The Yuppie Douchebag Hits More Than Just the Oscars
Bungalow Three, The Chateau Mamont, Hollywood, CA- What’s up Household Help, Hangers-on and Hired Hands? Any of that Oscar glitz and glamour miraculously rub off on you through the coaxial cable you pirate from the hovel next door? Yeah, I thought not- your wife’s gunt still filling out that imitation Juicy sweatsuit nicely, huh? I guess I’ll give you another glimpse into the lives of the people at the top of the food chain. You see, when you’re a hitter like me, you tend to have a finger in every pie (hair or otherwise).
Disney’s recent decision to sever ties with Pixar (Jesus those guys are morons, but that’s another story) has created an opportunity for me (um, I mean us..). Those guys could use a little oomph to their balance sheet, so they’ve decide to float a $150 million secondary through us next month (More on that later- you boobs better sharpen you fuckin’ pencils for that meeting, that I can tell you. Fuck this one up and you’ll be out the door like five minutes ago’s soiled rubber.) Anyhoo, I put myself in charge of closing the deal with the powers that be over in Pixar-land.
Now these guys are like anyone else in the technology industry (and don’t even fucking pretend these are Hollywood types): they’re fuckin’ propeller-heads who haven’t been laid since the Cool- Guy Frat tricked ‘em into doin’ a donkey and blackballed ‘em anyway. Only difference is, these guys are now invited to all of these parties, they need dates and they need ‘em fast.
I call up my old buddy Charlie Sheen (he and I had the same west coast connection for years) for Heidi Fleiss’ number and the honk-head has the nerve to try to tell me he doesn’t have it. I told him “Look, I know you have it and I know where it is- it’s right next to Pablo’s number: under your living room carpet, dead center so you have to move all the furniture to get at it. Call me back in fifteen minutes or I’ll tell your wife you still have both of those numbers and where they are.”
He calls me back and a few phone calls later we’re in business. I explain the situation- I need three smokin’ chiquitas, and fast. I also tell ‘em that they can’t let on that they’re hookers: one of ‘ems my girlfriend and the other two are her sisters, capice? “No problem.” says the voice on the other end of the phone. Twenty minutes later, the six of us are in the back of a sixty foot limo headed for the after party at The Standard, my bungalow stocked for the end of the evening. I’m already pinned to the gills from a few trips to the men’s room, my girl knows it and want in. “Shhh, wait until we’re in the club, you’ll get yours..” I whisper in her ear, pretending to be cooing to my girlfriend of several years.
We walk in and I immediately pretend to lose the Pixar retards in the crowd. I bring my rent-a- baby into the men’s room stall for a beak-full and she’s game. I spank one out on her ass as she’s hoovering the last of the first bindle and we’re outta there, trying to find my future partners. No dice, they’re nowhere to be found. I talk to the bouncer , Radio Raheem I call him. He hasn’t seen ‘em. Maybe try the VIP lounge. VIP Lounge? Yeah right. I go up there anyway, no sign, but my nose has that familiar itch so we head for the restrooms again, this time the Ladies Room. There’s a giggle from one of the stalls, which is normal, but there’s a clip- on bow tie hanging over one door and I can see plastic rental shoes under the other. “Heh, you’re a good man YD.” I think to myself. “Your work here is done.”
As we head out the door, I hear one of them say “Are you sure you know where to find a donkey?” It was then, my friends, that I knew I had closed the deal. I immediately headed back to the bungalow to lie in wait for my prey, who would be walking into the suite next door with a cloven hooved animal in the next hour or so. Needless to say, the Champers was cracked early and I ordered another of Heidi’s girls to keep us company for the duration, which was just long enough for the first three way of the night.
I still had a Bushmills in my hand when I snapped the first of the pictures, and I had a Bloody in my hand as the contracts were signed by the star of The Donkey Show (which never existed, wink wink). So you see my inferior friends, no good deed goes without it’s rewards, hazing isn’t always what it seems and blackmail is what makes the world go ‘round. Now get back to work! What do you think this is?!? Fucking Romper Room?!?!
