On the way to posing as valets at some posh, over-pretentious
Hollywood eatery, The Anarchist, my kung-fu kitty common-law wife
Christy and I stopped off at a liquor store on North Genesee
Avenue.
“I need to check out the headlines,” I told them as
I jumped out of The Anarchist’s classic El Camino. I wanted
to guarantee we were on the right trail for getting at the elusive
Inner Circle, led by FOX magnate Rupert Murdoch.
Approaching the stacks of the latest newspapers, I heard a
television tuned to CNN say something to the effect of,
“Reported cases of the SARS epidemic are in fact nine times
higher than what was initially reported.”
The proprietor, this Asian-looking fellow, was sobbing over the
cash register.
“My god,” I said, “are you OK?”
“My business is going under because of this SARS
epidemic!” he wailed. “No one will come in because they
think I might be sick. I’m not even Chinese for crying out
loud. I’m Korean!”
“Los Angeles is a tough town, friend,” I said.
“If you look the part, the rabid badgers will cast you in
it.”
I felt for the poor man, but knew I couldn’t risk
revealing how the SARS epidemic was all a plan on Murdoch’s
part to wipe out the competitive bootleggers. I paid for a Variety
and an L.A. Times and as I walked out, CNN spouted something like,
“In other news, much like Tupac Shakur, the presumed dead
Osama bin Laden continues to release new material through major
news outlets. Here is his latest video update, “˜Rain Fire
Upon the Infidels.’ Enjoy.”
Things hadn’t changed. The decadent media orgy of the
Televised Class continued. Shelley Morrison, aka Rosario from
“Will & Grace,” was arrested for felony shoplifting
at a Robinsons May in West Hollywood. Jamie Foxx was busted for
initiating a casino brawl in New Orleans.
Christy was horrified.
“Not Rosario!” she said. “It’s that
damned alcoholic Karen ““ she never pays that poor sassy Latin
maid enough.”
“Not quite,” I guffawed. “This doesn’t
smack of the same cry for help Winona Ryder exhibited with her
arrest. These are B-List actors trying to break into the Big
Time.”
“You’re right,” The Anarchist said.
“This sounds like advice from those ferret acting agents.
Hell, this is free publicity, courtesy of such Pulitzer
Prize-winning news programs as “˜Court TV’ and
“˜Celebrity Justice.'”
“Foxx is re-establishing that bad-boy image he built in
“˜Any Given Sunday.’ He’s going to be the next
Wesley Snipes, at least, if not Denzel,” Christy said, then
added, “Mmmm, Denzel.”
“These aren’t felonies. They’re career moves
in the right path,” I said. “And besides, have you seen
the holding tank at the Beverly Hills police station?”
Christy and The Anarchist shook their heads.
“They’ve got a complete DVD library and smoothie
bar, not to mention complimentary all-herbal high colonics.
It’s paradise for the rich and infamous. I wouldn’t be
surprised if this was all a strategy hatched by that Inner Circle.
These are the same twisted minds who have tortured us with the
voice of that husky, tone-deaf Marine on “˜American
Idol.'”
Turning a corner, The Anarchist veered his El Camino to the
restaurant where we planned our sting ““ the supremely
overpriced Eastern European slash Nepalese fusion joint called
Swastique”“known for its Hollywood upper-crust power-player
clientele: Paula Abdul, Alex Trebek, Oprah Winfrey and of course,
Darth Rupert Murdoch.
As the actual valet came up to take our keys, The Anarchist
delivered a swift Vulcan Pinch to his shoulder. He was out cold in
moments. We dumped the body in the flat bed, bound by
industrial-strength newspaper twine.
“Let’s get to work,” Christy said with a
smile. “I love the smell of conspiracy in the evening “¦
smells like “¦ victory.”
Cobb promises you won’t get SARS if you e-mail him at
ccobb@media.ucla.edu.