Honestly, you don't even have to be able to read particularly well to see just how much This Is Totally, CompletelyFuckingAbsurd subtext this was written with. Poor Allen Salkin. The Seymore Hersh of the Sunday Styles (and Sarah Palin Slambook Signee) clearly did not enjoy this. Imagine having to hang out with Madonna's squeak toy for a few nights. And then write two pages about him. Forget what isn't someone's idea of fun; this sounds like a spite-assignment. The only thing that could make this better is if David Attenborough narrated it for readers.

Into the trenches Salkin goes. Watch as he infiltrates the nesting den!

Young models in sheer cocktail dresses shimmied near chrome buckets holding bottles of the vodka brand sponsoring the party.

He meets curious creatures of the night, and attempts to elicit information about their intent marauding around the natural habitats of a Jesus.

A freelance reporter for Life & Style magazine prepared to sidle up for a quick interview. "I'm here because I'm supposed to ask him questions about dating Madonna," she said.

Yes, well, as if we don't already know, Jesus Luz is basically Madonna's squeak toy. They had plenty to say about each other:

"I don't talk about my girlfriend," Mr. Luz said. "Let them come to their own conclusions." (Through a spokeswoman, Madonna declined to comment for this article.)

Salkin, however, persevered. There are questions that need answering. Most importantly, how the hell do you pronounce his name? Observe his continuing efforts to communicate in his native language with the indigenous call of the celebrity weekly reporter:

Asked if she knew how to say Mr. Luz's first name, she ventured, "Hay-soos? Or maybe Gee-zus?"

But it's not all mysteries! Out he comes, with answers to the questions regarding this cosmic being with whom Madonna's sexual organs associate themselves with.

Before Mr. Luz, muscular and curly haired with piercing blue eyes, returned to the laptop and mixing board, he explained the proper way to say his first and last names: "Zhay-ZOOSE. Loose."

And...that's basically the big revelation here. Jesus went to a DJ school, started booking gigs, met Madonna a month after she divorced Guy Ritchie, and she's been paying him allowance since. Okay, he says she's not:

..He said that was ridiculous. "I'm laughing so loud," he said.

But who says they're "laughing" at embarrassing allegations? People who are not laughing. Note the curious lack of a bracketing "laughing." Salkin knows this guy's pockets are lined with Ray of Light-era cash. Want to see how bored Salkin is with Jesus? Look:

It reads like a fact sheet. The IMDB "Trivia" page for Pet Cemetery 3 was written with more excitement than this. It's not at all a hack job or a rush job, because, for all intents and purposes, everything you'd ever want to know about Jesus Luz is contained within this piece.

This is the definitive Jesus piece. Including how much he thinks he's worth ($30,000, which a club decided not to pony up for). It's exactly why this reads like a please, get this thing out of my life job. I almost kinda feel bad for his having to take this one on. Almost. Meanwhile, has anybody ever cared less about a Madonna boyfriend? No. Maybe it's a sign of the times, how we've grown with Madge, how Madge just can't buy/fondle up some excitement like she used to, or how we just have better things to give a shit about these days. Or maybe it's just a sign that—predictably—Jesus is just like every other model/DJ in New York City: meh.

The piece by Tom Junod isn't yet online, but it can be found on newsstands (do they still exist?) by looking for a picture of Megan Fox in an overcoat. Is she becoming a private detective? Unclear. Is she 35? Also unclear. She should hire herself for that case. Anyway, the two-page puff piece, which has the half-truth of a headline "McG Is Not a Douchebag and James Cameron Is Not Jesus Christ," sets out to show how this movie is a rebirth for McG, and for the franchise, and for the character of the Terminator, and maybe also for Jesus Christ, who oh my god shares His initials with both Jim Cameron and John Connor. I don't know, the article uses the word "rebirth" about twenty times, but that's about fifty times less than it uses the word "scream."

Which leads us to the fifth reason we know that it's a scene of rebirth - the clincher.
There's a scream.
It's a big scream. It is an important and expensive Hollywood scream, in an important and expensive Hollywood movie. Indeed, in the entire history of action movies, there might not be another scream called up to express so much. It's a literal scream, in that, as McG says, "This is Marcus" - the screaming character's name - "beginning his journey."

Oh, sure, let me just check my Action Movie History Book, under the entry for Most Expressive Scream. Ah yes, here it is. "Huh?" Exactly. But it seems unreasonable for the writer to talk so much about screaming without letting us know what said screaming sounds like. Unfortunately, print is not a medium that can communicate roaring. Or is it? I scanned the article so as to show you its raw power.

Journalism! The writer then goes on to say that this scream that he was just declaring so important is actually kind of poorly done and comes off as funny not rebirth-y and then McG, who is a grown man who calls himself McG, says don't worry they are going to fix that. Perfect.

Now, McG is not an asshole. He's not a tool...But people think McG is an asshole because he's named McG.

You brought it up, not us. Whoever denied it supplied it, am I right?

"My name is such bullshit," he says. "It's a burden, but my parents never called me anything but."

McG's parents called him McG? They sound super McChill. The sour apple-flavored Ring Pop doesn't fall far from the sour apple-flavored Ring Pop tree, you know?

