Mike Bridenstine's Tumblr Thing

I just watched the first two Harry Potter movies.  I’m a real wild man.  But you know what bothered me?  They celebrate Christmas at Hogwarts.  Think about it.  That makes no sense.  I just don’t see how they’d be impressed.  Jesus turned water into wine?  A flying car saved Ron and Harry from a giant talking spider.  You know how they found out what house they were in?  A magical talking hat told them.  Unless he was sandbagging in the Bible, Jesus would have been a C student at Hogwarts.  Maybe it’s because his mom was a Muggle, I don’t know.  But Jesus was playing checkers.  Harry, Ron and Hermione were playing wizard chess.

On international pop superstar, Justin Bieber’s, 17th birthday, he took his internationally-famous actress/singer girlfriend, Selena Gomez, to the Presidential Suite at the St. Regis Monarch Beach hotel in Dana Point, California.  It made the tabloids because the room was 3,000 square feet, had a butler, a dining room to seat ten and a balcony overlooking the ocean.  Oh, and it cost $6,000 per night.  The tabloids loved mentioning that Biebs really “spared no expense.”  Hotshot teen heartthrob millionaire shit.

Anyway, a friend of mine just spent a week at a hospital in Glendale because he had some blood clots in his leg.  A night in his dumpy hospital room cost him the exact same as Bieber’s rich kid romantic rendezvous.  $6,000 a night.  That doesn’t count his other expenses.  That’s just to stay there in the room.  Amenities include: no dining room, some awful hospital food and and a view of the distant, who-gives-a-shit Verdugo Mountains and a hole in the ground where Armenian construction workers were building a new car dealership, or whatever.  Oh, and I think he had cable and wifi.  It could be all yours for $6,000 a night.   

If you stay at the Chairman Suite at the Bellagio in Las Vegas (that’s the place with the crazy fountain), you get a personal staff, a home theater system and a full-service bar, plus VIP seating at Cirque du Soleil.  Same price.  The Skylofts at MGM Grand are 6,000 square feet with a full bar, a library, a gym, a full-service kitchen and a pool.  Same price.  To stay at the Duplex Apartments at Encore, you have to have a $300,000 credit line to gamble.  They have a billiards room and a massage room.  Same price.  $6,000 a night. 

You can get all that awesome shit that I’m assuming only teen heartthrobs or Saudi Princes or the head of the fucking Yakuza actually buy.  Or you could go to a hospital in Glendale with 3/5 stars on Yelp.  

U-S-A!  U-S-A!

I’ve been known to complain about my auditions from time to time.  Because I really have had some bad ones.  I’ve gone in for roles where the description actually said things like, “sausage-like fingers” or “sloppy, slovenly boy” or whatever.  I’ve taken off my shirt in the audition room and had a director (who didn’t book me) say, “Now THAT’S comedy.”  But I got sick of it.  Being called fat on a daily basis lost its luster after a while and I decided to start going to the gym.  And I’ve been surprisingly good about it for the past six months.  I even have some muscles and stuff now.  I’m no Greek god, but for me I have to admit I look okay for once.  Despite all of that, last week I still managed to have the worst audition of my entire life.  

The audition was a callback for a vodka brand I don’t know if I’m allowed to mention.  And the spot had two regular-looking dudes and two gorgeous model babes.  The model babes were supposed to turn to the dudes next to them and start making out with them.  I guess the point of the ad is that fake vodka malt liquor drinks make women super horny for whoever is around.  And I didn’t go to the first audition, but apparently people actually had to kiss each other that day.  So, when we got put into groups of four, everyone but me had the expectation of having another makeout session.  The two girls in my group looked absolutely disgusted that they were potentially going to have to touch me with their hot model lips.  They actually boxed me out of their small talk actor conversation as we waited to go into the room.  Like, we were sitting on a bench in a group of four and one of the girls completely had her back to me as if I wasn’t there.  I didn’t get it at first, until I found out what we’d be doing.  Then I realized they weren’t being rude.  They thought I was the rude one for showing up looking so unkissable.   

When it was our turn to audition, the situation got even worse.  I walked into the room first and stood off to the left.  The other guy stood to the right, leaving space in the middle for the two women.  Instead of going to the middle (and next to sloppy, slovenly me), both of the chicks stood to the right of the other dude.  Like, they couldn’t get farther away from me if they tried.  And it’s not like the other guy was some heartthrob.  He was just a regular dude too.  But apparently I am so bad, that now these ladies were falling all over themselves to be in the kissing audition with him and not me.  I wanted to just say, “I fucking get it, ladies.  I’m super gross.  I’m not going to try to rub my boner on you.  We’re just going to be acting.”  And another part of me wanted to say, “Playing hard to get, I see.  Come here and let me touch you with my sausage-like fingers.” 

The good news (for the models) is that the director said they changed the spot and that none of us had to kiss.  The palpable relief on the girls’ faces would have been hilarious if it didn’t make me feel like such a creep.  I felt like I was in middle school again and everyone had coupled off to french in some kid’s basement and I was calling my mom for a ride home.  Except with two models and a camera. 

When I got home I was half laughing about it to myself and half pissed.  And I knew I’d heard one of the model girls’ names before, and it was bothering me, so I decided to Google her.  And I’m glad I did.  As it turns out, she is - get this - the girlfriend of Dr. Conrad Murray.  If that name doesn’t ring a bell, Dr. Conrad Murray is the guy who murdered Michael Jackson.  Ohmygod.  Were Mark David Chapman or Mavin Gaye’s dad not available?  You remember Thriller, right?  It had “Billy Jean” and “Beat It” and all of the other awesome songs on Thriller.  Yeah, anyway, her boyfriend murdered him.  That’s how unattractive I am to her.  If her boyfriend was a doctor, it would make a little more sense.  But since I’m pretty sure Conrad Murray’s medical license was revoked, he’s kinda just a 60-year-old dude… who killed Michael Jackson.  And she sleeps with him!  Or slept with him, since I think he’s in jail.  But whatever.  She slept with the dude who murdered Thriller, but she can’t kiss me for four seconds of pretend time. 

I guess what I’m saying is, I’m not the best looking guy in the world.  I might have a few extra pounds on me, but I’ve never used prescription drugs to murder Michael Jackson. 

I’m going to the gym tomorrow. 

Check out my new Burger King ad.  His name is Patrick the Puppet.