Calcified Argo thespian Arkin gained his distinctive peanut-like appearance after sipping bourbon from a clumsily-chosen chalice back in 2002, causing his hair to fall off, his cheeks to sag like water balloons and his eyes to emerge from his head on papery stalks.
Tags: Alan Arkin. The Last Crusade, They Chose Poorly
Custard colored news titan Jim Lehrer suffered the devastating facial effects of drinking deep from a poorly chosen chalice. The primordial PBS stalwart entered the Knight’s tomb, supped from a garish goblet and turned from News Hour favorite to barely breathing fossil.
Hollywood a-lister Goldie Hawn went from hottie to husk when she chose poorly in the grail chamber, her face turning to granules and falling to the floor.
Hoping to keep up with his football team of nubile girlfriends, porn-peddling high society codger Hefner (86) sought out the Grail Sanctuary a few years back. He swigged dry Martini from a cursed cup while filling his pipe and lecturing the Grail Knight about how to make love to a woman.
The louche millionaire froze mid-giggle as the wrath of God took hold. Moments later, his eyeballs shot out like greased cocktail olives and his skin turned as papery as a centre-page fold-out. Oddly, his girlfriends didn’t mind one bit.
Entering the tomb on a mission from his dark overlord Rupert Murdoch, neo-con nightmare Bill O’Reilly chose poorly and drank deep from a death dealing drum. The self-righteous telly hot head crumbled to the floor, his skin slipping from his skull like lard down a drain.
Sour-mugged, art termagant Tracey Emin quaffed an exquisite cocktail of absinthe, cough syrup and white cider from one of the Knight’s tainted chalices at what she thought was an ancient gallery opening.
“Great exhibit,” she chewed as the goblet’s curse encrusted her larynx with nodules, “shits on Cornelia’s Thirty Pieces of Silver.”
“Have you thought about crushing them with a steamroller?” she added, her face imploding like a paper bag in a vacuum chamber.
Guest Contribution: Peter Cribley
Aristocratic cadaver Fitz-James stalks through Spain’s high society, her loose and pulpy face a testament to the time when, in 1952, she waltzed into the Grail Sanctuary as a young woman. The Knight, dazzled by her then-stunning looks, could only gawp as she giggled and swigged tainted champagne from a heavily bejewelled False Cup. His excitement turned to horror as her skin filled with yoghurt and her hair frazzled into a ghostly ‘fro.