Back story: I'm lurking around one of the low-rent haunts of the highbrow magazine elite Wednesday and come upon a friend of mine, Jess, who introduces me to Donavan Hohn, a brilliant writer whose recent piece on a Hong Kong toy fair had inspired me to write a handjobby post about how much I love 'Harper's.' Anyway, like pretty much all journalists under 40 who bother with the whole "crafting exquisite paragraphs" thing anymore, Hohn has cash flow issues. So Jess suggests — naively, I'm assuming — he get into the celebrity profile racket. Her friend Mark Kirby does it! He just wrote a profile of Megan Fox for 'GQ' that was really actually a rewarding effort! And I'm thinking, "Oh Jess, guys like Donovan Hohn are just not wired to hustle celebrity profile assignments. Not least because guys like Donovan Hohn probably didn't know who Megan Fox even was when he saw her at a comic book convention at which he was busy jotting down the philosophies of some enchanting small-time hucksterpreneur, and plus, everyone knows celebrity profiles are the lowest form of hackery." Well shit, was I so totally wrong. Jess had just tipped me off to the best celebrity profile in years. Seriously, you know how the celebrity profile is totally dead? This profile could do for the genre what…Megan Fox does for impotence or something!

So she totally unloads on GQ. Kirby asks if Transformers 2 director Michael Bay plans to make the "robots seem more human" than in the original. “You weren’t concerned about them making the humans seem more human?” she asks. And, perhaps realizing "making preposterously hot superhero superbabe comic book character Terry Richardson-shot Megan Fox seem like a real person" it's a crusade she alone is going to take up, she:

1. Tells a story about her more youthful youth that suggests she is either a sort of sweet unlikely feminist hero or read Notes From Underground, either of which we'll take.

Well, that year my boyfriend broke up with me, and I decided—oh man; sorry, Mommy!—that I was in love with this girl that worked at the Body Shop [a strip club on Sunset Boulevard]. I decided that I was going to get her to love me back, and I went out of my way to create a relationship with this girl, a stripper named Nikita. I was there all the time—I would go there by myself. I bought her things—perfume, body spray, girlie stuff. I turned into a weird middle-aged married man. I felt like I had this need to save Nikita. I’d get lap dances so I could get to know her, and I’d give her what I thought were great little sound bites of inspiration—like You can do it, you’re better than this! I didn’t want her to be there.”

Why her?

“She smelled like angels.”

Seriously?

“No. Well, she did smell good. Like vanilla. She was sort of a tough badass, but she’d do these beautiful slow dances to Aerosmith ballads. She had really long stick-straight hair and was Russian. I just liked her. She was really sadistic and sarcastic and funny."

2. Makes up for bringing up the stupid stupid stupid stupid Miley Cyrus epitomeofstupid whydoweevenknowaboutthat "scandal" by saying "fuck" many times.

With any of the Miley Cyrus shit, or any of that Vanessa Hudgens shit—I would never issue an apology for my life and for who I am. It’s like, Oh, I’m sorry I took a naked, private picture that someone is an asshole and sold for money. I’m sorry if someone else is a dick. No. You shouldn’t have to apologize. Someone betrayed Vanessa, but no one’s angry at that person. She had to apologize. I hate Disney for making her do that. Fuck Disney.”

Can I get that on the record?

“Yeah. Fuck Disney.”

Followed by:

“Yeah, that was probably a bad move—they own everything. But it’s not right. They take these little girls, and they put them through entertainment school and teach them to sing and dance, and make them wear belly shirts, but they won’t allow them to be their own people. It makes me sick.”

3. Is just straight-up awesome.

I don’t understand why [some paparazzi shots of her fondling Brian Austin Green] are so scandalous. When they first came out, it was like, Megan Fox was giving Brian a blow job in pub—I mean, uh—a hand job in public. First: Who gives hand jobs? Who’s given a hand job since seventh grade? Not me. And who does it at a café on a public street? I touch him all the time. It’s just like, if you have a girlfriend, you grab her butt or whatever. That’s all it was, but it became a big deal. I don’t know why. For me, touching Brian’s dick for two seconds—that’s not part of our sex life. That’s me playing around; you know, you just cup it a little. For a few seconds.

4. And philosophical.

I get it. This is colorful, and you want something to write that people will want to read. I get bored reading typical celebrity shit also.

And yeah yeah yeah, it was not exactly as hard-won as "Frank Sinatra has a cold" but I am certain it is a lot better than any other Megan Fox profiles I have stopped reading after two paragraphs because I really have no idea why she's famous anyway.

Me: "So...um, do you have any funny anecdotes from the set?"
Celebrity: "Uh, no...I don't know."
Publicist: "I told you no personal questions! This interview is over!"

ESQ: If you could ask one question to any celebrity — and they've taken a magic sodium penathol truth-telling cocktail to ensure they'll answer — what question do you ask what celebrity?

SR: Let's see. I asked Dennis Rodman what it was like to fuck Madonna. So I got the answer to that one — he said it was good. I asked Bill Murray what he said to Scarlett Johansson in Lost in Translation, but he wouldn't tell me. I think I'd like to ask Al Gore, "How the fuck do you still walk the Earth after handing the keys to the White House to George W. Bush and Dick Cheney? I don't want to hear about Nader and Florida. You lost Tennessee and West Virginia. How on earth do you not disembowel yourself? Take your fucking Nobel Prize and drop dead."

SR: Oh, for Nic Cage it would be: "When you were balling Lisa Marie, did you ever pretend to be Elvis?"

We drove back.

"So, you looking forward to getting home after this?" he asked.

"Sure."

"So you can shit out the stuff we just ate earlier? How you feeling, by the way?"

"I'm looking forward to getting to a bathroom," I said. "Try to save it for the home toilet, not have to pull over in a gas station."

"Oh, you don't want to do that, dude."

Brolin started making diarrhea noises.

"Ahhhh! Plllllllllpppppp! The pain will hit, and you're on your bathroom floor, in a fetal position, can't even make it to the toilet."

Pause.

"What do you think," he said. "Huh?"

"I don't know. I don't think it's gonna be that bad."

"It might be, though."