When Lars Ulrich Met Lars Ulrich

Before we get ourselves started today, links to be seen to. Norma has revamped the look of her blog, so go on over and see what it looks like. And at our joint blog yesterday, we did a Snippet Sunday post.

Now then... this was just a matter of time coming, you know...

Entertainment Reporters Perplexed By Two Men With Same Name; Real Reporters Not At All Surprised

Calgary (CP) Heavy metal band Metallica came to town today for a press conference in advance of a weekend of concerts at the Saddledome. Band members James Hetfield, Lars Ulrich, Robert Trujillo, and Kirk Hammett came out before the assembled press at the Metropolitan Conference Centre. Unfortunately, this being an event about music, the press included entertainment reporters, who are truly some of the dumbest human beings on the planet, in this reporter’s opinion.

“Hello, Santa Monica!!!” Hetfield yelled as he walked in.

“James, we’re in Calgary,” Hammett reminded his bandmate.

“We are?” Hetfield asked. “How did I get through Customs?”

“You were drunk,” Trujillo replied. This reporter rolled his eyes, wondering who he had annoyed by having to be present at a press conference for a pack of over the hill brain damaged heavy metal musicians. Well, it could have been more over the hill. Metallica, after all, are younger than the decrepit Rolling Stones, who have a combined age of ten thousand nine hundred twenty three years old.

“Well, we’re here and we’re gonna blow the roof off the arena, or concert hall, or wherever the hell we’re playing,” Hetfield boasted. “It’s gonna be big, it’s gonna be loud, and it’s gonna be a night to remember! Just as long as no one thinks they’re gonna get away with recording us and putting us on Youtube, because we’re Metallica, and we’re not gonna put up with our music being out there for free! Our fans will pay through the nose for our music!”

This reporter tried not to sigh. Heavy metal, in this reporter’s opinion, is not music. Trujillo spoke up. “It’s a big night for us, isn’t that right, Lars?” he asked, clapping the band’s drummer 

on the back.

“What?” Lars yelled, staring around as if confused. “Speak up, dammit!”

“I said, it’s a big night for us!” Trujillo repeated as a shout.

“Oh! Yeah! Right!” Lars nodded. “Definite big night!”

This reporter spoke up. “How do you answer those who think you’re long past your prime? What, seriously, is the point to your continued touring around the world and playing endless concerts?”

Hetfield replied, “The booze.”

“The groupies!” Hammett added.

“The drugs!” Trujillo noted. “Oh, wait… I’m not supposed to talk about that on the advice of my attorney.”

“What the **** did you just say?” Lars yelled.

At this moment, there was a stir from the back of the room. This reporter looked back, as did a number of other reporters. We all saw him passing by. RCMP Inspector Lars Ulrich, the legendary Mountie with a fearsome reputation and a hatred of entertainment reporters. He was in his utility uniform, walking briskly, looking through a folder, not noticing the reporters nearby. At least until a correspondent with Entertainment Tonight called out, “Hey, it’s Lars Ulrich!”

Hetfield looked at Lars. “What the **** does that mean? You’re Lars.”

Inspector Ulrich stopped in his tracks. He looked at the crowd of reporters and sighed in dismay. Entertainment reporters looked back and forth between the band and the Inspector. The correspondent from ET blurted out, “Two Lars Ulrichs? But which one is which? I can’t tell the difference between them.”

Ulrich stared. And then he walked right through the crowd of reporters, up beside the band, pausing as if assessing each of them in turn, and finding each man lacking. He stopped before Lars. “So, you’re the other Lars Ulrich.”

“What???” Lars yelled. “You’ll have to speak up!”

“I said, you’re Lars Ulrich!” Ulrich shouted at him.

“Well of course I am!” Lars said with a nod. “Who are you?”

“I’m Lars Ulrich!” Ulrich yelled at him, sounding angrier by the moment.

“That’s ridiculous!” Lars insisted. “I’m Lars Ulrich, not you. I’m the drummer, not you!”

“I never said I was a drummer! Are you an idiot???” Ulrich shouted in his face.

“No, he’s just a little deaf,” Hammett said. “Thirty plus years of metal music have done that to him.”

Ulrich glared at Hammett. “If I wanted your opinion, I’d tell you what to say.”

The reporters gathered closer. The ET correspondent spoke up, his face seeming to be confused. “Hi, I’m Max Maguire, Entertainment Tonight. Which one of you is the Metallica drummer? I can’t tell the difference.”

“Neither can I,” a reporter with Access Hollywood agreed.

“Wow…” a TMZ correspondent remarked. “It’s like they’re mirror images of each other.”

Ulrich glared at them, standing side by side with Lars. “Are you idiots really that stupid? He doesn’t look anything like me! He’s a lot older than I am! And he looks like he was hit in the face with an ugly stick!” Any real reporter could see that. The two Ulrichs indeed looked nothing alike.

Maguire shook his head. “They must have been separated at birth. That’s the only explanation! Lars! Other Lars! Any chance you two will appear on stage together during that concert?”

Ulrich stepped away from the band, walking towards Maguire. “Run,” he told him in a low, growling voice.

“Is that a no to the joint appearance in the concert?” Maguire asked.

Ulrich turned away for a moment, looking back towards the band. Then he threw a punch, hitting Maguire in the chin, sending him flying eight feet. Maguire rubbed his chin, sitting up. “Is it something I said?”

Ulrich started yelling, running towards Maguire. Some primal instinct urged Maguire to flee, the Inspector hot on his heels. This reporter later learned Maguire turned up in hospital, where he’ll be eating his meals out of a straw for the next six months. In this reporter’s opinion, he had it coming.

The other Lars Ulrich had the last word, in the wake of the Inspector’s departure. “Who was that guy, and did he say something about me getting hit by a goggly tick?”