What is it with the modern female unquenchable need for success in her mate? Does every dog need its fleas so badly that it must shatter the illusion of perfect love? How vague and unhampered is life with a fat bank account that will serve as her cornucopia while the other party unseeable on the other end must tear his life asunder busting his ass to see that it remains well-stocked. The bitches! They don’t deserve to fulfill their childhood dreams of Prince Charming derived from the local frog. Nothing could be worse than a New York cause celebratee! A Charlie McCarthy face puppet-like thing spouting platitudes without an Edgar Bergen to provide the illusion a knee! Banjos and blackface! That aged name dropping boyish innocence droning on about dead geniuses as if they had a hidden half a century to perpetuate that they knew them both intimately and daily. Coming up with endless bullshit, the steaming smell of its methane wafting about thinly veiled.
Intellectual vampires that prey on the second raters. Gleefully reciting their passages ceding its meat to a larger echo that suggested had its source being in the tongue of the reader. The sincerity of colored lights and cuckoloris driven shadows playing dramatically across the speaker’s gilt tonsils. The teleprompter smoking away under its strain. Compositions designed to ape the better parts of classic Hollywood Noir. The craziest kind of monotone sterility saturated with carefully well-apportioned moments of crowing about themselves while pretending to be humble within the magnificence that assembles the dream that like common pigs the rest of us must slink about by the communal trough avoiding the spotlight. Can this be the man that said such females idolize? A backdrop of Town & Garden complimenting each scene of dressed down Burberry fashion perfection. Who is the one living in a finite form of really now? In a crime fiction novel, the audience might be titillated by the bloated naked body of such a personage now twenty years on with a dagger in his back? What hyperbole could one more humbly offer than that?
Saccharine, drole, too overconfident of themselves. The whole lot of successful pretenders serving the central illusion of wisdom and the urbane. Class being based upon the degree of a polished degree of acting experience and strictly observing trite writing styles lagging in potential. How sad that these qualities seem to be the lingering shadows behind getting a good catch. To be sucked out into the Pacific by the undertow into its deepest depth through a straw. The public lapping it up at the box office like hundred year old soda syrup. Can anyone pick up that mask? The final binge going against the grain. Unruly and unrepentant, violating the expectations that one had dared imagine being able to live up to. Alone, and this brittle world the better off for it. Love being a mental image that no one dare fuck with. The best option for all involved is that the act will go one per the script. The words echo in the expected chamber at the perfect volume with the right photos all of which being color corrected and nicely edited. What could be more perfect than that?