I feel weary. We’re talking, hiking up a pair of concrete undies with spindly Mr Burns arms, weary. Battle commander for the Alliance, stuck on a decimated planet ravaged by a decade of war, fighting for the mining rights to a source that’ll end the world’s energy crisis, weary.
You get the drill bit. Motherfucken weary, yo.
Such is the collected effect of working in an office eternally. Like anthracosis, except I inhale an abundance of bullshit instead of coal dust. Cue high-pitched Zoolander cough.
“I think I’m getting the black lung, Pop.”
This joint’s shrinking my life force like the head of Beetlejuice. And this being the day I resemble Peter Weller (my left cheekbone an ashtray for radioactive cigarettes and my right, a shelf for my alarm clock), who materializes like Jiminy-convivial-Cricket?
Like an old man sensing the coming rain via gift of gammy leg, I’ve become adept at predicting when Gay Prince will appear. The truth lies in the crotch of early morn, when I wrestle myself for ten minutes of extra sleep (the strife between a good and bad hair day). Sleep wins, ev-ery time. And, as sure as the dilapidated coif sitting atop my head (more defeated than any wife of Tom Cruise), the debonair dignitary will saunter through my door.
Right on cue, you mincing bastard.
I’m in no mood. Not when I have Cult Boy sitting next to me, singing under his breath and tapping his left foot like Daniel Dolt Lewis. Not when I have Schwarzenegger calling me to wipe his ass in Dubai, via the magic of go-go-Gadget arm. Not when the gunslingers are hovering over our dying friendship, like a couple of hyenas waiting to feed on its carcass.
Not today. Not on Rex Manning day.
I feel I must prepare you (or is it, me?) for the inevitable failure of the crippled rom-com that is The Gay Prince and Me. Like a father revealing the santa suit he keeps in the closet (alongside Oprah, Honest Republican and other fantastical creatures), I must now reveal that we may not be in a romantic comedy after all, dear friends. I fear he aint the Lange to my Tootsie roll, the Tango to my Cash, nor the Lucas to my Empire.
More like the Bergman to my Bogart (yes, that’s right. I’m Bogie, baby). At least then I can coolly exit: my collar up, Homburg tipped into the wind, my cigar miraculously alight.
“Where I’m going, you can’t follow. What I’ve got to do, you can’t be any part of. Not for any good reason, but because Warner Bros says so. Now get outta here, kid.”