Susan Ellen was working with Daisy Ellen on creating their infomercial for Susan Ellen’s saran-wrap weight loss product.
Let me just say this:
Daisy Ellen is a bona fide bitch. She has a lot of reasons to be:
1.) Her only acting gig is hosting an infomercial.
2.) She’s insecure and unsuccessful.
3.) She lives in Hollywood.
4.) She’s had so much botox she can’t feel her boyfriend’s touch anymore.
I don’t think Daisy Ellen has any control over her life. With not getting a role in a film or movie since 1982, it makes sense. I think her only friend is Susan Ellen because she’s probably the only one dumber than her. Susan Ellen is so dumb that Daisy Ellen cherishes it because there’s finally one person that she is smarter than.
Daisy Ellen wrote up a proposal for the infomercial and asked Susan Ellen to proofread it. Of course she did! Daisy Ellen is so insecure she asks an illiterate woman to proofread something for her!
Since Susan Ellen was busy putting her puppy’s snout into her mouth, she asked me to proofread it.
Now, I’m not going to say that I’m a good proofreader, but I know how to identity run-ons. Like a sentence like this one.
I also know the difference between “your” and “you’re.” Additionally, I think I’m positive that most sentences begin with a capital letter.
I tried to remember Daisy Ellen’s wikipedia page to see if she dropped out of kindergarten to pursue her entertainment career. These mistakes were horrible. They wanted to show this proposal to a semi-literate (I hope) Guthy Renker executive? It was so pathetic it was like watching a gymnast with no legs trying to walk on the balance beam. I had to do something.
I suppose my corrections made it look like I ripped the proposal apart. I swear I didn’t. I was making a bunch of random letters into something that makes sense, I swear! Susan Ellen sent the proposal back to Daisy Ellen and moments later Daisy Ellen calls.
I could feel her rage in the ring of the telephone, despite Susan Ellen’s ringtone being “You Lift Me Up” by Josh Groban.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Chapter 27: The Book
Susan Ellen is writing a book.
I don’t think she knows how to read.
But, goshdarnit, that’s not going to keep her from writing the great American novel.
Or, the great American self-help-weight-loss-lifestyle book.
I told Susan Ellen I was trying to be a comedy writer and I suppose she thought that meant I wanted to be a ghostwriter for books on how to lose weight and make detox drinks out of olive oil, rubber cement, and paper clips.
She asked if I was interested in ghostwriting her book while I was working out of her house. I gladly accepted. I would rather do that than do her online shopping for jewel-studded enemas. Also, having the experience of ghostwriting a self-help book would be a hilarious anecdote to include in my E! True Hollywood Story.
She told me her book was a “how-to-book.”
I asked her, “How to do what?”
“Make a change,” she answered.
“What kinds of changes?”
“Changes in your life: how to be happy, how to lose weight, how to get rid of calluses on your feet, how to become more spiritual. Stuff like that.”
She told me she wrote everything; she just needs to organize her information.
Okay, I can do that. I know nothing about losing weight, foot calluses, or happiness, but I know about organization. I think.
She gave me a CD filled with documents that were her notes. I scrolled through them and realized she copy-pasted information from websites such as the Hydroxycut website.
She gave me a folder filled with her “notes.” They were pages ripped out of Prevention magazine and wrappers from her diet bars and fortunes from fortune cookies that somehow resembled Buddhist quotes.
It was like she gave me a pile of Lincoln logs, twigs, and a fake plant and asked me to organize those things into a book.
I don’t think she knows how to read.
But, goshdarnit, that’s not going to keep her from writing the great American novel.
Or, the great American self-help-weight-loss-lifestyle book.
I told Susan Ellen I was trying to be a comedy writer and I suppose she thought that meant I wanted to be a ghostwriter for books on how to lose weight and make detox drinks out of olive oil, rubber cement, and paper clips.
She asked if I was interested in ghostwriting her book while I was working out of her house. I gladly accepted. I would rather do that than do her online shopping for jewel-studded enemas. Also, having the experience of ghostwriting a self-help book would be a hilarious anecdote to include in my E! True Hollywood Story.
She told me her book was a “how-to-book.”
I asked her, “How to do what?”
“Make a change,” she answered.
“What kinds of changes?”
“Changes in your life: how to be happy, how to lose weight, how to get rid of calluses on your feet, how to become more spiritual. Stuff like that.”
