Thursday, September 21, 2006

Cross swords, more like

Honestly, there is absolutely nothing that brings me joy in life. I have no hobbies. I have no interests. I don't like people. Most of life's fruit is rotten long before it's been displayed in the case, its musty pulp decaying under the hot lamps of my scrutiny. Except for crossword puzzles. Crosswords are the one facet of my existence with which I am fully satisfied. What jolly mental romp does Mr. Shortz have for me today, pray tell? What? The answer for "Chair person, perhaps" is "lion tamer?!" YOU SCAMP! Every answer to every clue fills me with a sort of smug delight, as I stroke my penis under my desk, aroused by my faux-brilliance.

On a seemingly unrelated note, actors are loud, arrogant fuckfaces. I say this because as I sat waiting to go into an audition, I noticed a fellow across from me doing the New York Times puzzle. This alone is no big deal. Plenty of actors do the crossword. However, this audition was for a "funny" spot, and the standard issue rogues gallery began piling in, one by one, each an obnoxious canker sore filled with woefully longwinded tales of improvisation and one-man-shows. They all know each other, because they all secretly hate each other. So, it was no surprise that when one sinister cad sat next to the fellow doing the crossword, he very loudly began to help. The two of them sat there, unaware that they were ruining the only thing to which I look forward, and systematically called out each answer. Every. Single. Answer. What's more, they announced, with the sort of ironic nonchalance that makes the studio audience go "ooooooooh," the trick of the puzzle. Now, the trick of the puzzle, especially Wednesday through Friday, is the central theme, the thoughtful gimmick that makes the entire puzzle worthwhile. Nothing is more satisfying than solving the trick of the puzzle. It's figuring out the murder mystery before the detective does. It's nailing a preteen black hooker and not getting AIDS. It's getting the last oreo cookie before your roommate does because you've murdered him in his sleep with a rolled up copy of Woman's Day. But all that...all that was taken away from me. I'm pretty sure I'll never know what it's like to be raped (maybe you can make that happen, Davey), but this as close as I'll get. Violated. Betrayed. My words were crossed against my will.

2 comments:

DaveyJones said...

I was, in fact, planning on raping you in the bathroom stalls of Yankee Stadium next weekend. But now you've gone and ruined it. You really know how to kill a romance, Silva.

Gabe said...

boy, DO I!