The bit of live theater kirsten and I found was a one act play by somebody who had worked Second City in Chicago and "Ally McBeal" and "Dharma and Greg" on T.V. To quote Butthead from his big screen debut, "This sucks like nothing has ever sucked before."
I couldn't believe to what I was baring witness. Everyone one in the audience aside from me and Kirsten was obviously this girl's friend , and they made an ostentatious show of it by hootin' and laughin' right at every misplaced and ill timed cue of her performance as if a prompter were giving the signals to a sit-in crowd on the set of a UPN sitcom. I was slowly growing convinced that both performer and audience weren't human, but in fact ridden by Heinlein's masters. What else could explain such mindlessly automatic reactions to such "Da-Dum" laugh-here-marks. Soon as the performance ended, Kirsten and I rushed for the exit, bounding down three to four stairs per stride, in a race for the car lest the hagridden humans attach master cells to our backs. We escaped and inspected each other's backs to be sure our minds were our own. Yes. We were O.K. Yes. We were fortunate and just how you will never know until you see the anthropomorphization of a laugh track into a living mob of humans.

 Went to test for a job today out in Woodland Hills. Needless to say, I didn't see any woodlands or hills unless you call desert vegetation growing on mtn. sides as wooded hills. Into a glass high rise, I went, feeling insectile at the entrance to the gargantuan architectural style of the building. They meant for me to feel that way. It is the way of corporate America to make the little man feel, well, you guessed it, little. The mirror interior elevator(oooo, spacious!) took me up to the 8th floor where I found out I was on the wrong floor and had to ascend two more floors.
8+2=10
Thus, I was on the tenth floor and waiting to have my skills tested by SunAmerica's skills tester. The art selection of the 10th floor was agreeable. In the hall way were reproductions of drawings from Robert Longo's "Men in the City" series. Inside the testing room were some reproduced Mapplethorpe photographs. There may have been no men pissing into the mouths of other men or bullwhips up the ass for that would be too much of an allegory for the truth of corporate life, however, they nevertheless were Mapplethorpe's. The skills tester preceded to test my and about seven other people's skills. We were each handed our metaphorical bull whips and knew innately where we must stick 'em. My skills were good. My hair was bad: too long. They'll need me to cut it if I am to work for SunAmerica or so I was told by the kindly skills tester. The kindly skills tester, Cindy, doesn't even work for SunAmerica; she is some sort of consultant called upon to handle new applicants so SunAmerica's HR folk don't get no poo on their hands handling our sullied bull whips. Cindy told me she would talk to "them" and see if it would be o.k. if I pulled the offending hair back in a ponytail. I just know I'm gonna get a mouthful of piss. I'll find out bright and early tomorrow when Cindy calls for my phone interview at 8:30 a.m. whether or not the dress code violating coiffure has to go. 

"We at SunAmerica are an equal oppurtunity employer. We just ask that our Niggers bleach their skin and iron their hair straight as to not disturb upper management with their scary exotic appearance."

 Next