She told me she wrote everything; she just needs to organize her information.
Okay, I can do that. I know nothing about losing weight, foot calluses, or happiness, but I know about organization. I think.
She gave me a CD filled with documents that were her notes. I scrolled through them and realized she copy-pasted information from websites such as the Hydroxycut website.
She gave me a folder filled with her “notes.” They were pages ripped out of Prevention magazine and wrappers from her diet bars and fortunes from fortune cookies that somehow resembled Buddhist quotes.
It was like she gave me a pile of Lincoln logs, twigs, and a fake plant and asked me to organize those things into a book.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Chapter 26: Lesbian-onics
Susan Ellen was telling me about her treatments. She explained how she puts cellophane on her clients and then massages their feet and arms.
She later went on to say that her last assistant was a lesbian and she fired her for being one. She said she couldn’t trust lesbians around her female clients because she said they would get “turned on”.
The minimum amount of gay a person has to be is by liking the song “Galileo” and I believe those straight people would be offended by Susan Ellen’s comment.
As I type this it sickens me that I kept working for her.
Needless to say, that weekend, I called Ted. Ted had to understand.
I told him Susan Ellen asked about my sexuality, which she did, and told him about her former assistant. He explained to me that Susan Ellen is a bit older than me and while she is really open-minded, she sometimes says things that aren’t as sensitive, but she means well. He also informed me her former assistant was fired because she couldn’t type.
Susan Ellen never has anything to type. Ted begged me to stay with Susan Ellen and now I believe he did so the temp agency could get her off their hands. Having no dignity, I said I’d continue.
A few weeks later, Susan Ellen was going on again about her famous clients. One of them included a famous comedian known for being a lesbian. She mentioned that she’s totally cool with gay men (“Oh my God! I love gay guys. Some of my best friends are gay men.”) However, she mentioned that she will perform her treatments on lesbians with the saran wrap, but she won’t massage them because she’s afraid she will turn them on.
I hate it when that happens. Since I am a girl, as well, that must mean every lesbian is attracted to me.
I am a huge proponent of gay rights since I attended one of the gayest schools in the history of academia. My jaw dropped when I heard this and by the time I was ready to call her a homophobe and stomp out, she had already changed the subject to how much of a bitch a celeb’s wife was and I couldn’t help but listen to her hot gossip.
As I was driving home recollecting about the day, I thought about Susan Ellen’s blatant homophobia. You cannot deny someone a massage for being homosexual. Sitting in traffic I wagered back and forth whether or not to contact a civil rights group such as GLAAD or PFLAG. Beverly Hills – based lesbians deserve massages as much as any plastic housewife who cheats on her movie-producer husband.
Still wagering whether or not to launch one of the most important civil rights campaign West Los Angeles County has ever seen, I was sitting in front of the TV watching some show on VH1 about how rich celebrities are. A segment popped up on the show about this comedian. Apparently she owns about three houses, a private jet, has her own island, a million Emmy Awards, and is probably one of the few lesbians actually adored by Republicans. And I was about to take her cause of being denied a massage by a semi-literate masseuse who legally can’t go by masseuse because she technically doesn’t have her massage license (hence, she is a pain releaser)! What was I thinking? This comedian can have anything she wants and if she were to involve herself in a scandal regarding Susan Ellen it would be the equivalent to treating a birthmark on your face as lymphatic cancer. This comedian is so rich, she can afford a time machine to travel back in time to the inventor of massage therapy and get a session with that person. Why give a fuck about Susan Ellen?
Some people are just so dumb that there is really no use in launching a campaign against them. They already lost the battle by just breathing and talking their nonsense while the smart ones laugh and write silly little blogs on the internet about them.
She later went on to say that her last assistant was a lesbian and she fired her for being one. She said she couldn’t trust lesbians around her female clients because she said they would get “turned on”.
The minimum amount of gay a person has to be is by liking the song “Galileo” and I believe those straight people would be offended by Susan Ellen’s comment.
As I type this it sickens me that I kept working for her.
Needless to say, that weekend, I called Ted. Ted had to understand.
I told him Susan Ellen asked about my sexuality, which she did, and told him about her former assistant. He explained to me that Susan Ellen is a bit older than me and while she is really open-minded, she sometimes says things that aren’t as sensitive, but she means well. He also informed me her former assistant was fired because she couldn’t type.
