Don't be so hard on John Garfield, guys. John inspires me. Honestly, I sleep so much better knowing that somewhere out in New Jersey, a John Garfield really, really exists. You know, that there's a guy that'll camp out overnight for Winger tickets, that buys up all the 7-11 Nascar commemorative Big Gulp cups, that goes to sleep every night confident that he's only wearing his mom's Olga bras because he likes the feeling, not because he's a fag.

But most of all, I like to think of him as we know him, the public John Garfield, glowing with the smile of delight you only see in junkies and the cast of the Jerry Lewis telethon. You can see him, hunching over the keyboard with a cold sweat on his brow, clutching a damp tissue in his clammy hand, thinking--maybe even saying outloud--"Fuck U Arab, I will git U wit dis 1. EL-OH-EL!!"

I mean, most people as "special" as John never make it out of the hospital. John Garfield on the other hand is functional enough to compulsively PM pictures of his dick to other guys in hopes they'll pay him thirty bucks to growl at the camera and jerk off. Granted, for you and me, a future like that would make poking through our stool for condoms full of heroin owned by the Cali cartel an attractive prospect, but to John, this is really something.