Flix Wizard - Hollywood Hard-Ass

So I turn to Will Smith, and he’s standing there
with this hangdog expression like “Yeah, I fucked
up, and I ain’t too big a star to admit it”, and I
lift one of the Oscars off my desk, throw it into
his face and kick him on the left shin. “You listen
here, Jazzy fucking Jeff”, I say. “I don’t give a
kitten’s wank that you went a couple rounds with
Ali, you fuck with me again, it’ll be Ali Baba And
The Forty Thieves on Blackpool Promenade for the
rest of your fucking career. Third thief from the
left, JAZZY, that’ll be you, if I have to endure
another day like today for the rest of my fucking
existence.”

These big celebrities, man. I shit them out my cack-
hole on the hour EVERY hour.

Earlier I asked Jazzy there to pop over to
Starbucks, order me a coffee, then fling it into
the cashier’s face.

You think Flix Wizard drinks coffee outta
Starbucks? I drink coffee brewed by NASA and poured
by Tibetan Monks, the hell am I gonna do with some
pissy cupful of piss from those yokels?

So I’m on a low on account of this sexual
harassment bullshit I gotta contend with right now,
and I sit down in my office and turn on my
widescreen monitor. I got a cheap deal on a radio
transmitter that lets me see the Starbucks security
footage. I say “cheap deal”, but I gave the
motherfucker forty grand for the damn thing anyway,
since I CAN.

I got a couple burgers in my lap, and I’m watching
as Smith wanders into Starbucks, goes up to the
counter, orders a coffee, signs an autograph for
this buck-toothed bastard working the till, gets
the coffee, pays, tips, and leaves. What the FUCK
Smith, what the FUCK are you doing?

He comes into my office bout twenty minutes later.
“The fuck kept you?” I ask him, like I didn’t know.

“Oh, man” he says, playing his shtick. “I soaked
that motherfucker good, burned half his damn ear
off matter of fact. I said ‘You think Flix Wizard
drinks THIS piss? The FUCK he does.’ And then a
couple cracker-ass cops tried to fling some
bullshit jibe at me. I said hey now, just back the
fuck up fore you get SMACKED the fuck up. You know
who I am? I’m Will Motherfucking Smith, and I’m on
a job for Flix Wizard, so if y’all can take your
little local council squabbles elsewhere for a
time, I’m gonna mosey on back to the LOT.”

That sounds great, I tell him. You did good, Smith.

He turns, about to leave, I say hold up just a
second, I got this preview I wanna run past you.
New Scorsese picture, matter of fact, marketing
just got this trailer through to me five minutes
ago. I play back the Smith Starbucks fiasco,
recorded onto a Japanese DVR that I picked up
couple months ago. I’m just about ready to throw it
out. I hear it’s being launched next week. The fuck
do I want this out-dated shit for?

“Well” I say. “That Scorsese. He don’t watch out,
I'm gonna be having trouble suspending my
disbelief. I don’t know how it’s gonna come off,
but he’s gonna have to work double-time to have me
believing THAT shit, let me tell you.”

And that’s about where you came in.

Y’see, you don’t watch out, these celebrity cats
are gonna have you believing they’re the reason you
got the fancy desk in the office, the designer
suits, the gym equipment next to the water cooler.
They get a couple million in the bank, suddenly
they forget who dragged them out that shitty sitcom
nobody was watching whilst there was still time to
save their worthless assholes.

Hey, Hanks, I said one time on the set of
Philadelphia. You know what you are to me? Kip
Wilson. Kip ‘Buffy’ Wilson. And you know what else?
You give me one more grain of bullshit, you’re
gonna be right back there on Bosom Buddies playing
pass-the-fucking-shitty-punchlines with Peter
Scolari. You’re gonna be praying for a Man With One
Red Shoe, Hanks, and while you’re doing that,
there's gonna be a man with One Black Boot up your
corn-ball fucking cack-pipe. I’ll rip every one of
those little curly-pubes out your scalp and mail
them first class to Who The Fuck Is He?

Hanks never gave me no shit after that. Nice guy.
Tried to fuck me one time and I crushed his knee in
a vice. You try that again, I said, and it’s gonna
be Crawl, Forrest Crawl from now on.

This other time I’m having lunch with Spike Lee and
Orlando Bloom, just after that second Lord Of The
Rings picture as it turned out. And me and Spike
are shootin’ the shit, he’s got these big plans for
some flick or other about the blacks, and this
Bloom motherfucker turns to the waitress, raises
his hand and says “Excuse me?”

I watched as the waitress came over, and Bloom’s
giving all this crap about “Could I get a glass of
Evian, please?” He looks at me and Spike. “You guys
want anything?” Spike say’s about he’s cool, and I
just stare right into Bloom’s eyes.

Soon as the waitress leaves the table, off to fetch
this little cocksuckers “Evian”, I lean over and
whisper into Bloom’s ear. “If you ever call one of
those fucking whores over to my table again, if you
ever insinuate that I need them, and not the other
way around, I will tear your fucking eyes out and
tie them up in that fucking ponytail. Ok?”

He starts shaking a little. “Sure, Flix, whatever
you say.”

“Alright then” I say, sniffing back a little bitta
rock’s been sitting at the edge of my nostril for
the past ten minutes. “So Spike, what the fuck
about these crazy black bastards?”

