Mr. Blacks in “Hooray for Hollywood”

In our last installment, Mr. Blacks had been living on the street, when he got hired at a law firm.

Within several years, or perhaps hours, it doesn’t really matter, Mr. Blacks became a world-renowned entertainment attorney, taking on some important cases for Lionsgate, Miramax and NBC/Universal. He soon forayed into producing hit films and became an important player in the industry.

We find Mr. Blacks enjoying a chocolate-infused beverage at one of the hippest power lunch locations in Beverly Hills, seated with Jerry Bruckheimer.

“Brucky,” began Mr. Blacks, “don’t you ever get tired of it all? The fame, the clout, the penthouses in Chelsea, the mansions, the yachts, constant sex with models, the diamond-encrusted Porches with vanity plates that say ‘WINNER’, the Uncle Scrooge-esque bins of money, the gold mines, the islands we own in the Bahamas, the gold-woven pants?”

Scrooge McDuck enjoying a swim in his money bin, shortly after the U.S. government purchase of his troubled assets.

Bruckheimer eyed him skeptically, “Nope.”

Mr. Blacks laughed. “Me neither, buddy! Want to have a money bonfire and then make some shitty movies?”

Bruckheimer and Mr. Blacks fist-bumped.

“This is the life, isn’t it?” said Mr. Blacks. “And to think, I went from world-renowned secret agent, to bum on the street, to wealthy Hollywood asshole!”

“Hell,” said Bruckheimer, “I used to live in the smokestack at the smelting plant! In fact, I still sleep there sometimes.”

“Me too!” said Mr. Blacks. “We’ve come a long way, buddy. This gives me an idea for a movie. It’s 3D, no wait, 5D, has CGI mice, an explosion every other second, and in the big twist at the end, it turns out that every single character in the movie was actually some other character in the movie!”

“Love it so far,” said Bruckheimer. “Does it have a plot?”

Mr. Blacks pondered this for a second. “Nope.”

“Perfect!” said Bruckheimer. “Let’s get M. Night to direct.”

M. Night Shyamalan: the twist is that he’s a talentless hack.

“Shyamalan?” said Mr. Blacks with disgust. “That bastard! We’re getting Hitchcock.”

“Well, okay,” said Bruckheimer. “But, wait a minute, I think he’s dead.”

“How about Truffaut?”

“Who?” asked Bruckheimer, skeptically.

“You know, Bob Truffaut,” said Mr. Blacks. “The guy that directed Stab!”

Stab?” sad Bruckheimer.

“You know, the Julius Caeser story.”

“Oh, that movie with all the explosions and CGI lions? Great, I love that guy.”

“Done!” said Mr. Blacks, first bumping Bruckheimer.

Jerry Bruckheimer:  just stop.

All of a sudden, the sound of a Lady GaGa ringtone emanated from Mr. Blacks’ sapphire-encrusted iPhone as it began gently massaging his buttocks. He reached into his Roberto Cavalli skinny jeans, which showed off his bulbous legs and curls of thigh fat, and removed the shimmering device from his back pocket.

“Let’s do this,” he said into the mouth piece. This was how he had taken to answering all phone calls since becoming ultra wealthy and hip.

“Mr. Blacks, sir,” said a female voice on the other line, “it’s me, your personal secretary.”

“Hold on a sec, babe,” said Mr. Blacks, “I gotta put you on Bluetooth so I can look and sound as obnoxious as possible.”

Mr. Blacks put on his Bluetooth. “Let’s do this,” he said again.

“Well sir,” said the other voice, “I’ve got some exciting news for you! You’ve won a Grammy! Should I send for your driver to come pick you up and take you to the ceremony?”

Mr. Blacks thought a minute, “No, sweetheart, I’d prefer if you’d get ten thousand production assistants to act as a human bridge, and I’ll just walk across their backs.”

“Excellent, sir,” said the voice on the other end. “See you at the ceremony.”

Mr. Blacks put his phone into its ruby-encrusted Gucci case and sat in his chair with a self-satisfied smile on his face. “You’ve done it again Blacksy!” he said. “And to think I accomplished all this as the non-Jewish lawyer. And what’s more I just won a Grammy and I’ve never even recorded or produced music in my entire life!”

Ain’t no shame in that.

He was now sitting by himself, as Bruckheimer had long since left to grab a quick power nap in his favorite smokestack.

Pondering his own awesomeness, Mr. Blacks soon became fixated on the light bulbs in the restaurant. He summoned the waiter. “Excuse me, but these bulbs aren’t fluorescent. Do you have any idea how environmentally harmful and totally non-Euro that is? Get me the manager.”

The waiter called the manager who soon appeared at the table. Mr. Blacks started to lecture him about the light bulbs, but the manager interrupted him.

“Are you the gentleman who double-parked his ruby-encrusted double-sized Hummer out front? You left all your lights on, and your vehicle is rapidly leaking gasoline.”

“Shut up! Stop wasting my time! I have to leave now so I can read the newest Eckhart Tolle on my iPad and get in a quick Pilates sesh before the ceremony.”

The manager looked skeptical. “You do Pilates?”

“Of course,” said Mr. Blacks. “Who doesn’t? That is, if you count sitting in a chair eating bear claws and watching women bend over in revealing outfits doing Pilates. Which I do. Have you seen what it’s done for my glutes and core?”