Susan Ellen never has anything to type. Ted begged me to stay with Susan Ellen and now I believe he did so the temp agency could get her off their hands. Having no dignity, I said I’d continue.
A few weeks later, Susan Ellen was going on again about her famous clients. One of them included a famous comedian known for being a lesbian. She mentioned that she’s totally cool with gay men (“Oh my God! I love gay guys. Some of my best friends are gay men.”) However, she mentioned that she will perform her treatments on lesbians with the saran wrap, but she won’t massage them because she’s afraid she will turn them on.
I hate it when that happens. Since I am a girl, as well, that must mean every lesbian is attracted to me.
I am a huge proponent of gay rights since I attended one of the gayest schools in the history of academia. My jaw dropped when I heard this and by the time I was ready to call her a homophobe and stomp out, she had already changed the subject to how much of a bitch a celeb’s wife was and I couldn’t help but listen to her hot gossip.
As I was driving home recollecting about the day, I thought about Susan Ellen’s blatant homophobia. You cannot deny someone a massage for being homosexual. Sitting in traffic I wagered back and forth whether or not to contact a civil rights group such as GLAAD or PFLAG. Beverly Hills – based lesbians deserve massages as much as any plastic housewife who cheats on her movie-producer husband.
Still wagering whether or not to launch one of the most important civil rights campaign West Los Angeles County has ever seen, I was sitting in front of the TV watching some show on VH1 about how rich celebrities are. A segment popped up on the show about this comedian. Apparently she owns about three houses, a private jet, has her own island, a million Emmy Awards, and is probably one of the few lesbians actually adored by Republicans. And I was about to take her cause of being denied a massage by a semi-literate masseuse who legally can’t go by masseuse because she technically doesn’t have her massage license (hence, she is a pain releaser)! What was I thinking? This comedian can have anything she wants and if she were to involve herself in a scandal regarding Susan Ellen it would be the equivalent to treating a birthmark on your face as lymphatic cancer. This comedian is so rich, she can afford a time machine to travel back in time to the inventor of massage therapy and get a session with that person. Why give a fuck about Susan Ellen?
Some people are just so dumb that there is really no use in launching a campaign against them. They already lost the battle by just breathing and talking their nonsense while the smart ones laugh and write silly little blogs on the internet about them.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Chapter 25: You know, Like, Trendy
The next Monday Susan Ellen had to get a chicken pox vaccination so I didn’t need to come in.
However I did get a call from Ted.
“Hi Becky. Susan Ellen called and wants to know if you can dress better when you come in tomorrow.”
I was stunned. Dress better? I had chosen the best of the best of the closet and it wasn’t good enough? Not only was this request insulting to my sense of style, it was class-ist and somehow anti-semitic. I’m not sure how yet. It just is.
“Yeah, Becky, if you could dress more professional that would be great because Susan Ellen is expecting some high profile clients.”
The next day I put on a dress and a cardigan.
The two and a half hour drive to Susan Ellen’s house was so uncomfortable with the panty hose I was wearing.
I arrived to her place and she said, “Oh my God! You look so cute! But, you know, you can wear jeans.”
“But Ted called me-“
“Oh, right. Yeah, by better, I mean, like you know, trendy.”
She looked away and changed the conversation.
---
Towards the end of the Susan Ellen tenure, we went to lunch and she confessed something to me.
“Do you remember when Ted called you about dressing better?”
“Yeah,” I said, still confused about the request.
“Well, I had asked you to dress better because that shirt you wore on the first day you worked for me was huge on you and every time you bent over, I could see down your shirt.”
The day I wore that outfit, Susan Ellen had me sitting on her couch leaning over her hip, low coffee table to type. If Mother Superior were typing like that you would be able to see her cleavage.
“So, anyway, I called Ted because I didn’t know what to do. You were such a sweet girl but I didn’t want to insult you. But, I didn’t want my husband walking in and seeing you dressed like that.”
Did she just turn me into a homewrecker? Or was she convinced that the presence of my cleavage would cause her husband to actually leave the basement for once and we would run off together where he would hunt squirrel and I would bake it for dinner?
Most importantly, she made me seem like a slutty dresser in front of the temp agency. Me! No wonder I was getting no other jobs. The temp agency didn’t want Jersey trash representing them at some topnotch production company. I would never have imagined I would be the inappropriate dresser. I used to wear the same sweaters the teachers wore when I was in high school! (Excuse me for looking really good in knit-sweaters with bunnies wearing Santa Clause hats!)
