Tag Archives: Parody

ROOM SERVICE DURING AWARD SEASON

Well, it’s here, that self-congratulatory jerk-off fest and ass kissing extravaganza!

Film, music, and television award shows! Look I’m not trying to hate, I enjoy one or two shows here and there. But Jesus Christ it’s nonstop in this town! I would love if they gave an award for ‘biggest douche bag, biggest asshole, the biggest pain in the ass to work with, biggest ass, biggest man boobs…’

I don’t know, maybe if we get a little more creative, and a little more self-deprecatory maybe the general public wouldn’t take actors and celebrities so seriously. They seem to look at them as these monumental, incredibly important, amazing people. What’s worse though are the sycophants & minions that blog and report on said celebritards. And a lot of those people stay right here in the hotel. These are the flies buzzing around the secondary shit that is Hollywood. Based on the delusion that there’s any glamour in Hollywood, entertainment reporters would be the very lowest on that wrung. How do I know? Because I worked for an entertainment magazine (STAR) long enough to see what a load of stupid fucking tripe all that information and news is. But hey, I grew up in this town so I’m probably a little jaded.

Ok on with it.

Golden Globes Night.
I get a big order $860.00 rm. 412, knock knock.
‘Room service.’ The TV is LOUD; I hear audience laughter as well as heavy room chatter. A lot is going on in there. I sense douchery; I hope I’m wrong.
‘What? what? Who is that? Why are you bothering us! Come back later.’

I knock again and scream loudly over the noise, ‘ROOM SERVICE!’
‘Yes, Yes. Okay. Hold on.’ The door opens a Perez Hilton looking guy gives me a dismissive wave in. Fat dude in purple skinny jeans and deep v-neck with a wolf’s head print. I’m annoyed, right off the bat. Why do I have to be visually offended by your bad taste in fashion and your lack of physical exercise? I hate everything.

I go in, 10 or 12 people are huddled on a couch looking up at a wall mounted plasma screen. They’re consumed.
They’re desperate for a fix. They speak as if they know the celebrities intimately and personally. Using first names, or shortening the name or making child like names of the nominees.
‘Oh my god Patty (Patricia Arquette) is hot!’
‘Well Meryl is like that…’
‘Bobby D was up for that.’
‘And Well George (Clooney I suppose) is so blah blah…’
I’m totally ignored, and someone says ‘pause it.’ The poor man’s Perez replies, ‘Don’t you fucking dare, I need to see this in real time! Ok come in. Quickly please.’ At that point I move even slower. ‘Where would you like…’ I say slowly.
‘Oh god, just over there. Where ever.’

Then a chubby girl in skintight everything. ‘No no not there! Just leave it. Right by the window.’ She gets up with a grunt. ‘Nyuuhh, oh my this looks fan fucking tastic!’ Another rude chubby wubby on the Couch yells, ‘eat my quesadilla bitches and just see what fucking happens!’
‘Oh shut up Gavin!’ I back up towards the door, now I really want to get out of here. I feel my soul being sucked out of every orifice. The depth of this crowd resembles a dried out birdbath.

I leave the room. I look in the book, of course there’s no extra tip or gratuity. ‘Oh God you cheap assholes,’ I say under my breath as I round a corner. I bump into a bellman that’s bringing someone’s luggage to the lobby. ‘Yeah man,’ he says ‘this is the cheapest fucking crowd of the year prepare yourself.’ The next room, 516. Just tea. Small order smaller auto gratuity. I knock,
Room service before I can even finish the sentence a girl whips open the door,
‘Finally.’ she says. The room’s packed with wardrobe racks, and suitcases, and boxes, and shoes and high-end designer shopping bags, jewelry strewn all over the tables. I manage my way around the obstacle course of couture footwear and accessories. I give her the check.
‘Yes yes I’m here dressing and styling VIPs I’m sorry to be short, I just need things delivered very quickly.’
‘That’s nice.’ I say.
She grins at me.
I walk out.

