H.G.T.

A New Day, Or: Fear and Loathing Just Outside of Work:

A break from my woes for another surreal epsiode (besides, the show went good today and the little ninos I work with were immensely entertaining, so nothing to bitch about).

The other day, as a rather chaotic ten o’clock news wrapped up, I walked out of the production room in “a state.”

I was met at the door by a fretful Soloman Grundie. He looks at me and says, “There’s this guy outside looking for Janet. Big guy, looks a little like meat loaf.”

In no mood for over-rated camp, I smacked him solidly and said, “Fuggoff, you glue-crazed samoan. I’m in no mood over-rated camp.”

He meets my stare with his wee beedy eyes.
“No, dude, there’s really a big guy outside that looks like meat loaf, asking for Janet. He says Janet said she’d meet him here, and he’s kind of agitiated.”

I blink three times, and say, “No shit?”

To which he can only respond, “No shit.”

So I goes outside with him, hoping to burn a bit of stress off with an episode of the old “ultra-violence.”

And there. On the trunk of a car. Is a guy. Who looks like a morose, pissed off, toothless, be-mulleted blonde version of meat loaf. Imagine my chagrin.

“Hello,” I says, “What’s your name, man?” –> This is a technique for slowing the pissed-offedness of any sort of intoxicated person you don’t know.

He replies. Something along the lines of will-bob or john-boy, I forget . . .definately not Vance.

He asks me where Janet is. I say no Janet is in the building. He seems to want to look for himself, and asks me if I’m sure.
I know the crew to be Janet free, so I affirm that I am, indeed, sure. He stands, and his aging buick rebounds from it’s springs. He’s not a small man, and as he takes a step forward . . .

I suffer a momentary vision of me securing one of his arms, Sol the other, and attempting to walk him off the property . .. but, fortuneatly for sol, who isn’t real tough in my vision and is therefor getting the menudo kicked out of him, the vision ends a few seconds later as I realize he’s simply slumping in his tracks. We talk a little more, I try to guide him toward the next TV station up the road, where he may encounter his sweet dulcinea. . .and in the fullness of time, some spark of hope dies in his eyes and he says “Why do bitches always have to play mind games?” 

And gets in his car and drives away. 

This shit is too stupid to be made up.

a little bit of someone else’s song (points for anyone who knows it):

I never would have started if I’d known
that it’s end this way
But funny thing, I’m not at all sad
that it stopped this way