He Who Has Nil
Dear Nilanthropists,I am in a pickle.As you know Cabin Boy & I are both Gothamites. He of the Upper Case, and i of the lower. I knew it would be just a matter of time before our paths would cross. And cross they did. It happened in a local copy shop where I am currently employed. And where Cabin B. is constantly updating his resume. About what followed on that fateful day, I can only suggest that you hold on to your sizable hats.After all the standard “hail fellow well met” fripperies were concluded, I finished processing his order -- on five reams of Carol Channing Chancery card stock. We then engaged in the usual Gothamite banter. Namely: Real estate. When all of a sudden, out of the clear blue nil... Cabin Boy sez: “Say, lower case, what time do you get off?” Sez I to CB: “Who’s askin?”At which point, to my heavily sedated surprise, Cabin Boy invited me over to his swank bachelor pad for a late summer repast of no more than 14 courses! Now, as it is the case that I store my tax returns in my oven, this seemed like a good idea. At the time. You see Nilsters, the truth is: I was hungry. How hungry? I haven't had a decent meal since a college production of "The Dining Room."How hungry? I had a conversation w/The Cabin Boy just so I could chew the fat.How hungry? I've been dining out on my Obie Award win since 1994.How hungry? I shot an Appleby's commercial and didn't use the spit bucket.How hungry? When they were setting up the “martini shot,” I ate the olive.Anyway, thanks to an as-yet-unresolved dispute about which I would rather not say more, I have lost my Meals-On-Wheels privileges. So yes, I said yes. I hitched up my sagging copy-shop togs & rsvpeed in the affirmative to what I surmised was no more than a kindly hand-out from a fellow traveler.About what followed that posterior evening, I can only suggest that you fasten your fully operational seatbelts.After a heavy meal and light convo concerning window dressings and similar shoptalk, I blush to report that Cabin Boy suddenly step-ball-changed to his size nines, seized me by my sparrow-like shoulders and pressed my astonished personage into the folds of his capacious chestal area! While I struggled against his ungainly clutch & heaving bosom (he is corseted, as you know), Cabin Boy confessed to me in an up-tempo whisper that he was, in fact... a gay. My eyes said "no duh" but my lips said, "Ok..."He continued to unburden himself to me by way of a ballad. It seems that Cabin Boy has hit a rough patch in the song n' dance field. His agents are concerned that he is being "cock-blocked" by those in the musical theater biz who don't know from the gays. By way of remedy, CB's beefy team of ten-percenters have suggested that Cabin Boy could PRETEND that he is NOT a gay by seeking out the company of a wholly disinterested female companion... Enter lower case gothamite.To wit, the Cabin Boy has selected ME for the role of his (equity approved) “beard!" (Look who’s offer-only NOW bitches!!)As I could use a few more good meals, I must confess that am fairly open to this idea,but one point, turns both my curiosity and concern. Namely this: if even THE ENSIGN (The Ensign, I tell you!) can get a job without a beard... Then surely the Cabin Boy can manage to cobble together some sort of gainful employ, no??I'm worried that my ride on this prancing gravy train will not last very long.In the dollars-to-donuts eventuality that the gig shutters prematurely,I’m wondering if you could suggest some alternative dining options for me?But not Papaya King. It's, um, there's a thing.yrs. in advanced placement gratitude, lowercase g.
Great post. Terrific jokes. I was thinking perhaps "I was so hungry during The MONEY SHOT I didn't use the spit bucket" but maybe that's a different gothamette. But, I'm confused and you've been used. Cabin Boy as we all know, is presently putting on a thick accent and butching it up in the E. JOHN tuner B. Elliot. So someone was pulling your, well, whatever it was they were pulling. Was there Anything in the Applebee docu. for me?
Settle down, superstar. I wrote the post a while ago and forgot to hit send.There were other versions. But I couldn't figger out how to make 'em PG.So anyway, I got him that gig. Me. His beard. So there. And sew buttons.And now I have to go see the show to boot.Spoiler alert:I bought him a battery powered fart machine (as per his request) as a backstage gift and everything.He better be so busy hoofing it up on the Rialto that he doesn't read this.Re: your money shot joke-la-tina, As per my contractual obligations to various & sundry Pharmaceutical Concerns, I politely decline to comment.Yes, there was something for you in the Applebee's thingy.Lemon chicken. I have to go now, my gigantic West African contractor is on the phone.Hellzapoppin at Chez goth.I ate the olive.(You're welcome.)
Re: "As per my contractual obligations to various & sundry Pharmaceutical Concerns."...(I'm under a ball-gag order.)
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