Surgically enhanced, Continentally trained in impersonation, the Nebbish’s echt making a decent little living for himself a parnassa, a sizable grubstake of remunerative usurpation here — out in Holywood, the leftmost wing of Angels, having been cordially invited the week prior to open for the Kings, to warm up the room for their now quarterly meeting during which they’ll debate for its entire scheduled duration what the first issue on the agenda should be, with Neb (full disclosure, a minority shareholder in the Mattress Kingdom holding of Laz-R-Us, Inc.) doing his fifteen minutes, his shtick wellhoned, how the Envelope King slips him his pay in an irregular surplus model #1B, and only then do they all sit down to their business. Holywood now finally emptied of its Affiliated directors, producers, the kooky komedy writers, neurotic or not smart or witty enough and so nervous, or endearing, your call or both, polite, dark, and hairy and hairily funny — actors and actresses just sitting around, just like always, waiting for the phone to ring role, memorizing themselves: there’s nothing to do, no runways to stalk, no parties to crash with crass flash, only hitting on the hick rube but already Goldberging interns still making coffee for what.
