Post by Deleted on Jun 29, 2016 1:49:06 GMT
“Cut!
That’s what that fat bloated moron shouted; SHOUTED at me. I delivered my line with grace, elegance and quite frankly the star quality that was desperately missing on that set from everyone else involved, only for him to yell cut.
I looked at him while he jiggled hypnotically out of his seat, waddling over to me. His gut moved in one direction and his legs moved in another. Pig.
Don’t say it like that, say it like this, he said. It shouldn’t be hard to deliver a short sentence.
Well! That was it! I saw red and I barked back.
Excuse me? I asked, stunned by his sheer lack of taste. I delivered that line with passion and power. If I say it the way you want me to say it, I’d be doing it… oh, how can I put this? Oh yeah, that’s it: I’d be doing it like a fat director and not a classically trained professional.
A moment of silence passed while he digested a few things: my comment, his lunch and the four snacks that followed it. His beady little eyes narrowed and he scoffed, which is a noise I hate more than anything. Animals scoff.
What did you just say to me? He asked, with an undercurrent of anger that he did his best to conceal; fury that he hoped would be as invisible to me as his own penis was to him without the use of a mirror.
You heard me, I snapped back. I delivered that line beautifully. I’m not changing it for anything or anyone.
Oh? He quizzed back. Well then it’s cut. When he told me that, I wanted to scream.
And so I did.
Do you know who I am? When I asked him that, he laughed at me, as if I was trying to humour him. I didn’t see the funny side and I wasn’t trying to humour anyone.
HA-HA-HA-HA I roared back, aggressively. That shut his cake hole. I’m a bigger star than anyone in this place and you’ve already insulted me by resigning me to a bit part player, I explained. Now you want to make me a MUTE bit part player?! That’s not how it works, big boy. Oh no, not when you’re working with a man like Isaac Tarver!
Then came the one word that changed my life forever… or for the next five minutes, whatever.
Who?
Who, he asked. Who is Isaac Tarver? I stood in front of him, having just given the one-line performance of a fucking lifetime, only for him to ask who. Boy, did I have an answer.
I’m the guy you’ve just committed professional suicide by insulting! I’m the guy whose face you’ll never forget when you see it smiling back at you in high definition on a cinema screen. I’m the guy – and then he cut me off.
You’re the guy who talks a lot of shit and got himself escorted out of my building, he snarled.
And then I felt the arms reach out from behind and grab me like demons pulling that rapey dude into the abyss in Ghost with Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore. In fact, it was just as dramatic as that scene but even more so because it involved me and not the ugly brother of Lionel Ritche.
I was kicked out of Fresh Studios and warned that I’d never be welcomed back. Boy, thinking back on that warning does nothing but get my nipples hard. Why? Well I’m back and this time I’m center stage as the face of a television show. I’ll be delivering lines every week and breaking ratings records with my performances.
Best of all is I know that the fat director will be sitting at home watching me, crying into his box of Twinkies that Isaac Tarver got the last laugh. Then he won’t be asking who. And if he does happen to forget my name, he’ll be swiftly reminded by the line he tried to cut, as I deliver it with the excellence that only a man like me can…
Don’t touch his balls, Eleanor. He hasn’t washed them in days.
Don’t hold your applause. Give me all you’ve got, Engage.
That’s what that fat bloated moron shouted; SHOUTED at me. I delivered my line with grace, elegance and quite frankly the star quality that was desperately missing on that set from everyone else involved, only for him to yell cut.
I looked at him while he jiggled hypnotically out of his seat, waddling over to me. His gut moved in one direction and his legs moved in another. Pig.
Don’t say it like that, say it like this, he said. It shouldn’t be hard to deliver a short sentence.
Well! That was it! I saw red and I barked back.
Excuse me? I asked, stunned by his sheer lack of taste. I delivered that line with passion and power. If I say it the way you want me to say it, I’d be doing it… oh, how can I put this? Oh yeah, that’s it: I’d be doing it like a fat director and not a classically trained professional.
A moment of silence passed while he digested a few things: my comment, his lunch and the four snacks that followed it. His beady little eyes narrowed and he scoffed, which is a noise I hate more than anything. Animals scoff.
What did you just say to me? He asked, with an undercurrent of anger that he did his best to conceal; fury that he hoped would be as invisible to me as his own penis was to him without the use of a mirror.
You heard me, I snapped back. I delivered that line beautifully. I’m not changing it for anything or anyone.
Oh? He quizzed back. Well then it’s cut. When he told me that, I wanted to scream.
And so I did.
Do you know who I am? When I asked him that, he laughed at me, as if I was trying to humour him. I didn’t see the funny side and I wasn’t trying to humour anyone.
HA-HA-HA-HA I roared back, aggressively. That shut his cake hole. I’m a bigger star than anyone in this place and you’ve already insulted me by resigning me to a bit part player, I explained. Now you want to make me a MUTE bit part player?! That’s not how it works, big boy. Oh no, not when you’re working with a man like Isaac Tarver!
Then came the one word that changed my life forever… or for the next five minutes, whatever.
Who?
Who, he asked. Who is Isaac Tarver? I stood in front of him, having just given the one-line performance of a fucking lifetime, only for him to ask who. Boy, did I have an answer.
I’m the guy you’ve just committed professional suicide by insulting! I’m the guy whose face you’ll never forget when you see it smiling back at you in high definition on a cinema screen. I’m the guy – and then he cut me off.
You’re the guy who talks a lot of shit and got himself escorted out of my building, he snarled.
And then I felt the arms reach out from behind and grab me like demons pulling that rapey dude into the abyss in Ghost with Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore. In fact, it was just as dramatic as that scene but even more so because it involved me and not the ugly brother of Lionel Ritche.
I was kicked out of Fresh Studios and warned that I’d never be welcomed back. Boy, thinking back on that warning does nothing but get my nipples hard. Why? Well I’m back and this time I’m center stage as the face of a television show. I’ll be delivering lines every week and breaking ratings records with my performances.
Best of all is I know that the fat director will be sitting at home watching me, crying into his box of Twinkies that Isaac Tarver got the last laugh. Then he won’t be asking who. And if he does happen to forget my name, he’ll be swiftly reminded by the line he tried to cut, as I deliver it with the excellence that only a man like me can…
Don’t touch his balls, Eleanor. He hasn’t washed them in days.
Don’t hold your applause. Give me all you’ve got, Engage.
