Hollywood has invited me to the Beverly Hills Hotel to have a drink at the Polo Lounge and discuss my autobiography being made into a movie.
I find him sitting at the table on his cell phone, and he motions me to sit down. Hollywood’s talking to some agent about something he calls a “package deal”. Evidently this agency called “CAA” has some sort of warehouse in Burbank where they store movie stars, and Hollywood has ordered a pallet full of them. I can only imagine how cool it must be to be a forklift driver in this warehouse, and having to unstack a ton of pallets containing reject stars like Lindsey Lohan and Meryl Streep before you get to the good ones like Selena Gomez and Mary-Louise Parker. I’m sure his job never gets old.
Finally Hollywood finishes his call and orders a Perrier with a lime twist. He asks me what I want and I order a Coke. He tells me he also invited the guy who is going to be the movie director to the meeting and that he should be here any minute, but in the meantime he says this is going to be a good time to talk about my book.
“So Ric, you know I’m you’re biggest fan…” Hollywood pauses to take a sip of his Perrier, and my psychic intuition tells me that the next word out of his mouth is going to be “But” with a capital “B” followed by me feeling like I’ve had something shoved up my ass. “But, you know this is a low budget movie and we’ve got to cut corners, count nickels and dimes to make this happen. You understand don’t you?”
“Is that why you changed my name from ‘Thibault’ to ‘Stevens’ because having one less letter would save you money on ink in your printer?”
“Yes, I mean that’ll save a penny or two, but I was talking bigger things, like for one I’m going to be filming the movie in Pasadena instead of St. Louis. But I want you to know that I’m making sure that we spend money on all the important things, the things people will see on the screen. For that I’m not going to spare a dime.”
I sigh in relief. My ass still feels okay, and maybe I’m not as psychic as I thought.
“So I’ve come up with a couple of money saving ideas. One because I want to make sure that everything people see on screen is good, we’re going to shoot things a little differently and we’re going to use smaller movie screens, so I don’t have to spend money on the things on the edges that no one cares about.”
I squirm a little in my seat.
“Secondly since my first choice of movie director Ed Wood apparently died a few years ago, I hired the next best person,” and there he is now – Ric Thibault, or should I say, Ric Stevens, I want you to meet Roger Debris.”
Roger Debris sits down, orders a Shirley Temple and performs fellatio on my ego, before telling me that he has completely changed everything in the book because it would be too expensive to film otherwise.
Hollywood tells me he has to go to the bathroom, and he is followed by Roger Debris who also has to go.
I wait at the table formulating my response to Hollywood and Roger while watching Paris Hilton bat her eyelashes at some guy with an oversized Rolex and a tattoo of a snake on his arm which shows that he is an individual and different from every other person with a tattoo on their arm.
My cell phone rings.
It’s Hollywood calling me from his car. Evidently my movie is so low budget that Hollywood and Roger Debris just split and stuck me with the check.