However I did get a call from Ted.
“Hi Becky. Susan Ellen called and wants to know if you can dress better when you come in tomorrow.”
I was stunned. Dress better? I had chosen the best of the best of the closet and it wasn’t good enough? Not only was this request insulting to my sense of style, it was class-ist and somehow anti-semitic. I’m not sure how yet. It just is.
“Yeah, Becky, if you could dress more professional that would be great because Susan Ellen is expecting some high profile clients.”
The next day I put on a dress and a cardigan.
The two and a half hour drive to Susan Ellen’s house was so uncomfortable with the panty hose I was wearing.
I arrived to her place and she said, “Oh my God! You look so cute! But, you know, you can wear jeans.”
“But Ted called me-“
“Oh, right. Yeah, by better, I mean, like you know, trendy.”
She looked away and changed the conversation.
---
Towards the end of the Susan Ellen tenure, we went to lunch and she confessed something to me.
“Do you remember when Ted called you about dressing better?”
“Yeah,” I said, still confused about the request.
“Well, I had asked you to dress better because that shirt you wore on the first day you worked for me was huge on you and every time you bent over, I could see down your shirt.”
The day I wore that outfit, Susan Ellen had me sitting on her couch leaning over her hip, low coffee table to type. If Mother Superior were typing like that you would be able to see her cleavage.
“So, anyway, I called Ted because I didn’t know what to do. You were such a sweet girl but I didn’t want to insult you. But, I didn’t want my husband walking in and seeing you dressed like that.”
Did she just turn me into a homewrecker? Or was she convinced that the presence of my cleavage would cause her husband to actually leave the basement for once and we would run off together where he would hunt squirrel and I would bake it for dinner?
Most importantly, she made me seem like a slutty dresser in front of the temp agency. Me! No wonder I was getting no other jobs. The temp agency didn’t want Jersey trash representing them at some topnotch production company. I would never have imagined I would be the inappropriate dresser. I used to wear the same sweaters the teachers wore when I was in high school! (Excuse me for looking really good in knit-sweaters with bunnies wearing Santa Clause hats!)
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Chapter 24
At the time, Susan Ellen's current client was an Emmy-winning TV star, known amongst Hollywood insiders to be a total douchebag. (I know that doesn't really narrow down the field, but this is the most I can give.)
She was performing her cellophane treatments on him. She met with him for two hours every night, including weekends. It seemed as if she was also his personal assistant, picking up his dry-cleaning, and, according to her, offering advice on which roles to take.
It's still the first day, mind you, and I'm still organizing all of her bookmarks into categories.
Around 5, Susan Ellen looked at her phone and said, "You need to leave right now."
"Okay."
"Go! Go!"
It was as if she put the clues together in her mind that I was some sort of assassin, forcing me to leave before I would murder her. If only I was…
She threw my purse and my shoes at me.
"I have to go to [D.B. Actor]'s house now. I totally forgot. I need to be there now. How long do you think it would take me to get to the Hollywood Hills?"
Are you kidding me? I'm the new one to LA here and I know at 5 pm to drive from the Palisades to the Hills in rush hour traffic would take an hour and a half.
She looked at me with pleading eyes, wanting me to say something to alleviate her stress.
"Probably about fifteen minutes."
"Okay. Good. You need to leave now. Get out of here."
I speedily walked through her garage, trying to get out of her way as quickly as possible, trying to end this horrible work day as quickly as possible.
Before I walked out her garage, she approached me with her arms open.
"Okay, sweetie, it was nice meeting you."
Holy cow, she wanted to hug me.
She grabbed my body and I patted her on the back.
"Thank you so much, sweetie. You're so beautiful. I love you. I'll see you next week. Bye!"
I darted out of her driveway and walked to my car.
She drove by, honked, and waved to me.
I waved back.
I got into my car and just stared into the yellow fog known as Los Angeles' atmosphere.
As I type this, I still cannot decide what is more shocking to me:
a.) The fact that all of these experiences with Susan Ellen happened to me one day...
Or
b.) Susan Ellen was actually allowed behind the wheel.
She was performing her cellophane treatments on him. She met with him for two hours every night, including weekends. It seemed as if she was also his personal assistant, picking up his dry-cleaning, and, according to her, offering advice on which roles to take.
It's still the first day, mind you, and I'm still organizing all of her bookmarks into categories.
