So I was busy yelling at my sound designer for being a fucking idiot. “Goddamnit!” I screamed and shouted, “put more AIR ON THE FART. MORE. AIR. ON. THE. FART. I don’t want a regular sounding one for this scene. I want a fart that starts off a little wheezy and ends with a bang! How hard is this for you to understand? What are you? A MORON?!”
Then my agent Pablo Dunbar rang up my cell. “Pablo, I’m in the middle sound mixing Schindler’s List III. You know I don’t like to be disturbed in post production. So this better be good,” I warned.
“Greta’s been trying to reach you. Why aren’t you answering her calls?!” he asked.
The mere mention of her name gave me the bubble guts. “Uh, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I responded coyly. “Why would she be trying to call me?”
“Maybe you need to start laying off the benzos James. How did you forget that Trainwreck Productions has signed you two to a $800 billion contract to make the next Chatty Cathy movie?”
“What? But I haven’t received any of her calls!”
Then I looked at my burner phone and noticed I had 600 missed calls. “Oh shit,” I said.
“Yeah, you better call her,” Pablo instructed.
So I immediately set up a meeting with her in my office. I fixed my combover, threw on my best Death Cab For Cutie shirt, and began pounding the bourbon to calm my nerves. Hours later, Greta was standing in my office with a look of indignation.
“Greta, first off, let me tell you that the Academy completely screwed you over by failing to nominate you,” I pleaded. “You’re one of the best directors working today and it’s unfair. I didn’t even make a movie last year and yet I still got nominated. Go figure. And secondly, I haven’t been avoiding you, I’ve just been deliberately not placing myself in your presence.”
“James, we’re supposed to begin pre production in three days on Chatty Cathy. Trainwreck Productions gave us carte blanche to run this production in any way we see fit and we haven’t even discussed how we will divide the responsibilities. Do you have anything for a spec script?”
I began stalling. “Pee-Wee’s working on it,” I said.
“Your production assistant?”
“That’s him. He’s a filmmaker too, ya know? Remember, he stole my director’s job on Like A Fart in the Wind and I’ve never quite forgave. But I’m letting him earn my trust back.”
“Okay, and what about directorial duties?”
“It’s all yours. I’ll serve as a creative consultant, or maybe as an executive producer. I’ll handle all the finances and that bullshit.”
Greta threw her hands in the air. “James, I fought for you to be in this production. You’re one of the few filmmakers I actually admire!”
“Thank you Greta. I admire you and your work as well.”
“Then why don’t you want to work with me on this?!”
I began to shake uncontrollably as I poured one bourbon shot after another. “Well there’s a lot logistical logical reasoning stuff at play here, whatnot and what-have-you and so on,” I began to sputter. Then I broke.
“Greta, could you ever love a man like me?” I ask.
“James, not this shit again,” she forcefully responded. “I like you professionally and I respect you. But not in that way.”
I exhaled as I slammed the bourbon bottle down. I choked back tears as I began to ponder my words. “I know,” I said. “I’m sorry Greta, I just can’t move forward with this project.”
Rage began to fill her eyes. “So you won’t work with me because I won’t fuck you?! Is that what this is?! How many times do I have to face this in my career?!”
In a fit of blind passion, I crushed the glass in my hand. The alcohol burning my open wounds barely registered. “Goddamnit Greta, do you think I want to feel this way? Do you think my urge to fuck you is an idle, frivolous sensation? Give me a knife and I’ll cut my dick off right now! Anything to relieve this burden! I’ve tried everything to fill in this void. I fucked my way from West Hollywood to North Hollywood and I kept facing the same problem: none of those women, and a few men, were you! Most days I go through life feeling nothing. NOTHING. I pass my time with booze, prostitutes, internet pornography, and the soundtrack to Xanadu, but when I’m around you, I catch a glimpse of hope, OF PASSION, of curiosity in the world that I haven’t felt since I was child. In you, everything old becomes new! But look at you, and look at me. The whole world is ahead of you and I’ll be dead in five years from diabetes! I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I can’t shit! I haven’t changed my underwear in five days because I can’t stop thinking of you! Damn it Greta, you may never love me but at least see where I’m coming from!”
Awkward silence filled the room. “You know James,” Greta finally spoke, “this town is littered with the most talented people in the world. And most will never catch a break. But you. You keep getting them time and time again. And you keep fucking it up, time and time again.”
Greta stomped out and slammed the door. I stood there, blood gushing out of my hand.
THE END
The Internet Ruined Everything 