The manager shuddered as Mr. Blacks’ belly spilled out of his cashmere Dolce and Gabanna T-shirt.

“Very good, sir,” said the manager, leaving Mr. Blacks to continue smiling at his own importance.

“OMG, I have got to tweet this,” Mr. Blacks intoned in a newly high-pitched voice, typing into his iPhone.

When he was done, he got up and said, “Come on Mackenie, let’s get outta here.” He put his toy Chihuahua in his Prada bag and headed for his ruby-encrusted hummer.

What the hell, GM? You don’t make these anymore? And you wonder why you needed a bailout.

Later that evening, Mr. Blacks walked down a red carpet with Kim Kardashian on his arm, and the two took a seat inside.

Although the Grammys are usually held at the Staples Center in downtown Los Angeles, Mr. Blacks and his date were actually seated in some lawn chairs in a defunct Staples Office Super Store in the San Fernando Valley.

A man wearing a black overcoat, dark glasses and other villainous paraphernalia walked up to a podium.

“Gut evening,” he started in a generically evil foreign accent. “Velcome to ze Grammys. And now ze only award vee are preesenting this evening….Most best awesome guy! Ant ze award goes to…”

Mr. Blacks wiped his brow, looking around. “Whew, the suspense is killing me!”

The trench-coated man continued, “Mr. Blacks!”

Mr. Blacks started walking towards the podium, wiping a few tears from his eye.

He got out some cards and cleared his throat to begin his speech, when the trench-coated man pulled out a revolver.

“Hold it right there, Blacks,” he said in a raspy voice.  “This is a front! And now I’m going to kill you! Don’t you recognize me as your old nemesis?”

“The head ape?”

“No, you fool, I’m Mr. Bad Guy! I realized long ago that your producer act vas a cover for your latest plot to foil us. But ze tables haf turned, and eet is I who haf foiled you! All ze doors haf been locked. There ees no escape.”

“Damn it, how could I have been so gullible? I should have known those guys banging on upside down trash cans weren’t the Jonas Brothers dueting with Elton John. Although they were pretty good!”

Kim Kardashian raised her hand. “Um, does this mean I can leave now?”

“I was expecting something different when you said your name was Mr. Blacks, anyway.”

“Yes of course,” said Mr. Blacks, “The only reason you’re here is because Big Betty is dating James Franco.”

“Ha, ha, you fool,” said Dr. Bad Guy to Mr. Blacks. “Were you really so smug as to think that you had won a Grammy when you don’t even work in music? Did you really think you would get an award just for being a rich asshole?”

Mr. Blacks thought about this for a second and laughed. “I suppose that was a little silly.”

At this point, Mr. Blacks’ iPhone vibrated and he received a text message from the Recording Academy.

“No, scratch that,” said Mr. Blacks. “They actually just gave me a lifetime achievement award.”

Giving out meaningless awards since 1957.

“Damn it,” said Dr. Bad Guy. “I guess ze Grammys really are a farce! So much for my award for best spoken vord album. But zat doesn’t matter now! Say your prayers, Blacks!”

He cocked the gun.

Just then, several good guy agents fire-bombed the front of the building and came in with tanks.

“I don’t think so” said one of the agent. “Mr. Blacks, we’ve got your back! And congratulations on your brilliant cover as producer of terrible shlock in order to systematically numb the minds of our enemies. It was genius! We’re reinstating you as head of the Bureau. Welcome back to team USA.”

At this point the agent shot Dr. Bad Guy squarely in the face with the tank.

“Well so much for him,” said Mr. Blacks. “But, wait a minute! This is all craziness! I don’t want to be a secret agent anymore. I like being a producer. Forget it!”

Just then, Mr. Blacks’ phone began playing “Tonight’s Gonna be a Good Night” by the Black Eyed Peas. “Excuse me for a moment.”

Mr. Blacks put the phone to his ear. “Let’s do this.”

“Mr. Blacks, this is your financial planner. I’m calling to tell you that you’re totally broke. You don’t have a cent to your name. In fact, you owe Sony $10 million.”

“What?” Mr. Blacks sputtered. “How?”

“Well, your latest movie was a total flop. You got too arrogant! Didn’t you know that audiences wouldn’t want to see a movie that just showed a tight closeup of your own face for 4 hours?”

“Damn! Well, it was a departure form the formula, but all the women I buy Ferraris for say I’m the most beautiful man in the world!” Mr. Blacks said.

“Well, I’m sorry, but you’re ruined,” said the planner.

“Okay, so that one movie was a failure. But surely that can’t have cost me my entire fortune?”

“No,” said the financial planner, “I embezzled the rest.”

“What?” Mr. Blacks squealed, “Can’t the government protect me from that sort of thing?”

“Nope,” said the financial planner.

Mr. Blacks looked over at the government agents in the tanks.

“Nope,” said the agents.

“Oh well. Then I guess it’s back to swinging, world-famous spy for me.”

“Perfect!” said the agent. “Your next assignment involves an eerie, abandoned local amusement park in Texas.”

“Here is your officially designated government vehicle.”

“Alright! Mr. Blacks is going to Texas”, Mr. Blacks said excitedly, fist-bumping the agent. “But first, you’re fired, you fool!”

“Yes, sir,” the agent said, dejectedly, ripping off his badge and walking away.

Mr. Blacks just smiled and danced by himself to his ringtone.

THE END

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