Where's My Smith Corona?

Secularity.

Remember: if you root for Jesus today, it’s unpatriotic. 

Right Click, Delete.

Crap.  Not you, Mr. Jobs.  Just the self-aggrandizing, trivial culture you created.  May your exorbitant yet brilliantly-marketed products remain in the right hands forever. 

Moody’s Baby Blues 6/13/11

It’s no secret amongst those who could give a flying fuck about my taste in art and recreation - I have an affinity for ragging on hipsters, and Californication.  For a  fledgling angel in the city, two proverbial birds flew into the range of a true-aimed stone today.

I arrived on set early today.  Commendable for anyone conducting themselves professionally.  However, punctuality with the intention of bum rushing the breakfast spread and inducing a caloric coma before work is laughable at best. 

What next, shall we stuff this fat ass into some sexy jeans?  Why not?  I waddled to wardrobe, the oatmeal on top of the eggs and hashbrowns climbing up the walls of my esophagus.  “Beep beep,” said the horn of a late model 7 Series Beamer.  For you folks who don’t sprecen sie Deutsch, “beep beep” means “kindly relocate that tub of sodium and fat to the side please”.

I did, and the car pulled into the last spot behind the star wagons.  Beneath the campers, my vision afforded me one glance at a baby blue pair of Chuck Taylors and the skinniest pair of jeans south of Silverlake stepping out .  I readied myself to pounce.  Suddenly, scurrying footsteps behind me and a mousey salutation as he revealed that movie star mug.

“Good morning, Mr. Duchovny,” she said.

He replied, “Call me David.”

I said to no one, “I love your work but I hate your pants.”

What, me worry?

There will be no raptors today.  Tell your parents I said so.  Arrogant?  Blasphemous?  I’m a numbers guy, and they haven’t come back in over 65 million years.  So sleep in, sleep with thy neighbor’s wife, but most importantly, sleep with me.

A Liar and a Whore

I was primed upon arrival.  Ready to go 12 rounds with America’s Playground.  I had all night to accrue all the cheap thrills a hundred dollar bill could buy.  While my enthusiasm has endured, my endurance has waned. 

A mere four hours in, my winnings were paltry, my eyelids heavy.  Was it really only 4:30 a.m.?  Fuck it.  Time to call it.  First things first - a full stomach to sleep on.  Sbarro’s?  No choice.  Done.  Onto bed. 

Interception.

I smiled at the girl perched at the last slot before the elevator.

She said, “Come here.” 

I might have articulated a polished response, if it wasn’t for the matching wads of cheesecake that were visibly testing the elasticity in each of my cheeks.  Call me a glutton, but $4 is not the going rate for savoring every delectable bite.  With haste and a painful gulp, I desperately tried to make space for words in my big fat mouth.

“You mean to tell me that you want to spend a little time with me in my hotel room because I told you my name?”  Oh good.  Those were just thoughts, not words.  Whew.  Glad I squeezed that blank out of the chamber.  Time for the silver bullets.

I told her of my mishaps and small fortunes as a professional poker player.  Oh, the length of that smile at my every word!  In the very same town perhaps only a few hours prior, Carrot Top himself could be found battling back the boos.  I was killing it and she was there to hear all about the hilarity and hijinks.  No, she heard a cash register opening.  It was time for brass tacks.  Without hesitation or stutter, she posed, “You have cash on you, honey?” 

This girl wasn’t genuinely taken with my disgusting eating habits or my sheepish grin after all!  Damn you, Las Vegas.  Your bench players certainly know how to clean up late in the game.

So what?  I gave up my dignity in exchange for cheesecake.  I’m a fucking whore.  But at least I’m not a liar.  Then again, I don’t play poker professionally.  Still, I wouldn’t try to convince some John that there’s something sexually worthy about such behavior.  

Note: No sex was had for any sum of money in the living of this story.