i just realized that i've been sitting here for fifteen minutes or so with folded arms.
as resistant to anything funny as one could be.
i mean, folded arms for god's sake.
and a cheney pouty puss to boot.
shoulders pulled up to my earlobes too.
no one should be expected to be humorous when under such subversive duress.
certainly not me.
but what possibly could i be subconsciously contemplating to put me in this lowly place.
and it finally hit me.
i haven't received a call from spielberg yet demanding to produce cranelegs pond the movie.
so much for steven reading his emails.
i mean, i've got nora ephron lined up for the script, clint eastwood to direct, tommy hanks to play yours truly, and liz story for some of that piano-ey score.
well, i do once i land spielly.
but he's hanging me out to dry here.
the least he could do is text me with some sort of lame ass excuse or something.
a little acknowledgement is all i'm asking for.
what is he, too big for his own britches?
mr. first in a google search for "best hollywood producers" all of a sudden?
just give me the word and i'll move on steve.
come to think of it, this may be too big for you anyway.
you know what?
forget the whole thing!
how about that for funny?!
i'll take my business elsewhere.
that's a freakin' riot, that is!!
ya know, i'm feeling better.