:: Mr. Show-me-your-best-drunken-buffoon-impression ::

Monday, November 25, 2002

Sundays are generally boring. The impending work/school week looms and threatens, focusing your attention on the days ahead while robbing you of any enjoyment derived from the day at hand.

Yesterday, in a markedly successful attempt to alleviate Sunday’s powerful ennui, I happened to meet some friends at a local watering hole where they offer 2-for-1 bloody marys on weekend afternoons. Uh oh.

After drinking my weight in tomato juice, I stumbled outside with the others in an attempt to mosey on down to one of their apartments for a nice communal viewing of ‘The Sopranos’. As we walked down Houston, someone in the group noted that Mr. Show creator and comedy demi-god David Cross had just passed us.

Now I’m a huge fan of Mr. Cross’, but not usually the type to run up to celebrities and gush, ask for autographs, etc (though as a child I was once held by Ernest Borgnine, but seeing as I could not yet talk I believe this to be the doing of my mother). Thank god I had downed 10 stiff drinks, transforming me from a mild-mannered average man-child into a raging, drooling stalker.

Whirling around, I ran back to find him entering a corner deli to retrieve some cash from an ATM. Having just attempted to use the very same ATM mere hours before (to finance my drinking venture), I knew the machine in question was out of order. This was a double-edged sword: I now was able to simply stand outside the deli and wait for him (good), but it now looked to him like I had been standing outside a deli waiting for him (bad). As he emerged, I began the conversation (read: drunken and aggressive accosting) by immediately complimenting him on a sketch I found particularly funny, without so much as a “hello”, “excuse me”, or “hands up, cracker-ass sucka foo!”, because naturally every famous person has no train of thought outside of constantly reviewing their body of work, and I’m sure he was already thinking of that particular sketch anyway, so why bother with an introduction? The next few minutes are still very hazy, but I do recall that I continued to, well, gush frenetically for a few minutes as we walked down the block to the next deli. I said goodbye and let him enter the establishment, but then urgently remembered another hilarious bit from one of his stand-up routines. I rushed back to the deli, knowing he would be using the ATM (good), but now appearing like I wanted to mug him (bad).

“Bytheway - your crack baby impression is hysterical,” I blurted out, causing him to turn quizzically only to find me upon him once again. “I’m freaking you out now,” I astutely noted, “I’m really going to leave this time.”

“Ok,” he said. And those were our parting words.

I bet yesterday was just another boring Sunday in the life of David Cross. It sure as hell wasn’t for me.

Postscript: Why did I buy a digital camera and start carrying it around if not to take pictures of myself with famous people I happen to run into on the street? That was a major blunder.

Post-Postscript: If anyone knows David Cross, his comedy partner Bob Odenkirk, or anyone remotely famous, please apologize profusely for me.

Epilogue: David Cross and Bob Odenkirk went on to continue their prolific and successful career, entertaining millions of people. Morland died naked in a gutter, destitute, unloved, and incessantly raving about his one brief encounter with Mr. Cross.

Moral: When someone asks you if you’re a god, you say yes.

Posted by morland @ 02:02 PM

- Post a comment -

« Pictacular | Main | Then what the hell does the wardrobe represent? »