I’m worried about Larry

He just called from his place in Malibu and he could barely speak. He’s down there with Ron Burkle and Bill Clinton. He’s on the phone going, “Unnnnnh, mmmmhhh, what’s up, are you there … unhhhh.” At first I thought maybe he’d done poppers on top of Viagra again. He did that last year and the doctor on duty at his house had to start his heart for him. Then he spent a week in Cedars Sinai hooked up to monitors. I mean he was this close. Guy figures because he has a mini hospital in each of his houses and keeps it staffed 24-7 he can do whatever he wants.

So just now I go, Larry, what the hell are you doing down there? He didn’t answer. Just more moaning. I can hear girls shrieking in the background, people talking. A voice that I’m pretty sure is Clinton saying, “When’s that guy Pete getting back here with the blow?” I go, Larry, are you okay? He says, “Mmmmhhh, unnnnhhh, who’s this?” I tell him it’s me, Jobso. He says something I can’t understand. It’s like, “Howzugetdisnumma.” He says it a few times and then I realize he’s trying to say, “How’d you get this number?”

I go, Larry, it’s me, Jobso. And you called me. Are you all right? Do you need help?

No answer. After a minute or so I realized he’d dropped the phone and just left it on the floor. I could hear Clinton whooping it up. More voices. Giggling. Then someone hung up.

I’m like this close to calling the cops. But I’m afraid Larry would kill me if I did that. More as this develops. (Photo: Peter Gash, High Times.)