts and it helps stay clean, but he can't say shit about anyone.
 
Marc said:
He was pissed that they revived him.
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This is basically how narcan works. It gets you out of your nearly immediately dying stage (which a junkie wants) and into instant withdrawal. They are often pissed and attack the people who saved them.

Late stage opioid shit is GRIM.
 
Maori Kiwifruit Growers said:
That's normal for people getting narcaned. I was taught that when you administer Narcan, immediately jump back because there's a good chance they will come up swinging.
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Imagine being such a fucking bleeding heart that you're willing to risk injury from a thankless disoriented druggie jacked on a spike of adrenaline by "saving his life" instead of just letting nature take its course on someone who's in that predicament because of their own retarded mistakes.
 
Maori Kiwifruit Growers said:
That's normal for people getting narcaned. I was taught that when you administer Narcan, immediately jump back because there's a good chance they will come up swinging.
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Imagine being such a fucking bleeding heart that you're willing to risk injury from a thankless disoriented druggie jacked on a spike of adrenaline by "saving his life" instead of just letting nature take its course on someone who's in that predicament because of their own retarded mistakes.
 
Barry Williams said:
Imagine being such a fucking bleeding heart that you're willing to risk injury from a thankless disoriented druggie jacked on a spike of adrenaline by "saving his life" instead of just letting nature take its course on someone who's in that predicament because of their own retarded mistakes.
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There was actually a story on the fake news, so I'm not sure it actually happened, about some merry pranksters going around narcaning junkies passed out in the street to keep them out of their neighborhood. There's a thread about it here somewhere. Pretty funny if true.
 
Maori Kiwifruit Growers said:
You get the call you get the call.
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EMS responders don't really get a choice in the matter, that's literally their job. You're correct.

I was more so referring to the "good samaritans" who just keep a thing of Narcan on them just in case they come across some worthless sack of shit inches away from the cold grip of the Reaper and they feel it's their civic duty to keep these resource vacuums alive for another weekend.
 
Barry Williams said:
Imagine being such a fucking bleeding heart that you're willing to risk injury from a thankless disoriented druggie jacked on a spike of adrenaline by "saving his life" instead of just letting nature take its course on someone who's in that predicament because of their own retarded mistakes.
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People that work with alzimers and dementia patients get popped on the face all the time.
 
Barry Williams said:
EMS responders don't really get a choice in the matter, that's literally their job. You're correct.

I was more so referring to the "good samaritans" who just keep a thing of Narcan on them just in case they come across some worthless sack of shit inches away from the cold grip of the Reaper and they feel it's their civic duty to keep these resource vacuums alive for another weekend.
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Those people aren't very common. It's ems/first responders or other addicts who carry narcan.
 
The New York Post published a quickie essay from Michael Kaplan, an journalist who spent time with Andy in 1999 in order to write a profile on him. Details magazine is long defunct and I can't find the original article anywhere online. It appears to have been published in the July 1999 issue.

Andy Dick and I were in the back room of Star Strip Cabaret, a splashy all-nude club in West Hollywood, when he got in a fight with a dancer.

Fueled by four vodka gimlets, two beers and multiple hits of pot, he was getting a lap dance when he grabbed the woman’s butt and tried to wrap his arms around her waist.

Annoyed, she gave him a second chance — but Andy couldn’t stop himself. “Oh shut up, you bitch,” he called out in a sing-song voice as a bouncer escorted us out.

This was 1999, and the comedian was flying high, and not just on drugs.

Andy was a household-name sitcom actor thanks to his role on NBC’s “NewsRadio.” Details magazine sent me to Los Angeles to interview him over a weekend, which turned into a week once my editor heard about the actor’s exploits.

Indeed, he held nothing back.

For the photos, Andy, wearing cracked glasses, pretended to be unconscious on a sidewalk — an uncanny preview of this week, when video Tuesday showed him slumped on the ground after suffering an apparent overdose.

The comedian, who was revived by an administered dose of Narcan, said it happened after a stranger offered him crack cocaine, explaining that he didn’t “mind doing a little crack every now and then.”

Over the course of our several days and nights together, I watched him get sick after taking a massive hit off a pot pipe at a party. He vowed to “bitch slap” comedian Chris Kattan, who had parodied him on “Saturday Night Live,” and bragged that he could wrap his penis around his own wrist like a Rolex.

At a Sunset Strip bar, I thought I saw him hug a guy — until the man cried out, “He bit me!” As we were leaving, I heard the crowd buzzing about something else that allegedly happened.

“Wesley Snipes punched me,” Andy claimed. “I went into the bathroom. Wesley Snipes was in there with a whole bunch of his guys. I saw them, and I said, ‘Now I’m in the minority.’ Then he told me to bow down to him. I did, and he punched me in the chest.”

(Snipes’ rep had no comment at the time.)

It wasn’t all sordid, but it was mostly weird. One day, he showed me his backyard garden, where I watched him feed baby frogs.

On our last night, we met at my West Hollywood hotel, and I asked him about his actor friend David Strickland, who had taken his own life after partying with Andy in Las Vegas.

“I wish it was you killing yourself with no one there,” he shouted at me.

After an uncomfortable silence, he gave me a high-five and insisted he was joking.

Then, talking about multiple friends of his who had died young, Andy acknowledged that people around town had nicknamed him the “Angel of Death.”

He told me how, as a little kid, he took off his diaper and spread his own feces on the wall.

“That’s pretty much what I‘ve done with my career,” he said.

Despite it all, I thought we parted on good terms. I had promised to take Andy and a girlfriend to the restaurant of his choice, expecting him to choose a Hollywood hot spot. Instead, we ended up at Red Lobster and later shook hands before he headed out to the Viper Room.

Days after the story, headlined “Life as A. Dick,” dropped, he called me — ranting and raging that I was a terrible person for writing a story like that.

He called me fat and ugly and said he didn’t know how I could be a father.

He was in New York City, where I lived, and said he wanted to meet me at Central Park at midnight so he could kick me in the head.

“Andy,” I said, “everything in the story was true. Why did you do all that stuff if you didn’t want me to write about it?”

Andy had an easy answer: “Dude, I thought we were hanging out.”
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A Sentient Cloud said:
The New York Post published a quickie essay from Michael Kaplan, an journalist who spent time with Andy in 1999 in order to write a profile on him. Details magazine is long defunct and I can't find the original article anywhere online. It appears to have been published in the July 1999 issue.
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Dare I say it but the shit in this article bears a striking resemblance to the extended cold opening of the first episode of The Andy Dick Show that aired a couple years after this was written.


Very oddly clairvoyant in a way.
 
At no point was Andy Dick an A lister. Niggas like Brad Pitt or Tom Cruise are A listers. Getting a show on a cable network known for airing all kinds of trash puts you on the C list, maybe a B- if we’re being very generous.
 
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