It had been a slow week to be the best Private Dick in all of Hollywood. First, my old office at the corner of Sunset and the Boulevard of Broken Dreams got set on fire by an arsonist.
Luckily I was able to save my stuff, and pull my pet badger Chompy out of the burning building.
Still, nothing burns my ass more than someone trying to trash all my stuff.
Anyway, long story short, I moved into some new digs inside the "H" of the Hollywood sign. After that, all I really had to investigate was some chatter about an Avatar skit getting axed, and a Canadian actress/director taking on the role of a pompous ass.
After that, nothing.
So I called in my secretary, Gladiola Hassenfeffer to beat the bushes for something for me to investigate. After an hour I looked out my window and saw that she had taken me literally.
"Put down the stick," I said, "I just need you to see what cases are looking for a private dick to solve them."
"Oh, that," she said, sashaying back to my office. "I got a list of those."
"Then let me see the list."
She sashayed her way back in, sat down, and pulled a legal pad out of her purse.
"Let's see," she said, "Lindsay Lohan's going to work on her memoirs."
"What does she need me for?" I asked. "Teach her to read?"
"No," answered Gladiola, "she needs you to find her memories."
"Pass."
"Universal's signed Robert DeNiro to do a sequel to 1988's Midnight Run," said Gladiola, "and some folks need you to find out why."
"I think they did it because it's a great idea," I said, "if they can somehow send it back to 1989 when people gave a crap about it."
"Couldn't you let them use your time machine?" she asked.
I shook my head. I had invented time travel in 2007, then I did it again in 1996, and once more in 1983. It turns out that my past-selves are very handy at stealing my notes. Anyway, I banned time travel after I accidentally created an alternate universe where James Cameron dedicated himself to creating original stories, instead of centering his life on mish-mashing and rehashing old plots with new graphics.
"That still doesn't answer why."
"Both Universal and DeNiro have to find something to do," I said. "Send them a bill."
"Some folks are reporting sightings of a studio executive doing stand-up," continued Gladiola.
"I don't do bigfoot type cases," I said, knowing that this was a hard-boiled parody, and not an X-Files rip-off.
"Some folks want to know why Disney/ABC and Cablevision are at each other's throats at their customer's expense."
"They're all run by dicks," I said, "send them a bill."
"Man," said Gladiola, "this is a really dead blog post."
"Pre-Oscar doldrums," I said. "Now let's go waste time on Twitter."
Luckily I was able to save my stuff, and pull my pet badger Chompy out of the burning building.
Still, nothing burns my ass more than someone trying to trash all my stuff.
Anyway, long story short, I moved into some new digs inside the "H" of the Hollywood sign. After that, all I really had to investigate was some chatter about an Avatar skit getting axed, and a Canadian actress/director taking on the role of a pompous ass.
After that, nothing.
So I called in my secretary, Gladiola Hassenfeffer to beat the bushes for something for me to investigate. After an hour I looked out my window and saw that she had taken me literally.
"Put down the stick," I said, "I just need you to see what cases are looking for a private dick to solve them."
"Oh, that," she said, sashaying back to my office. "I got a list of those."
"Then let me see the list."
She sashayed her way back in, sat down, and pulled a legal pad out of her purse.
"Let's see," she said, "Lindsay Lohan's going to work on her memoirs."
"What does she need me for?" I asked. "Teach her to read?"
"No," answered Gladiola, "she needs you to find her memories."
"Pass."
"Universal's signed Robert DeNiro to do a sequel to 1988's Midnight Run," said Gladiola, "and some folks need you to find out why."
"I think they did it because it's a great idea," I said, "if they can somehow send it back to 1989 when people gave a crap about it."
"Couldn't you let them use your time machine?" she asked.
I shook my head. I had invented time travel in 2007, then I did it again in 1996, and once more in 1983. It turns out that my past-selves are very handy at stealing my notes. Anyway, I banned time travel after I accidentally created an alternate universe where James Cameron dedicated himself to creating original stories, instead of centering his life on mish-mashing and rehashing old plots with new graphics.
"That still doesn't answer why."
"Both Universal and DeNiro have to find something to do," I said. "Send them a bill."
"Some folks are reporting sightings of a studio executive doing stand-up," continued Gladiola.
"I don't do bigfoot type cases," I said, knowing that this was a hard-boiled parody, and not an X-Files rip-off.
"Some folks want to know why Disney/ABC and Cablevision are at each other's throats at their customer's expense."
"They're all run by dicks," I said, "send them a bill."
"Man," said Gladiola, "this is a really dead blog post."
"Pre-Oscar doldrums," I said. "Now let's go waste time on Twitter."
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