Congratulatins Actor Out of Work!

Today you're going to do some pretty standard unemployed actor stuff.  Sit on the couch, eat cheetoes, watch classic films.  Nothing too crazy.

Try not to spend too much of your day weeping!  Tomorrow you might get a call back on one of those potato chip commercials you auditioned for a few weeks ago, and you don't want your face to be all puffy from crying like a bitch.

Congratulations Actor Out of Work!

Congratulations Dipshit Champion!

You'll be crowned while standing under an awning, a lit cigarette dangling from your mouth while you diddle with your smartphone.  You won't look up, won't acknowledge the swell of humanity passing around you.  When the referee walks up to you and gives you the trophy, you'll just shrug at him.  You won't even bother taking your hands off your phone, you'll just stand there clutching it, typing some stupid bullshit to some stupid asshole.  He'll have to leave the trophy on the ground at your feet.

This won't be an isolated incident.  This will be the product of decades of dipshittery on your part, the terminus of years upon years of foul, antisocial behavior, of cultivated concern for appearances meshed with a carefully maintained detachment from said cultivated concern.  That'll be why you constantly have cigarettes in your mouth but never inhale, why you stare at people on the bus but never speak to them.  Your life will, in a very real sense, be an amalgam of shitty behavioral patterns that no one's ever bothered to beat out of you.

Today you'll reinforce that pattern of behavior through the method you receive the award, the highest conceivable honor, for your awful, atrocious way of life which is socially acceptable only in a contemporary context that has evolved to minimize the acknowledgment of the shared humanity of all people.  Later, after you're positive the referee has left, you'll stop pretending to text someone and pick up the award.  You'll carry it under your jacket (vintage from a designer thrift store) and take it into your sparsely decorated, tiny, exorbitantly expensive apartment.  There you'll set it inside of a locking cabinet with a reinforced door, along with a photograph of the girl that broke your heart and the first CD you ever bought.  This secret shrine to the person you were before you abandoned your humanity will remain locked, but you, fearful you, will remember it always, as you pose outdoors, hoping to be seen, praying to be noticed.

Congratulations Dipshit Champion!

Congratulations on Getting Your Modern Art Installation Approved!

Modern art is a tough business to crack. Sometimes people do it through raw creative force or sheer willpower, but you know that those people are actually tremendous suckers. You’re going to blow all of them out of the water today because you know you’re a freak of nature and more than anything else, modern art patrons really just want to see freaks on display.

So today you’re going to propose to the gallery you spend a lot of time in in Chelsea that they give you an installation. It’s going to be, in your words, “All about the pain of being a man in modern society, the pain you project and the pain you receive, you know?” But really, it’s just going to be an exhibit where you hang a giant weight from your penis for several hours while you’re surrounded by a combination of pictures of your penis without a weight around it, really beaten up vaginas from around the world and botched circumcisions that organizations attempting to make people hate Jews like to pin up around the city.

The end result will be a work of “art” that showcases less a conceit of how the world functions or a piece of insight on how humanity as a whole exists and more pinpoints just how much genital punishment you can both take and how much genital mutilation you can tolerate in your life. It’ll fall just short of “Somalia” and well above “the amount that normal people can enjoy.”

In the weeks to come you’ll see reviews of your “showcase of pain” that uphold you as the Norman Rockwell of America’s disdain for sex – one critic will go so far as to call you “the Norman Wreckwell of dicks.” But you’ll know in your heart of hearts that this entire thing was accidental: that really all you wanted was rent money and attention and to have a bunch of strangers look at your penis with weights attached to a fishhook that has been skewered through it. Really, that’s all you ever wanted, though you’re rarely comfortable saying as much.

Congratulations on Getting Your Modern Art Installation Approved!

Congratulations Persian Douchebag!

Polish up your golden chains and put on that t-shirt that doesn’t actually fit you that Jersey Shore made you think was a good idea, because tonight you’re a Persian douchebag. You’re going out on the town and you’re going to dress that way even though you, like every other person alive today, should know better.

You’re going to go to “da club,” which is what you call your friend Greg’s parent’s basement in their house in the Bronx. You’re going to get way too drunk and you’re going to end up sucking Greg’s dick in a bathroom while a bunch of girls peek through an open door and giggle uncontrollably.

You’re going to wake up the next morning in Greg’s arms, dazed and confused and feeling strangely fulfilled at first. This feeling will rapidly translate into a sort of disgust you’ve always reserved for gay dudes you see on the train – the sort of creeping disgust that always comes from trying to look at something you simply cannot bear to see, a truth you cannot bear to face.

As you leave Greg’s parent’s house, stepping over unconscious men and women alike, you’ll feel dizzy. Finding your footing will be a chore. And as you reach the door you’ll want, desperately, to look back and see if Greg is watching you, to see if he’s looking at you as you go. You’ll want to see if he’s turned over after waking up a little. You’ll want to see if he acknowledges just what has passed between the two of you.

But you won’t turn to look. You’ll step outside, put on a pair of oversized sunglasses, and use your i-phone to find the nearest subway stop that can get you back to Manhattan, where you can hold off on taking a shower as long as possible while you and your roommates lie about hooking up with various women last night.

Congratulations Persian Douchebag!