Since Junker is unavailable to write posts, being that he's in Her Majesties Service at this time, I thought I'd toss up a piece he did a while back... enjoy:
When one reaches a certain level of prolificacy in "the business", one obtains the opportunity to connect with the true intelligentsia of this trade, and indeed of this entire culture. Recently, while in New York, I got the opportunity to go to a little shindig that was attended by some of the greatest thinkers, actors, writers, and politicians of our time. I will share with you now my experiences there.
Arriving only slightly tardy at the New York Palace Hotel Main Gala Hall, I bumped into none other than Ben Affleck, who was standing in the brisk east coast air and lighting up just outside the main entrance.
“Hey, J! What’s goin’ on man, haven’t seen you in ages!”
Pretending not to hear him, I lengthened my stride and faked being distracted by a semi-conscious Kate Moss lying in a cocaine haze atop a nearby shrubbery. But the ruse failed. Ben cornered me, as he always did. And in a way, I owed him at least a few words; it was me, after all, who had convinced him to date Jennifer Lopez. Sure, I was only joking at the time, but I couldn't help feeling partly responsible. Ben isn’t exactly tuned in to subtle comedic nuances.
“Hi Ben. How’s it going?” My acting at this point was brilliant. “How’s Hollywood treating you? Heard you missed out on the big Bond part, too bad.”
“Yeah, well, I think that part was below my level, know what I mean?”
“Sure Ben. What’s James Bond anyway….you, YOU, were in “Jiggly” and “Jersey Girl” no less. And lets not forget your magnum opus “Armageddon.”
This thoroughly placated the dope, and I had a chance to break away. The sights and sounds of a gathering in full swing beckoned me. Striding into the main hall I spotted more than a few of the “who's who” of the town. Near the central stairway, John Kerry carried on a conversation with a few unlucky fellows who looked as though they’d just been given a large dose of codeine. In a corner Kofi Annan made an awkward move that gave me the impression he was doing a ‘dead drop’; so what’s new, I thought. A raised arm beckoned my way. Pausing only to give Kate Hudson a quick kiss hello and to suggest to Gwyneth Paltrow the name Cumquat for her next child, I joined Noam Chomsky and Michael Moore in a heated debate.
“Now see hear J,” Noam spoke, “this is the conundrum, and quite possibly an impasse, that Michael and I are faced with at this very moment in time. I believe the US invasion of Iraq is nothing more than an evil and bold faced neo-con scheme to pacify the so-stereotyped rambling masses of the proletariat dominated western Asiatic. Michael here sees this evil invasion as a cowardly cash grab by Bush and his cronies. Now, what say you of the matter?”
“Well, I’m no expert” I replied drolly, “but maybe if you took the “evil” out of your equations a different answer would reveal itself.”
“Ha! No evil! Ah Junker, you always were worth a laugh. Did you catch that Mickael….Bush…. no evil! Ah you slay me Junker, ‘I like thy wit well’.”
“Hahahaha, hilarious J,” Moore muffled through a mouthful of stuffed mushrooms and cocktail shrimp.
Before the laughter died down, I graciously excused myself. Suddenly, a piercing and altogether terrifying scream filled the room. I jumped with a start, but no one else around me seemed concerned. Looking for the source of the outcry, I spotted Howard Dean in the corner. That explained it perfectly.
Continuing towards the bar, I was intercepted by the obnoxious Tom Cruise and his latest fling. Dreading any conversation with the thicko, I took the plunge anyway as I saw no obvious ruse to steer me away. The thought of faking a heart attack, like that time I nearly had to speak to Alec Baldwin, crossed my mind, but I hadn’t the gull to try it without a threat of Baldwinian intensity to encourage me.
“Tom, bud, pal, sporto, great to see you again,” I lied in a performance that should have garnished me an Oscar, “And Mimi, you are looking fantastic!”
“Actually J, Mimi Rogers and I got divorced in 1990.”
Yikes, alright, pull it back I thought, you’ve yet to run into a social faux pas you couldn’t handle.
“Oh my yes, how dreadfully forgetful of me,” I divulged with great elegance, “my sincerest apologies Nicole.”
Tom gave me a stern look, “J, Nicole Kidman is my EX-wife.”
“Penalope?”
“Nope.”
“Sofia?”
“No!”
“Well, hey, glad its working out for you, and next time you’re at mass, say hello to the L. Ron Hubbard for me.”
“He passed away years ago Junker!”
“Oh sure, that’s what they said about Jesus, but I heard he turned up in a taco in New Mexico just the other week. Don’t be so pessimistic Tom. Anyway, I’ve got a date with Jack D down at the bar, if you know what I mean,” I said heading inexorably towards the bar.
“Congratulations again Melissa Gilbert, you picked a real winner here!" And with a wink of the eye, a salesman-like point of my finger, and a double click of my tongue, I was off.
Reaching the relative safety of a bar stool, I ordered up a stiff drink and downed it in a single go. Funny, I thought, I don’t even like alcohol. At that point I noticed sitting next to me Dan Rather. While anyone unfamiliar would assume Dan had already been through half of the bar's repertoire, I knew he was stone cold sober.
“Hey buddy, listen,” he breathed heavily over my right side, “you know what the problem with this administration is? No integrity, no integrity whatsoever. They make a mistake, ahhhh forget about it, it never happened. They invent lies, forged documents and all that crap, and when they’re caught they won’t admit they were wrong. And everyone of ‘em, every last one is a pampered rich slob with no connection to the common man. They stand there, all high and mighty, preaching to the masses, and each night they get to retire to a premium high-rise somewhere in New York. Its insane!”
“Well, someone isn’t sane, I can tell you that much,” I encouraged as I scooped up my drink and headed for the exit. Passing by a screeching Whoopi Goldberg I managed to pick up a bit of conversation that went something like this: “filthing cursing filthing Bush bush feck arse filthing Bush curse curse filth.”
The words hastened my advance towards the ever beckoning exit sign, but a clean break was not to be. Directly in my path was old Slick Willy himself, wooing a tipsy Belinda Stronach. I approached reluctantly, mid-conversation.
“...now, when I was behind that desk,” Bill drawled, “there was no er…election I couldn’t handle, no void left unfilled, no matter not penetrated. Sure, I liked to switch positions from time to time, but I don’t think that’s so wrong.”
“You know Bill, I’ve been known to swap positions myself from time to time.” Belinda winked.
Having nothing to add, and only just holding back what would surely have been a ferocious torrent of vomit, I slipped by with nothing more than a casual wave.
Outside I took a deep breath of the fresh air. Through the corner of my eye I saw a bulky figure approach from the shadows. Alarmed that it might be Michael Moore again, I prepared to head for the parking lot at warp nine when a deep Austrian voiced accosted me.
“Vell, look vat za cat drug in.”
“Arnold, you stuck up, sauerkraut sucking, sausage breathed bastard! What the hell are you doing here?”
“Maria, of course, you thick Canuck.”
“Ah, how the mighty have fallen. Curses, thy name is women, eh?”
“Ja, ja, tell me about it. I vish I had one of da “6th Day” clones here right now to be in my place. But at least I have an excuse. Vat wicked scheme of Satan put you in dere?”
“Ah come on, you know my gig, these blogs don’t write themselves. Anyway, I'd love to stay and chat, but I’ve got a flight to catch.”
With that, I declined a cigar and hopped in a cab, JFK bound, with yet another post under my belt.
