Every Friday you will join me in Bar Fiction, a magical place where the rich, famous and/or beautiful come to drown their sorrows after a long week spent in the spotlight. This week we’re joined by Sony bigwig and circus ringmaster Simon Cowell.
You: Wait a second, is that…
Me: *Sigh* Yes, that’s Simon Cowell.
You: No, I’m talkin’ about this girl that I used to bang sitting at the bar over there – “Hey Lucy! It’s me, remember?” Look, she’s waving! Oh wait, that’s not a wave. Sorry, what were we talking about?
Me: I was just telling you that Simon Cowell is –
You: Wow. Lucy. What a blast from the past. She was a freak, man. I remember this one time, in college, we were fooling around in her room, and she pulled out this set of anal beads –
Me: AAAAANYWAY, as I was saying… Simon Cowell is sitting over there.
You: Who cares.
Me: What, wait?
You: Who cares.
Me: I heard what you said, but I’m a little shocked. He’s one of the most famous men in the world.
You: So? I’m not taken in by the bright lights of show business. I’m a free-spirit, man, I ain’t no corporate shill sucking the d***s of the fat-cats in Hollywood.
Me: Just last week you were chasing a bald guy down the street because you thought you recognized him from an episode of Deal or no Deal.
You: …that was the old me. The new me isn’t interested in all that showbiz glamour.
Me: So I take it you’re not watching X Factor, then?
You: Do I look like a 17-year-old girl to you?
Me: That was a bit of a generalization.
You: It’s not a generalization, my friend, it’s a FACT. The only people who watch TV talent shows are 17-year-old girls and their Moms; Wikipedia it or something.
Me: This has nothing to do with your failed audition, does it?
You: I TOLD YOU TO NEVER BRING THAT UP.
Me: I’m just sayin’, maybe the fact that you didn’t even make it into the live auditions is the reason behind your resentment…
You: It’s too soon, OK? The wounds haven’t had time to heal.
Me: I know man, I know.
You: Look at him. Sitting over there, with his smug, mahogany face. I bet he doesn’t even know that I exist.
Me: Well, probably not considering he’s never met you…
You: But I DO exist. I exist, and I’ve got the singing voice of a thousand cherubs, frolicking in the Garden of Eden.
You: That f***er will never know what beauty he let slip between his British fingers!
You: I need to go over there and give him a piece of my mind.
Me: That’s a bad idea.
You: I’ll be the one who finally knocks some sense into that Limey douchebag!
Me: Please don’t…
You: Don’t even try to stop me!
5 minutes later…
Me: Well that went even worse than I had expected.
You: Sorry I got us kicked out the bar, man.
Me: Did you really have to burst into a Phil Collins medley? Couldn’t you have just punched him?
You: I don’t know what came over me.
Me: And then the bit where you took off your shirt…
You: Yeah, about that…
Me: …and then you started squeezing your nipples…
Me: …d’you wanna talk about it?
You: Let’s find another bar.
Photo Credit: Patricia Schlein/WENN.com