Around 5, Susan Ellen looked at her phone and said, "You need to leave right now."
"Okay."
"Go! Go!"
It was as if she put the clues together in her mind that I was some sort of assassin, forcing me to leave before I would murder her. If only I was…
She threw my purse and my shoes at me.
"I have to go to [D.B. Actor]'s house now. I totally forgot. I need to be there now. How long do you think it would take me to get to the Hollywood Hills?"
Are you kidding me? I'm the new one to LA here and I know at 5 pm to drive from the Palisades to the Hills in rush hour traffic would take an hour and a half.
She looked at me with pleading eyes, wanting me to say something to alleviate her stress.
"Probably about fifteen minutes."
"Okay. Good. You need to leave now. Get out of here."
I speedily walked through her garage, trying to get out of her way as quickly as possible, trying to end this horrible work day as quickly as possible.
Before I walked out her garage, she approached me with her arms open.
"Okay, sweetie, it was nice meeting you."
Holy cow, she wanted to hug me.
She grabbed my body and I patted her on the back.
"Thank you so much, sweetie. You're so beautiful. I love you. I'll see you next week. Bye!"
I darted out of her driveway and walked to my car.
She drove by, honked, and waved to me.
I waved back.
I got into my car and just stared into the yellow fog known as Los Angeles' atmosphere.
As I type this, I still cannot decide what is more shocking to me:
a.) The fact that all of these experiences with Susan Ellen happened to me one day...
Or
b.) Susan Ellen was actually allowed behind the wheel.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Chapter 23: Lunch Time
It was about three hours in to my first day when I realized I hadn't eaten breakfast. I was too much in a rush that morning to even think about lunch.
It was almost as if Susan Ellen read my mind.
"Did you bring lunch with you?"
"No, I didn't. I was wondering if it was all right if I took my half hour to drive somewhere and get-"
"No. I'll make you lunch here." She wanted me to stay like that blind character in Frankenstein.
"Oh, ok."
It was nice. I guess.
She sighed, "But I don't have any food in the house."
She looked into her refrigerator like it was the first time ever opening it. I really don't feel like I'm exaggerating when I tell you that she pushed the refrigerator door before she realized that she needed to pull it open.
"I have sweet potatoes. Do you like sweet potatoes?"
"Uh… okay."
She took out two potatoes and plopped them into her oven. She started fiddling with the knobs on her stove.
"I don't even know how to use this. I never cook."
While she went to go smother her musty puppies, I quickly turned the gas off and turned the oven on before the inferno happened.
We both took a seat at the kitchen table waiting for our potatoes to not catch on fire. Susan Ellen broke my gaze by telling me:
"So, the people at the temp agency said you were interested in losing weight."
"What?"
I remembered the conversation I had with Ted.
Note to self: Never make small talk with stupid people, even if they do compliment you.
"You totally don't need to," she said, "I mean, you could tone up here and there, but you're not as bad off as some other people I know, like my housecleaner."
And just that moment, Susan Ellen's housecleaner entered to head to the garage to put even more sheets into the washer. How many freakin' sheets does this woman have?
Susan Ellen stopped her. "Como…," Susan Ellen began, "Como—oh, how do you say it? Como estis?"
"Fine," the housecleaner answered, in her native Brooklyn accent.
My face was buried in my hand. Susan Ellen whispered to me, "She's really heavy. It affects her health."
I nodded, hoping to God that I wouldn’t shit myself if the housecleaner heard her.
"Anyway, you're fine," she said. "Except for some of the blemishes on her chin. There's products for that, you know."
I touched my chin and didn't realize that my mouth was wide open in amazement that she would point out a complete stranger's zits.
I think she took it as me being defensive.
"I mean, you're pretty," she told me. "No, I really think you're pretty. You are! You have this great hair… but you really need to use conditioner."
It was almost as if Susan Ellen read my mind.
"Did you bring lunch with you?"
"No, I didn't. I was wondering if it was all right if I took my half hour to drive somewhere and get-"
"No. I'll make you lunch here." She wanted me to stay like that blind character in Frankenstein.
"Oh, ok."
It was nice. I guess.
She sighed, "But I don't have any food in the house."
She looked into her refrigerator like it was the first time ever opening it. I really don't feel like I'm exaggerating when I tell you that she pushed the refrigerator door before she realized that she needed to pull it open.