Short & Sweet
The Grammys. In the great words of Chuck D of Public Enemy, ‘Who gives a fuck about a goddamn Grammy.’

More senseless awards for art. I will not be commenting on Kanye West, because I really don’t care. I haven’t heard the new Beck album either. I’ve never listened to music because it won an award. Seems like an Award just solidifies your self-worth as well as a future paycheck.
Most of the guests that I dealt with on Grammy night were too self obsessed to be dismissive or mean. Anybody that was of real importance was already at the show. At the end of any shift (regardless of the event that’s taking place) I usually laugh it off. And I realize that it’s not my career path and you wouldn’t get the entertainment of this lovely little blog, so I will be reporting more about this fantastic award season after the Academy Awards! And we’ll see you at the movies!

 

Fourscore And A Little More

Fantastic Scams™

Bait And Switch®

Meteoric Rise©

Easy Money™

You’d be a fool not to fall for a this! Don’t miss the boat! The trains leaving the station! You’ll be living a lifelong vacation! Work from home! Make $8000.00 monthly posting ads for Sir E-Bay & Lady Google!

Jack off or diddle your cunt, while you watch the latest version of Alan Funt!

Excuse the candor and rancor But let’s get to the pointless meaning of what I’m screaming. The easy money is for easy wallets, with disposable Dead Presidents past and present. Otherwise, You’re the pheasant for a ‘Cheney like’ hunter, you’ll be put out to pasture in a dead field of wheatgrass, just what do I mean?

They’ll wax that ass, then put you in the Unseen Museum… Where a thousand dead souls spend recess doing the dance of a thousand recessions, coupled with a line dance featuring the legacy and the lord of this dance the one and only, Sir Ronnie Ray Gun – cutting a rug and a budget with a trickle-down break dancing routine that will have you squirming in your (once upon a time) Wrangler Jeans.

…Meanwhile, Tommy Two times at the outdoor bar repeating, “You know what I mean? You know what I mean?”

If that isn’t enough, Well I don’t mean to get gruff, but you can high tail it (or Low ride) back to Toonerville, Tommy! And take that Pitbull with ya’- He’s bad for business! Seems he ate all the gunpowder and blood sausage. And he makes whitey uptighty. He’s not fixed and his balls collide with the consciousness of dimly lit buffoons. And you there, yes you, where you from, Rangoon? Or another place?

I can’t place the face, but we don’t allow that click-click language in this here saloon so hit the bricks and tell your story walking or face La Migra, who are suffering from maximum migraines brought on by the same paranoia of the simple solipsistic suckas that sing and dance to the drum of Sir Donnie’s Republican Tantrum.

Disgruntled Client.

OCT 3, 2017

WOW! Where do I start?

I’ve been to about 26 rehabs, no need to list them here, but feel free to ask my mother. There’s a thread of etiquette and a sense of decorum that comes in the world of rehabs, sober livings, and sobriety in general.

It might serve you to make a poster or placards for all to see, maybe hang it in the common areas. That being said (with the exception of the piss soaked, shit stained bed bug ridden county dumps that I’ve experienced) this is quite possibly the worst rehab I’ve ever been in. Hands down! Kip Garman, my case worker, therapist, whatever it is he claims to be (I have yet to see any credentials.) He just sits and blows vape clouds and looks out the window while I’m telling him my most intimate of secrets! Then makes no comment whatsoever, except, “good work I’ll see you next Monday.” HUH? What the actual fuck!!! He has the emotional depth of a bird bath! Also that scam artist in accounting, Candy, she double bills my insurance!

Well, I mean my mother’s insurance, but still! Now to the residents. Just selfish fucking little assholes! They never clean they’re up after themselves, AND staff just sits there looking on and don’t say anything. WHAT THE FUCK! It’s like the staff is intimidated, or scared they might get fired if they say something to these little shits! Stop coddling these little fuck sticks. Tough love works! Make them scrub toilets! Clean up dog shit at a local dog park! Why do I have to clean up or move things around because these brain dead millennials wreck havoc throughout the place!

