New Names for Hands:
— Sam Grittner (@SamGrittner) June 7, 2013
I would only be worried if the NSA was recording the conversations I pretend to have on my cellphone to avoid talking to actual people.
— Sam Grittner (@SamGrittner) June 6, 2013
Just saw Daniel Day-Lewis! Most people think it's just a palm tree but I know how he does.
— Sam Grittner (@SamGrittner) June 5, 2013
If ducks had tiny briefcases I would take them seriously but I still wouldn't let them represent me in any legal matters.
— Sam Grittner (@SamGrittner) June 2, 2013
The helicopter I rented drops me right in the heart of Hollywood. It’s pitch black. California is everything I expected and nothing I could have anticipated. The roads are literally made of yoga mats. Once you arrive you just peel one off and it is yours: now, forever, always.
I see the stars everywhere I look: Clint Howard and Robocop are eating potatoes while tourists snap Fuji photos of them. The garbage man from ‘Hanging with Mr. Cooper’ makes eye contact with me. My fate is sealed. I am destined to be here. I hear a sound that calls out to me. I walk on a bunch of agents until I come across the man blowing the wood-stick that makes sounds.
Steven Spielberg stops playing flute on Rodeo Drive just long enough to tell me to “follow the Green River to Big Time City” and hands me a baggie full of executive-producer credits. I don’t understand what this means but man he can play the fuck out of a flute. Who knew? Before I can question the mutterings of a world-famous director, I see Christopher Walken doing push-ups, completely naked while Peter Dinklage does sit-ups on his back. I tell them how much I loved them in ‘Pretty in Pink’ and get my autograph stick signed by both of them.
I can’t lose sight of why I’m here: to become more famous than Christ and way better looking. To remake myself in plastic, tattoos, and cocaine. To finally live up to and waste my full potential. I set a stretch hummer on fire when I notice a pack of joggers running in unison. I start running with them as fast as I can jog. Mariah Carey tries to trip me, so I set her on fire and recite ‘Glitter’ word-for-word. I have the hunger of a thousand hunger games. I will not be beat. The runners evaporate into Coconut water. I soak them up with my yoga mat.
A dog dressed as Christoph Waltz approaches. He takes my hand and tells me to look directly into Camera 2. I close my eyes and hear a vaginal joke. Dog-Waltz is gone, replaced by Sarah Silverman. She asks me if I want to punch her butt-hole and we go hiking for four years. We shave each other’s beards and I inform her of my intentions. She laughs. I do too. Then I convince her to sign all of her agent to me.
I drink grass-fed tiger nipple supplements while I think of a better IMDB. I am Hollywood. I am Hollywood, I have my entourage tell me over and over again. I set my entourage on fire.
I call my agent and ask for my close-up. Michael Bay zip lines down from his office that floats in the sky. We eat explosions and talk about doing lunch. We lock eyes. He asks if I’m ready and we get collagen injected into our mansions.