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.
Misunderstood, genius,
Thursday, July 23, 1998: Production Day 4
More monkeys, more lizards, and more of the delicious Catherine Keener. Another lazy day. My main task these days, in addition to walkie talkie pimp (bitch, you better come back tonight with some scratch, else i'mma kick yo button to the curb), is to sit outside of the studio door and make sure no one goes in or out while shooting; incredibly difficult, cerebral work, as you can imagine. It's a good thing the higher-ups in Hollywood are not more mathematically/scientifically inclined, or else such silly jobs as my own would have been long ago replaced by robots. Any automaton with an 2-bit processor and a stop sign could certainly master the intricate logic chart of "Don't go in, they are shooting", "Ok, you can go in now", don't you think? Maybe when I save up some of my staggering salary I will create the first production studio run by androids and conveyor belts. Interns shall be replaced by incinerators on every corner to streamline and simplify, an overhead pulley system will manipulate lights and cameras as an army of grips and best boys ripped to the tits on methamphetamines, and actors of course will be none but digitally rendered wireframes with prerecorded emotions and virtual sweat glands. Wait a minute, I think that was Walt Disney's plan- and you can see where that got him. Decapitated and freeze dried under the Epcot center. Anyway... I actually had the brilliant idea of bringing in my notepad to work and jotting down some notes on Kill... during my "downtime", but the nefarious 2nd AD jumped on my ass, somehow convinced the .002 percentage of my brain's processing capacity was too distracted from the taxing work of keeping the door shut. What a fuckwad. He is really taking special exception to my presence, as I think he has found a suitable punching bag to exercise his useless seniority. If he threatens me one more time, he may find himself lunching on the crusts of a knuckle sandwich. Note to self: laundry. Million dollar idea: (although the robotic studio should cover today) tasty glue for stamps, so they taste good.