"I have sweet potatoes. Do you like sweet potatoes?"
"Uh… okay."
She took out two potatoes and plopped them into her oven. She started fiddling with the knobs on her stove.
"I don't even know how to use this. I never cook."
While she went to go smother her musty puppies, I quickly turned the gas off and turned the oven on before the inferno happened.
We both took a seat at the kitchen table waiting for our potatoes to not catch on fire. Susan Ellen broke my gaze by telling me:
"So, the people at the temp agency said you were interested in losing weight."
"What?"
I remembered the conversation I had with Ted.
Note to self: Never make small talk with stupid people, even if they do compliment you.
"You totally don't need to," she said, "I mean, you could tone up here and there, but you're not as bad off as some other people I know, like my housecleaner."
And just that moment, Susan Ellen's housecleaner entered to head to the garage to put even more sheets into the washer. How many freakin' sheets does this woman have?
Susan Ellen stopped her. "Como…," Susan Ellen began, "Como—oh, how do you say it? Como estis?"
"Fine," the housecleaner answered, in her native Brooklyn accent.
My face was buried in my hand. Susan Ellen whispered to me, "She's really heavy. It affects her health."
I nodded, hoping to God that I wouldn’t shit myself if the housecleaner heard her.
"Anyway, you're fine," she said. "Except for some of the blemishes on her chin. There's products for that, you know."
I touched my chin and didn't realize that my mouth was wide open in amazement that she would point out a complete stranger's zits.
I think she took it as me being defensive.
"I mean, you're pretty," she told me. "No, I really think you're pretty. You are! You have this great hair… but you really need to use conditioner."
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Chapter 22
Susan Ellen was bragging about her clients again. She asked about my family and I told her that my brother actually lives in Los Angeles, too.
My brother works for the production company owned by a noteworthy person. She asked so many questions that his boss's name just slipped out.
"Can you call your brother and ask for [his boss's] number? I used to perform my treatments on him and I want to get in touch with him again."
"I don't know…" I answered.
"Just call."
"I'm not sure the temp agency allows this. And I feel really uncomfortable. And my brother has nothing to do with [his boss's] health-life."
"Oh," she answered, "I guess your brother isn't as friendly with [his boss] as I am. We go back ten years."
What the fuck?
Sure, Susan Ellen was a manipulator, I could see that. What made me furious is that she was a bad manipulator.
Plus, I could smell her asserting her pseudo-A-List power by saying she and my brother's boss go way back.
I cracked a smile to begin laughing in her face and respond with, "If you claim to be close to my brother’s boss, then why do you need me to call him?"
This was going to be the easiest cat-and-mouse game I would ever play. It would be like competing against a retard in the Special Olympics.
Then, I realized.
I'm competing against a retard in the Special Olympics.
I can't retort with a comment to show she's being obviously hypocritical. She probably doesn't know.
"That's nice," I said.
She went on to say all the nice things she has done with my brother's boss, obviously putting me in the my place on the Hollywood ladder of success.
I just smiled and nodded, smiled and nodded. I'm going to be someone's bitch for a very long time.
My brother works for the production company owned by a noteworthy person. She asked so many questions that his boss's name just slipped out.
"Can you call your brother and ask for [his boss's] number? I used to perform my treatments on him and I want to get in touch with him again."
"I don't know…" I answered.
"Just call."
"I'm not sure the temp agency allows this. And I feel really uncomfortable. And my brother has nothing to do with [his boss's] health-life."
"Oh," she answered, "I guess your brother isn't as friendly with [his boss] as I am. We go back ten years."
What the fuck?
Sure, Susan Ellen was a manipulator, I could see that. What made me furious is that she was a bad manipulator.
Plus, I could smell her asserting her pseudo-A-List power by saying she and my brother's boss go way back.
I cracked a smile to begin laughing in her face and respond with, "If you claim to be close to my brother’s boss, then why do you need me to call him?"
This was going to be the easiest cat-and-mouse game I would ever play. It would be like competing against a retard in the Special Olympics.
Then, I realized.
I'm competing against a retard in the Special Olympics.
I can't retort with a comment to show she's being obviously hypocritical. She probably doesn't know.
"That's nice," I said.
She went on to say all the nice things she has done with my brother's boss, obviously putting me in the my place on the Hollywood ladder of success.
I just smiled and nodded, smiled and nodded. I'm going to be someone's bitch for a very long time.
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