My Search for TMZ.

29 Aug

As (not) many of you know, it’s totally awesome being famous. People like you, you get a like a million followers on twitter, and you can wear whatever ugly clothes you want. For example: When Daniel Day Lewis walks out of the house like this, he’s an artist.

daniel_day_lewis300

When I walk out of the house looking like this:

n23914615_36385260_7828I’m asked to stay out of government buildings and places where young people congregate. This hurts. Don’t people understand? I’m an artist too. I write stuff, you know? I write short stories, I’ve started a screen play, and I’ve written a hell of a lot of “Why you’re a good fit for our company” essays.

Why can’t I be considered an artist? Because I haven’t been on TMZ yet? I need to get onto TMZ. For this reason, I’ve been buying tighter and tighter clothes, doing less and less legitimate work, and drinking more and more Starbucks. At one point I toy with the idea of dating Twilight star Robert Pattinson (Edward Cullen). This plan was immediately nixed when I saw him, got really nervous, and threw up on the ground. However, I did have  a brief fling with Kristen Bell. Still, nothing (although, briefly dating Kristen Bell almost makes the whole thing totally worth it.). I need to bust (my meat) out on the scene. I need to be on the cover of every entertainment magazine, every day causing more and more people to ask “Wait, why is he famous again?” You know what I’ll tell them? Just because.

I started going to dance clubs recently. I was surrounded by hipsters doing off-rhythm gyrations and shoulder dips. Oh, honkey (Editor’s Redaction). When will you learn? I needed to go where there were a lot of shiny shirts and nip slips. So I went there. I went there and FLOURISHED.

I stand in line at a pret-t exclusive club in North Dallas. I’m in a line that’s roughly forty people long. I wait my turn. Most people would think that the cooler you are, the less lines you have to wait in, but this isn’t true. If you’re really cool, the party is wherever you’re at. So why rush in and confuse all my followers? They can’t all run in with me (I’m like, super fast.), and I need my entourage.

I need them.

I need them.

After waiting for over half an hour, my feet start to ache terribly, so I try to pay a small person to carry me on his back until we reach the front of the line. He takes my fifty bucks, but when I try to mount him he just shoves me and calls me devil words. 😦

😥

:””””””””(

8IIIIIIIIID

lol.

My feet still hurt when I reach the man with the clipboard. He’s like an angry, heavy-set St. Peter at the gates of a dirtier, more vomit stained Heaven.

“Kyle.”

“Your last name, please.”

“That is my last name. I should be in there under Iron Kyle.” I wink at him. Any moment now he’s going to realize who I am and OH BOY will he be excited. He looks at me and shakes his head “no.” I pull out a “Dum Dum” and hand it to him–discreetly, of course. He throws it on the ground and tells me that I need to leave. I try to pay the small person to help me in, but he just laughs at me and walks into the club with his regular-size friends.

Not worth it.

Fonzie never went to one of those clubs.

And neither will I.

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