It seemed inevitable that Andy Dick, notorious crosser of personal boundaries, public stroker of real-estate heiresses, and lusty biter of cocaine-deficient reporters, would eventually catch a beat-down as those weary of his antics were pushed over the edge by one too many unbidden tongue-baths. According to Page Six, that reprisal finally came last week at the Laugh Factory from the unlikiest of sources: Jon Lovitz, no one's idea of a head-smashing enforcer, who was none too pleased at being on the receiving end of a Dick death-hex:
Laugh Factory owner Jamie Masada, who witnessed the assault, said, "Jon picked Andy up by the head and smashed him into the bar four or five times, and blood started pouring out of his nose." Lovitz told Page Six, "All the comedians are glad I did it because this guy is a [bleep]hole." [...]
Last year, Lovitz related, a drunken Dick strolled up to his table at Ago in West Hollywood, rudely downed his guests' peach liqueur drinks, and "looked at me and said, 'I put the "Phil Hartman hex" on you - you're the next one to die.' I said, 'What did you say?' and he repeated it. I wanted to punch his face in, but I don't hit women."
When the two ran into each other at the Laugh Factory last Wednesday, "I wanted him to say he was sorry for the 'Phil Hartman hex,' " Lovitz told us. "First he says, 'I don't remember saying that.' Then he leans in and says, 'You know why I said it? Because you said I killed Phil Hartman.' Which I never said. Then he asked me to be in his new movie.
"I grabbed him by the shirt and leaned him over and said, 'I don't want to be in your movie! I don't want to be in your life!' I pushed him against the rail. Then I pushed him again really hard. A security guard broke it up. I'm not proud of it . . . but he's a disgusting human being." Dick's rep said he had no comment.
The discrepancy between Lovitz's recollection of the incident and that of Masada is inconsequential; while many were probably pleased to see someone finally retaliate against Dick, whether by "really hard push" or cranium-rattling atomic piledriver, it in all likelihood did little to slow Hollywood's drug-addled juggernaut, who probably spent the rest of the night pinballing from club to club, delivering double-death-hexes to anyone who refused to split an eightball with him over the story of how that disturbing blood stain found its way onto the front of his shirt.