Warning: This journal is rated R, for restricted audiences. It contains naughty language and adult situations. If you are under 18, do not read without the consent of an adult.
Leashed once again,
Wednesday, August 5, 1998: Production Day 13
There is, perhaps, some justice in this mad world. Just when you finally give up on humanity, wishing yourself deliverance from the unholy poop coaster, preferably into the arms of welcoming insanity and quick, painless, death- along comes a savior, a blessed saint, to hoist you onto the shoulders of satisfaction. Knowing full-well the end of my tenure on this cursed set would leave it a smoldering mess, it was with smug pleasure I strode onto the grounds, ready to bark the glorious "take this job and shove it" call directly in the face of the fetid 2nd AD, the moment his first order lofted my way. And it was then, in that brief instant, having just stepped from the bus and maneuvered my way down the panhandling mine-field, before I had a chance to open verbal whup-ass on the fucker, that fate interceded on my behalf. My suffering, as you well know, was great; despite my lowly rank, however, it did not go entirely unnoticed. And while no sorcery or star worship could fully explain the miracle that did occur, a fair maiden undoubtedly attuned to my precious supersensory broadcast- subconsciously, much as mother to enwombed child- heard my cry for help, and intervened with great ironic justice. "Who?", you ask, "and what could she have done so effectively in your final hour?" Well- the fair maiden was none other than the enchanting Catherine Keener, and the task she assigned me, bucolic as it may seem, may prove to be my ace in the hole, as they say, as it certainly sealed my continued employment on this job: to walk her dog. My readership already knows my great love for the animal races, my love of the outdoors, my commitment to physical fitness and communion with the common man- what could be more perfect? Only one thing: the ignominious 2nd AD's suffering. Thus, Mrs. Keener's wisdom and compassion has not only saved the movie, made my job more pleasurable, secured a deeper and more meaningful relationship with your infallible narrator, helped free and exercise one of man's proverbial best friends, but created a brilliant and honorably excusable way for me to piss off the master I most despise. I took Nerpy (or Noofy or Bobo, I can't remember his name I'm afraid) on his leash, and proudly walked my way across the lot, urging him to do his business, when I saw from the corner of my eye the 2nd AD freeze in horror. I smiled and waved like a typically moronic dog-walker, and when he ran over and demanded to know what I thought I was doing, when I so clearly had other more important tasks than canine-pampering to perform. I explained that the doggy was no ordinary mutt, but a dedicated pet-servant of one of our resident superstars, and certainly deserved every bit of my attention. I further explained that if Noopy-noo did not get his exercise, his sour demeanor and drooping physique would only upset the talent, adversely affecting the film- and it would all be his own damn fault. Staggering, unable to fully comprehend the coup he'd been delivered, he merely drooled and babbled incoherently as I went on my way, Googyboogy following behind, a project that took a solid 2 hours out of my ususally crammed schedule. I couldn't have been happier. In other words: I did not quit today. Million dollar idea: robotic dog walkers (c'mon, hasn't mankind figured anything out yet?)
