This is a problem?
Back at the NGA.mil Futility Station...
William C. Hughes
216 Nagel Avenue
St. Louis, MO 63111
Creative Artists Agency
2000 Avenue of the Stars
Los Angeles, CA 90067
Dear Mitch –
I was referred to you by Direct Management Group because when I am not busy trying to save the world by pulling off Donald Trump’s hairpiece in a small town Iowa living room, I write screenplays no one wants due to my last name. That is not what this “pitch” is about.
Ever slept on a Chinatown bus stop with gangsters discussing your fate? No black & white cars go by during that meeting I can assure you from bitter, let’s muscle-up and nuke California off the map experience. Swiss and Iranian females teamed-up to get me out of that downtown LA mess, so I could return to the city where I was raised and be alleged to be crazy 24/7. Good thing the cops and courts don’t agree.
This project was conceived on a #73 to #48 Metrobus break after a nut threatened to shoot me, per U.S. Government “psy-op” protocol. A black female displayed a sign indicating she was homeless and we started talking. She claims to be retired from the Post Office; my long tour of duty was with the Missouri Department of Mental Health. For that, I get two glasses of Chablis Malibu lunch money ($511). Trouble is, that’s supposed to fund a month of my existence, Mitch.
I assess this woman to be sane and to be from the same neighborhood as Cedric the Entertainer. My college comedian pal Rich Hall made a lot of money, and I really shook hands with the late Senator George McGovern. This does not light the sound board I know how to run at a benefit concert for homeless—only MONEY does.
Let’s agree straightaway to not talk about money, because my drunk brother-in-law isn’t a studio musician and knows no one in Nashville, I am sure. On the bus, I told Ms. Woodland I have long wanted a Green Room word or two with local knucklehead Nelly and his Lunatics. This brings me to Ms. Perry’s Zip Code 91362 behavior at Von’s, which is wholly deniable. Leave it to me to use public computers to determine Kate’s “move” was from Maltese Falcon. You can watch it tonight; I can’t with no TV, internet, or phone that works properly, and as for reports to Republican senators detailing how my mail is seldom delivered or received, I’d rather smoke cheap generic cigarettes and stare at the walls.
Lynch mob for Obama? Sir, Secret Service knows I have no rope or motor vehicle, so we’re safe thus far. As my Algerian associates have said, “Why is this taking so long?” How long to organize a benefit featuring Perry, Nelly, and the latest C&W female with lyrics implying you can tear up a cheater’s truck and not go to jail? FYI: Perry song on 106.5 here in Bob Costas’ town at 5:55 a.m. as I typed this. What is that, Rose? As my Star Trek Hollywood tutor said, “My Social Security Check is bigger than my royalty check.” [It could happen to Ms. Perry too, absent competent financial management].
By the next day, my former business partner had texted back to make the same old 1970’s excuses. The other survivor of we six? Probably sitting in the truck at a switching console for the Cardinal baseball game, but we are really mere hicks who know next to nothing. The prematurely deceased? A TELEDYNE guy, a GENERAL DYNAMICS–BOEING fool, and a late MANHATTAN THEATRE CLUB honcho. Me? I figured that when a TWA jet almost took out the left field bank of lights at Shea Stadium, the tower told him to. Really, he was probably looking out the window and muttering, “Doesn’t he get it?”
Now I do. How about I dress like Howard Hughes’ son as Bob Hope out golfing and MC? No charge.