Initially, I was going to rail on Jada Pinkett Smith. She has no idea what is what anymore. She needs to just shut the fuck up and enjoy the millions of dollars she has the privilege to earn honestly, living the dream of a wealthy scientologist. Publicly crying about not being nominated for an award, a Golden Globe, no less, is deserving of a serious ass-whooping. Obviously, you’ve lost your sense of priority, humility, and reality. Boo-hoo, my caviar is too salty. Boo-hoo, I got a cramp in my hand from counting all my fucking money. Boo-hoo, I miss the taste of baby laxative in my pure rock cocaine. Boo-hoo, old school Disney’s Duck Tales™is so much better than this new computerized shit.
Instead, I will conclude the story I began a couple of weeks ago here and here. Previously on “Sparkle while you can, die trying”. “God damn you son of a bitch, give me back my pancreas! I still need that.” And now…
Marco Richards was slated for bigger and greater things. He had it going on. There’s no denying it; he was full of moxie and chutzpah. What Einstein was for modern physics (The science, not the latest sex manual from Ikea™), Marco was for humanity. He was the last sparkle of a can of Coca-Cola® rapidly going flat. Sadly, like so many protagonists, he had one major flaw that would deny him from his destiny.
If you were looking for a textbook case of debilitating inner conflict, look no further than Marco Richards. It was not a coincidence that he bared a great resemblance to racist-shamed comedic actor, Michael Richards, famously known for his role of Kramer, in the widely popular NBC sit-com Seinfeld, lesser known for his role as a cast member in the comedy troupe on the ABC show, Fridays. A reasonable side note: people ought to look into this thing called grooming with a comb or pick. As slovenly as Marco’s hairstyle was, this was not even close to his “fatal flaw”.
If only he could have tamed his stupid pride or whatever it was that prevented him from success. He could have been a legend. But no, he could not control his facial expression when confronted by a scent he found questionable, like a misplaced garlic burp. By questionable, I mean rank and foul. At first, he wasn’t even aware of what his face was doing in the presence of malodorous environments. Someone had to tell him. His face crinkled up and he closed his eyes tight. Then he would hold his breath in the most obvious way, until his face turned bright red. On the hottest day of summer, a sweaty garbage truck drove by. Marco took a deep inadvertent whiff, and his face was permanently scarred with the dreaded stink face. It’s hard to get a job looking like that.
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