There is a dishwasher, fuckers! Load it, fill it with cascade, turn it on, and goodnight! Then, in the morning, empty the fucking thing! Nobody loads or unloads it except me! They all live out of the dishwasher and then load dirty dishes in with clean dishes so there’s never a complete cycle of anything being clean or dirty, fucking so sick of it! These people have zero living skills! The same goes for the washer and dryer, these little assholes just live out of the dryer like it is their drawers or closet. And then I have to pull that shit out and put it in their room because otherwise I get yelled at for putting it in the common areas!

They keep the volume on the TV at like the highest possible level! I have to listen to the Friends theme song at maximum volumes. And there’s a DVD collection of every season of “Friends” in the common area? AND Who even watches that shit? I’ll answer! They do! Because they’re on suboxone or Librium or Seroquel! They sit there drooling and droopy-eyed, most of these assholes never even had a real habit or have had to truly hustle to keep from getting dope sick!!

Also regarding the tv. My bedroom wall is right on the other side! IT’S SO LOUD! The common areas are a disaster too! Half-eaten bags of Doritos and cookies and burritos on the coffee table. Gummy bear fruit bullshit stuck to the sofa, a motherfucking half glass of almond milk sat there for so long it turned back into an almond! It is disgusting and I am about to call the board of health. The techs sit around and try to pass all the shit off to the next tech and they just walk by something that has been there for DAYS! Why oh why the fuck don’t they say anything!?!?!? The smoking area is a health and safety disaster too!!!

These halfwits leave lit cigarettes on the edge of the wooden benches or fill up the but cans with so many cigarettes it finally just burst into flames. Nobody says or does anything it’s just one big fucking free-for-all. They vape frantically like they’re going to the electric chair. ALSO, I overhear people talking about cheating on their fucking Piss test, sneaking out at night and drinking. One guy (some wanna be wigger ex-con who’s never done a day in jail) said he had his girlfriend smuggle drugs in that she had “stuffed in her pussy.” I was like, “hey dip shit this ain’t pelican bay! I mean this place is 20 grand a month! the fuck am I paying for? I could be spending that in a crack house. Anyway, I want to just talk about the most glaring cases.

#1 Phillip Eckstein (trust fund self-entitled little fuck bird who lives in his OWN room)! He’s constantly leaving soiled peanut butter spoons knives forks (apparently whatever he can use to scoop it out) then open jars of everything and crumbs on every surface of the god damn kitchen! He walks around saying nigger this and nigger that like he’s from the ghetto. A white dude! This motherfucker is a refrigerator white trust fund dude from Holmby Hills for Christ sake! He never flushes the toilet when he defecates and makes remarks like, “My parents are paying top dollar for me to be here, I think the staff could at least clean up after me.” You believe this little douchetard! I finally let him have it when he used a washcloth to wipe his ass and then he just throws it behind the toilet like nobody knows! I swear to God I’m gonna beat this kid within an inch of his fucking life if something is not done about him. And the worst Fashion sense fucking kid wears three different decades of styles. Plus I think he’s banging that other resident Tempest that hippie broad. Don’t give me started with her constantly slathering coconut oil all over her body just a creepy cookie brought with hairy armpits. She says she doesn’t use deodorant because it’s unnatural but if you smelled her that’s unnatural.

Example #2 Cassandra Levin: Why o’ why the fuck do I have to listen to every traumatic event that occurred in he life? “Oh my uncle fingered me, I was beaten by my stepfather with a frozen turkey in a pillow case, my mother dressed me up like Brook Shields in that movie Pretty Baby, and trotted me around Old Town in Pasadena. I gotta listen to this shit while I’m watching episodes of CSI in the Day room…REALLY?!?! Bitch if Brooke shields got over it you can get over it. Then the food! Just like momma used to make except she didnt shit in it! How about something a little more complex then meatloaf, pasta, baked chicken, and potatoes? Every week the same shit!

