Yo! It’s a workday. It’s an amazing thing, the workday. You already know for a fact that your day will suck from the moment you wake up. It’s not as though things happen at my job that are interesting or worthy of comment. Oh look, here’s some other dipshit ordering a coke and a ham sandwich! The dizzying highs! Just once, just once I’d like to be standing behind the bar and have someone come in and ‘discover’ me. That’s all I ask. Where is the rich Hollywood casting agent, in town to mourn the loss of her poor, recently departed father? She comes in for a stoli-o and seven (‘make it strong, please’) but then she notices something…wait, young man! Why, you’d be perfect for this role in Gremlins 3! The pizza guy, Randall. I would politely demure, say something about how she’s probably just letting the bereavement get the best of her, but she’d insist. Next thing you know, me and my baby are living in a prefabricated trailer in Culver City while I star as “Randall, the pizza guy” in the direct to dvd “Gremlins 3- All Night Drive Thru”.
That’s the thing. I’m not looking to be discovered in a Pam Anderson or Courtney Cox sort of way, where I’m plucked from the crowd and thrust dick first into superstardom. That’s not really my thing. No, I just want to be discovered enough to be able to look down the bar at whatever crap sack is sitting there drinking Jager and go “dude, fuck you. I think you’re gross, and I only listen to your dumb stories because I’m trapped back here.” That’s all I ask. Enough discovery that I can just burn the bridge of my job. Isn’t that what we all want? To be able to flip the table, spit on the boss’s shoe, tell everyone to fuck off, a la Half Baked? That would be great.
It’s funny because when I first got this job, it was a crappy job for slackers and marginally employable schlongs. Now, thanks to the economic adjustments that we’ve made in this country, I have a job that people with phd’s are applying for. So my job went from barely acceptable to highly coveted in about a year. At this rate, I’m gonna be president by the time I’m forty, but the country’s gonna be totally fucked. Ah, whatever. I’d rather be the king of a mountain of feces than a bartender in…nope. Not true. Never mind.
What’s that you say? Celebrities? Oh, I’d love to discuss them with you. Amy Winehouse looks like she smells terrible. So does Diddy. I don’t know anything about the Jonas Brothers, Miley Cyrus, Demi Lovato or that other one, uh…Selena Gomez, or Zac Efron for that matter. I’ve never seen any of these people move, I’ve only seen them in pictures. I don’t really know what they do (well, I’ve got an idea, but I couldn’t give any specifics at all.) This means I’m old. If you’re reading this and you don’t know who these people are, you’re old too. These are some of the biggest stars out there. What? I know. Life’s lame. It’s funny, you get old and they keep shoveling dumb, good looking, marginally talented douchebags in your face, like they always have, and suddenly you go, “no thanks. I’m all full up on douchebags. Just the check, please.” And that’s where your life stops. That’s why your mom can’t reference a sexy man without comparing him to Burt Reynolds and your dad still wears an REO Speedwagon shirt. It’s where they stopped caring. It’s like carbon dating, or counting the rings on a tree. Okay, enough? Who else, uh…Sean Astin, the fat hobbit. No one’s talking about him these days, right? Well, I’ll just throw this out there. I think he’s a pervert in real life. Just sayin. Pig fucking, sheep shaving, tubs of “I can’t believe it’s not Butter” all over his room. That’s right. I’m doing what I can to keep him in the media. You’re welcome, Sean. Also, that man who’s name is unfortunately Adrian on that Entourage show seems like a real turd. He says things like “tell me I’m famous” when he’s fucking. I don’t know. Jesus Christ, what a thing to picture…enjoy your day, everyone.