© Copyright 2003, Wrecked Highway, Inc., All rights reserved.
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Disney’s recent decision to sever ties with Pixar (Jesus those guys are morons, but that’s another story) has created an opportunity for me (um, I mean us..). Those guys could use a little oomph to their balance sheet, so they’ve decide to float a $150 million secondary through us next month (More on that later- you boobs better sharpen you fuckin’ pencils for that meeting, that I can tell you. Fuck this one up and you’ll be out the door like five minutes ago’s soiled rubber.) Anyhoo, I put myself in charge of closing the deal with the powers that be over in Pixar-land.
Now these guys are like anyone else in the technology industry (and don’t even fucking pretend these are Hollywood types): they’re fuckin’ propeller-heads who haven’t been laid since the Cool- Guy Frat tricked ‘em into doin’ a donkey and blackballed ‘em anyway. Only difference is, these guys are now invited to all of these parties, they need dates and they need ‘em fast.
I call up my old buddy Charlie Sheen (he and I had the same west coast connection for years) for Heidi Fleiss’ number and the honk-head has the nerve to try to tell me he doesn’t have it. I told him “Look, I know you have it and I know where it is- it’s right next to Pablo’s number: under your living room carpet, dead center so you have to move all the furniture to get at it. Call me back in fifteen minutes or I’ll tell your wife you still have both of those numbers and where they are.”
He calls me back and a few phone calls later we’re in business. I explain the situation- I need three smokin’ chiquitas, and fast. I also tell ‘em that they can’t let on that they’re hookers: one of ‘ems my girlfriend and the other two are her sisters, capice? “No problem.” says the voice on the other end of the phone. Twenty minutes later, the six of us are in the back of a sixty foot limo headed for the after party at The Standard, my bungalow stocked for the end of the evening. I’m already pinned to the gills from a few trips to the men’s room, my girl knows it and want in. “Shhh, wait until we’re in the club, you’ll get yours..” I whisper in her ear, pretending to be cooing to my girlfriend of several years.
We walk in and I immediately pretend to lose the Pixar retards in the crowd. I bring my rent-a- baby into the men’s room stall for a beak-full and she’s game. I spank one out on her ass as she’s hoovering the last of the first bindle and we’re outta there, trying to find my future partners. No dice, they’re nowhere to be found. I talk to the bouncer , Radio Raheem I call him. He hasn’t seen ‘em. Maybe try the VIP lounge. VIP Lounge? Yeah right. I go up there anyway, no sign, but my nose has that familiar itch so we head for the restrooms again, this time the Ladies Room. There’s a giggle from one of the stalls, which is normal, but there’s a clip- on bow tie hanging over one door and I can see plastic rental shoes under the other. “Heh, you’re a good man YD.” I think to myself. “Your work here is done.”
As we head out the door, I hear one of them say “Are you sure you know where to find a donkey?” It was then, my friends, that I knew I had closed the deal. I immediately headed back to the bungalow to lie in wait for my prey, who would be walking into the suite next door with a cloven hooved animal in the next hour or so. Needless to say, the Champers was cracked early and I ordered another of Heidi’s girls to keep us company for the duration, which was just long enough for the first three way of the night.
I still had a Bushmills in my hand when I snapped the first of the pictures, and I had a Bloody in my hand as the contracts were signed by the star of The Donkey Show (which never existed, wink wink). So you see my inferior friends, no good deed goes without it’s rewards, hazing isn’t always what it seems and blackmail is what makes the world go ‘round. Now get back to work! What do you think this is?!? Fucking Romper Room?!?!
© Copyright 2003, Wrecked Highway, Inc., All rights reserved.
Subscribe to Wrecked Highway
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posted by YD at 12:32 PM
1 Comments:
I like the idea but not the execution. I'm from the Hamptons and I'm writing a script called "The Narcissist". I hate these people too but it's all a little too one note for me. Narcissists aren't always assholes. Sometimes they're charming, sometimes defensive, sometimes vulnerable and mawkish. But I like the idea though.
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