Look, I know I’m here on a scholarship and I’m grateful for that but GET IT TOGETHER HERE! I really hope you address some of these issues my sobriety is at stake here.

Suicide Pros Inc. 

I’m Steve Marsden. I’m the owner-operator of Suicide Pros™.  (Patent Pending – soon I hope to have hats, shirts, and coffee mugs.)

So a couple of years ago I was wrought with suicidal ideations. Just this insatiable obsession to commit suicide, I tried with the old hose in the exhaust pipe, got to coughing like I had tuberculosis and quickly exited the car. Main reason for this attempt, I was distraught saddened by the death of my cocka-a-poodle “Fleming.” In my grief, I did a horrific amount of drugs, drank copious amounts of alcohol, hell I even went on a sex tour to Thailand. But nothing could fill the empty hole that the passing of Fleming left. I called a couple of different suicide hotlines.

I found them very trite, mundane and just outright insincere. The anger and intolerance I was experiencing while talking to these ‘suicide professionals’ actually saved me from killing myself. I went from suicidal to homicidal in just minutes. Then it came to me. Maybe people need to be angered and pissed off in order to turn their thoughts from suicide? Maybe that whole tender loving care thing was the wrong approach. Maybe people need to be put in check. Especially first world shitters that have everything they want and need, and basically just complain and are sad because their souls are so empty and they have nothing but material belief in their cockamamie little minds.

Let’s face it, the dead western soul is the reason for the dead western mind, which is no doubt the springboard for suicidal ideations. Whoa, how’s that for some shit bird street philosophy. So but anyways I volunteered at a couple different suicide hotline locations, they fired me. Anyway it was voluntary and I needed to get paid, plus they didn’t like my style. Apparently I was to ‘confrontational.’ So I started my own suicide hotline.

So far no one has offed themselves, and I’ve got three and a half stars on Yelp, but even the bad reviews are good because the bottom line is they didn’t kill themselves. My confrontational style and sincere lack of care (based on the fact that you’re somebody I don’t even know) has created a business model that has turned the suicide hotline business upside down! One survivor (who called Suicide Pros™ many times) even gave me a room to live in her house. I’ll call her Margaret for the sake of anonymity. She’s one of these old ‘Sunset Boulevard’ type broads.

Her resentment and anger of not being the young vivacious screen gem of yesteryear brought on suicidal ideations that even a contract from Louis B. Mayer couldn’t lift. I put her in her place, and I told her who she was, where she was, and it was time to give up all that bullshit maybe take an improv class, or do standup comedy, or tell the stories of yesteryear on The Moth or some other bullshit public forum. Live for now and stop all this whiny old starlet horseshit. It worked. She has an improv troupe (The happy old shit heels) that tours the country and they’re all 60 or 70 somethings.

People love them because they’re real and they act their fucking age, they get lots of laughs at all the childish games that they constantly come up with. I get a lot of schmucky little millennials calling me as well. Sad or angered over mommy and daddy’s divorce, being bullied at school, or not even being able to reach the next level in some shitty video game. Hey whatever the case, they need to get put in check as well. Sometimes I threatened to do a three-way call with their parents (like I even have the parent’s number). So for $49.95 (PayPal only 5 day guarantee) Suicide Pros™ is your best bet for value, to save your life, and to start anew, or leave the planet with a clear conscious.
Real enrichment. Check for our (Tell me why I don’t like Mondays) special.

Bethany’s Break Room Rant

All writing kept intact and original to preserve the downright ignorance of the piece.

Bill and my sister Irene were French kissing and touching all up on each other in the God Damn company break room, it was disgusting. I mean between the sights, and the sounds (a lot of heavy breathing, both are fat and got deviated septums) and the smell the break room has anyway (it’s like the rotting vapors of 40 different frozen entrees in there.) I mean they’re both obeast and ugly as sin, so that’s like a double violation too, like a bad day at Hometown Buffett for all your 6th senses. I’m trying to just sit down and eat my Panda Express and maybe smoke a Pall Mall and these two are sitting there rubbing each other’s crotches and chests and licking out each other’s mouth holes, like a child licks Duncan Hines’s chocolate frosting out of a God Damn mixing bowl!

