Previously: Janeane Garofalo betrayed Mark Ruffalo by taking a secret meeting with Jimmy Garoppolo of the San Francisco 49ers. Meanwhile, McGruff took a bite out of crime and arrested a Juggalo gang in an abandoned bungalow. Kathryn Bigelow, the film director and not the well-known party planner, wants to make a movie called Bigelow Presents: McGruff, Garofalo, Garoppolo & Ruffalo™. And now:
Jimmy Garoppolo wondered what he was doing here. He was a quarterback, not a detective.
McGruff wondered what he was doing here. He was a well known food racist, and he despised Middle Eastern cuisine. Through his heightened canine tongue, it tasted lazy and stupid.
Janeane Garofalo, Mark Ruffalo, and Kathryn Bigelow knew exactly why they were here. They loved falafel, and the Pita Hovel™ had the best in town. McGruff growled instinctively. He wanted waffles and coffee, not this, this bullshit, this God-awful kerfuffle of foreign spices and texture.
Ruffalo, known for not taking guff, eyed Garoppolo up and down, and then Bigelow. “So, Garoppolo, what makes you think you’ve got what it takes to be a detective?”
Bigelow leaned forward. She anticipated a filmworthy quote. Instead, Garoppolo sloughed off the question like a snake sheds its skin.
Garofalo stifled a burp, “Pass the falafel, Ruffalo.” Without looking, Ruffalo passed the plate.
McGruff scoffed out loud. He could not hide his disdain. His personal short list for partner candidates was well thought out: Sophia Coppola, Scott Bakula, Mr. Snuffleupagus®, and even that traitor, George Papadopoulos. In truth, he desired an Arapaho or a Navajo. They lend native credence to detective agencies. He was not sure why, but he believed this to be true. He stifled his tongue, especially after the Geoffrey Giraffe™ fiasco. Still, he believed diversity was the key to a successful business future, not a dog and three Caucasians.
Garoppolo did not want to be here. He wanted to disappear. Off the football field, he felt like a near-extinct doppelgänger of a buffalo. This meeting was a colossal error. Sure he was rough and tough, but when it came to sleuthing, he was worthless. He hadn’t the first idea what to do if a clue bit him in the ass.
Garofalo nodded, her mouth stuffed with falafel, yet she spoke, grains flew all over the place like mucous from a sneeze. “Bottom line. He’s boffo in my book.”
McGruff huffed and puffed instead of voicing his abhorrence. After all, he was the only detective here. He rued selling his soul, and solo career to carry these two Hollywood ninnies, and potentially a football dolt.
Bigelow filmed the whole thing on her phone. She loved the group dynamic. This was a duffel bag full of drama; the truffle icing of gripping entertainment.
Garoppolo coughed before standing up. “I am not comfortable here. I do football, not strange chemical furfural or whatever the fuck this is.”
Ruffalo took offense and overturned the table, tossing tabouli and falafel all over the place. The blur of colors created a cascading slow motion effect. Bigelow thought some Offenbach music would accompany the moment perfectly. Ruffalo delivered a jawful of fist to Garoppolo. “I’ll show you furfural you over-rated fluff piece.”
McGruff acted as a buffer, standing between them, trying to unruffle the situation. Garoppolo had had enough and shuffled off. Ruffalo rubbed his sore fist. Bigelow kept filming. Garofalo shrugged her shoulders, popped a Zoloft®, and said, “That could have gone better.” Everyone laughed.
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