There I am, man. I’m standing right there with my
hand over the plate, and I’m thinking, fuck it. I’m
gonna steal me one of Joel Schumacher’s bagels.
What the fuck does he need so many bagels for?
Comfort food, I’m guessing. Well fuck you Joel, no
amount of shit in your arteries can take any of it
back, not one fucking review, so fuck you.

I could get fired for this shit, for stealing Joel
Schumacher’s bagel. Well, SOMEONE could fired, the
fuck could fire me? Somebody, though, and that’s
never pleasant. Gonna have to fire me somebody,
somebody like Moira. Moira just ain’t been pulling
her weight, and as a result, she ain’t been pulling
mine.

EXAMPLE - I wake up, it’s 4 A.M and I’m in London.
The fuck can I get a decent burger at this hour,
I'm thinking? So I phone Moira, who’s in LA, and I
get her to call room-service at this stuffy British
fucking oh-so-cultured hotel, I.E. SHITHOLE. She
says “couldn’t you call it?” Couldn’t I call it? I
could do a lotta fucking things, Moira, is what I
say. I could get down on my knees and scrub the
shit from off the toilet lid, but I ain’t gonna do
that, cause that’s what I pay fucking Jimmy The
Smith for.

In fact, screw this. Whether or not Schumacher
notices I stole his bagel, I'm still gonna fuckin
fire Moira.

Let me tell you something. I’m Flix Wizard, and I
didn’t get where I am today by ordering my own
motherfucking room service. I was out my mommas
cunny ten minutes before I’d bought the rights to
the immigrant midwife’s lifestory. That’s how on
the ball Flix Wizard is. That’s why I’m top
producer in this business. That’s why when Steve
Sommers came into my office today, I said this shit
right here;

Steve’s been hired to direct a Will Smith picture
about an archaeologist goes missing in space. Steve
gives me all this bullshit. “Blah blah budget blah
blah effects blah blah opening weekend blah blah
actress difficulties blah blah third act sucks.” I
opened the bottom drawer on my marble desk and I
pulled out an old copy of PENTHOUSE I got in there
for sentimental value. I open it at the centrefold
and I wave it in his face.

“See this Sommers”, I said. “This is you. This is
how close you are to being kicked the fuck out of
this studio and halfway across the damn street. One
cum-stain, Sommers. You’re one cum-stain away from
social security. Melanie Griffith don’t wanna read
my lines? Fine, here’s a line for her. “I DON’T DO
ANAL.” She fucks with me one more inch and that’s
the only line she’s ever gonna need.”

Melanie Griffith, man. What the hell, it’s all to
get back at me. She had this thing for me one time,
tried everything to get me in bed. I’m sorry, is
all I could say, but I wouldn’t fuck you, Griffith,
if my dick were on fire and your ass was fulla
lemonade. She’s held this resentment against me
ever since.

So I got Schumacher’s bagel, and I’m halfway down
the hallway, and already I'm on the phone to Moira.
“Moira it’s Flix”, is what I say, “And I got bad
news. I’m afraid your services are not gonna be
required any longer.”

“Why”, she says, all worried. “What’s happened?”

“Oh nothings happened, Moira, in fact, way things
are going, looks like this whole studios gonna be
choking on its own profit this time next week.
Thing is you’re useless, and I ain’t got a vacancy
for Deluded Vacant Non-Person just this week.”

I hang up. I hate having to fire staff, but what
can I do? It was Joel Schumacher’s bagel for Gods
sakes.

I gotta get to my office fucking sharpish. There’s
this TV Writer waiting for me, one of those fucks
who thinks cause they wrote a couple episodes of
The OC they own the damn industry. Things may work
like that down Telly Way, but here we got
standards, and most of those standards involve
telling those pen-cap chewing motherfuckers to kiss
my hole if they think I give a monkey's wank about
what they scribbled on a napkin one time.

Right at the front of my office, plastered on the
door, there’s a photograph of me pissing on the
Best Screenplay Oscar we picked up for one of my
pictures a couple years back. I just want the
writers to know that’s how much I care. That’s how
many fucks I give.

I take the back door into the office, a door only I
know exists, just so as I don’t have to walk past
the degenerates waiting to see me. I take my seat,
wait a couple minutes, then lift my mobile. I let
the PA know I’m ready, and as this shrivelled
specimen slinks into the office, I’m yelling at no-
one on my cell.

“You know what I think?”, I’m shouting, gesturing
at this string a piss to sit down, “I think 24 was
the biggest fuckin piece a shit I ever laid eyes
on. That fuckin’ dope-head from The Lost Boys wants
me to worry about a terrorist is gonna fuck him
over? The FUCK do I care? He shoulda done it two
decades ago and spared us fucking FLASHBACK. Don’t
talk to me about TV. TV is where feature filmmakers
go to fuckin DIE.”

I hang up. Just like to set the mood, is all. Let
this chimp know who’s in charge.

“So”, I say. “Sorry about that. I hear you’re a
writer. What you written?”

As he squirms in his seat choking about “oh, some,
uh, TV, uh stuff, really” I’m already thinking
about how I’m gonna crush him.

MENTAL NOTE – These trousers don’t really
accentuate my package like I’d prefer. Fire the
fucking designer.

AMENDMENT – Hire the fucking designer.

MENTAL NOTE – Fire the fucking designer.