I was like ‘HEY! Excuse me!” They slowly stop and then Irene was like, “Bethany they ain’t no excuse for you, you sorry assed schoolmarm!” And she went back to liking on Bill’s neck and chin area like it’s a God Damn whore house or a speakeasy. She was always the strumpet of the bloodline, she got her titties done and like Daddy says she got no business putting a second story on an unsteady foundation, so anyways this cow ain’t got no shame, she was the town whore since she first started bleedin’ and the bitch still using abortion as a form of birth control, and says stupid shit like “ya’ll shouldn’t hate,” whenever the family tryin’ question her on it.

So but anyways, I was like, “Irene I’ll take your sorry fat rear end to human resources and this time they’ll fire your elephantine ass on account of being caught a public display of affection when Steve was fingering out that sorry, syphilitic, sloppy, slit in the stairwell!” They both stopped and stared at me, Bill’s jaw-dropping. Now my sister Is older and way bigger and fatter than me, bitch weighs 290 but I’ll kick that whore’s ass 5 ways til Tuesday and back again. And plus I’ll do it right here in this God Damn break room.

Because just two weeks ago that skank tried to throw hot Nescafé on me and I picked up a Walmart plastic folding break room chair and hit that cow right on her flabby back. Then they both got up. I said “that’s right slut lemme’ see that walk of shame, and Bill you a hot mess too, a real piece of hideous horny hillbilly trash! You sound like a God Damn Choctaw hog with that breathing issue, You married with 3 kids, and you’re in here doing this with this swine? I’m a call your wife Beth-Anne and tell her about your scuzzy ass if I ever see you doing this shit again.

I mean Beth-Anne is butt ugly but Irene here ain’t no Connie Sellecca either and this skanky trollop got crabs too, don’t ya’ Irene? And who knows what else. Cuz the bitch has banged everyone in here from the custodians to the CEO! Then she’s all, “Bethany I’m warning you, SHUT UP! Or…” I was like, “…or what? You gonna send a swarm crabs after me?” she turned and walked toward the snack cabinet, she had a mini skirt on and her backside looked like two ice cream cones supporting a russet potato. She opened up the cabinet while saying, “poor Bethany, still can’t get a man, pussy been on lockdown since uncle Willy violated it at the family reunion in ’98.

Get over it already girl we all got our crosses to bare and yours ain’t no big deal.” Now you would think this little TMI moment would truly send me into a tizzy. But it don’t, she’s the only one got her little puddy diddled by Silly Willy, and that bitch thinks that he did that shit to me too. So but then I’m like, “Bitch Silly Willy was only up in your claptrap with them ham-hock hands, he ain’t done shit on my real estate. Now you want me to really start outing your bizness? Like, let’s have a mother fucking intervention on them winter skid marks on those god damn Victoria’s or I should say Irene’s Secret shit and blood stained drawers?”

Bill looked like he was holding a dry heave and then to really push it I say “oh you ain’t heard Bill? It looks like a cherry chocolate festival in there.” Bill gagged and walked to the sink and Just then Irene quickly turned came at me with a 2 Liter bottle of Dr. Pepper. She was like “NyAAAHHHHH.” And I sidestepped her and Dr. Pepper like exploded on that bitch and Bill went running over there screaming, “I’LL HELP! I’LL HELP!” and then Irene just stood there screamin’ sound like that bitch caught the Holy ghost! I just sat down and started eating my food and I lit a cigarette and ate and smoked cuz all this bullshit ate into my lunch time so I had to do both. I leisurely got up and walked by with my middle finger in her grill ‘cuz she a bitch and a whore. But deep down I love her, she my kin.