Who Loves Ya Baby?

A friend of mine recently went on an audition for a new Bruckheimer television show. This particular fellow is someone who worked in sitcoms for a decade and whose face and character name you would certainly recognize, so long as you had access to Thursday night NBC and weren't busying yourself with feeding orphans in Conchasa, hunting new species of Lepidoptera in the rainforests of Southeast Asia (in which case you needn't have bothered because I already checked, there aren't any more), or holing yourself up in the bomb shelter your grandfather built in your Wichita backyard when Ike was still brightening the skies with that shiny dome of his.

Anyway, my friend said he had the worst audition of his life, right in front of Bruckheimer, the casting director, and several producers. The lines he didn't fumble, he completely forgot.

Stunned by his own poor performance he requested another pass at it.

They replied, "If you feel it's absolutely necessary."

The second was worse than the first. The room was silent. He was tense.

Then he broke what he called, "the cardinal rule of actors," he apologized.

"I have been having absolutely the worst day..."

Then he reflected for a moment, "Well, not so bad as the people in Lebanon."

He looks up, scans the room, and after ingesting the ethnic composition of the panel, backpedals, "Oh, or the people in Israel!"

Stone silence.

In horror, he backed out of the room - "I'm very sorry for having wasted your time."

Why didn't he just call them "Sugartits"? Maybe put a little less Mel-ly and a little more Telly Savalas on it.

Which brings us to a conversation I heard at a hip coffee shop this afternoon:

Guy 1: "You know how I knew Mel Gibson was drunk?"

Guy 2: "How?"

Guy 1: "When did you last see a Jewish cop in LA?"