Plotz Not Cream
I was slinging my papers this morning on the route, when I got to the Hilton (by the way, this is a classy hotel...Their stalls are 25 cents just for regular!). The night clerk told me some celebrities were staying in the hotel, and at first, I think, he was a little reluctant to tell me who they were, but finally he said that Drew Carey and his crew were staying there and were to make a personal appearance later today in Norfolk.
I plotzed. I'll leave it to you to figure out exactly what that Jewish word means, but I can say this; that it is better for a man to plotz for Drew Carey than it is to cream for him. That I did not! But as soon as the clerk told me that I could deliver his paper to him PERSONALLY (if I could figure out what room he was in), I thought for a minute I would cream. But I plotzed, and that was good enough.
I wanted to see if Drew was like most stars (Dorothy Kilgallen, many others) who sleep naked, except for that little night mask, like the one Miss Kilgallen wore on "What's My Line" and was killed in. I realize the bigger they are, the more rest they need , and that neat little mask keeps the light out real good.
I skedaddled upstairs, not sure what room Drew was in, but luckily I saw one of the old night watchmen, who likes me, and has a great deal of pity for me (thank God) and after I shook him a few times and offered him a bite of my candy bar, he gave up the room number. I shant reveal it here, on the internet, in order to honor Drew's privacy.
I knocked on Mr. Carey's door ever so nicely, with a gentle swing and sway of my arm, so as not to wake him. But then the night watchmen suggested that if I didn't knock loud enough to wake him up, that it would take a long time for him to get to the door, probably not until he woke up naturally.
I kicked on the door with my boot then, and it wasn't thirty seconds until the one and only Drew Carey was there in the flesh, indeed wearing only his Dorothy Kilgallen mask, otherwise totally unveiled. I was a little disappointed and started to cry.
Drew Carey, being one of the nicer people in Hollywood, took me in his arms and caressed me (as only two heterosexual men can) and explained that he was sorry that his body was not as buff as it could be, asked me why it mattered to me, then unhinged from my hold, closed the door and said goodnight.
When I got down to the van and left for my next hotel, I realized that it takes a pretty big man to sleep in the raw, except for the Kilgallen mask, open up your hotel door to greet the paper boy in the raw, and then cuddle him in a manly way when he starts to cry over your inadequacies.
And this is my famous person story.
Joe
I plotzed. I'll leave it to you to figure out exactly what that Jewish word means, but I can say this; that it is better for a man to plotz for Drew Carey than it is to cream for him. That I did not! But as soon as the clerk told me that I could deliver his paper to him PERSONALLY (if I could figure out what room he was in), I thought for a minute I would cream. But I plotzed, and that was good enough.
I wanted to see if Drew was like most stars (Dorothy Kilgallen, many others) who sleep naked, except for that little night mask, like the one Miss Kilgallen wore on "What's My Line" and was killed in. I realize the bigger they are, the more rest they need , and that neat little mask keeps the light out real good.
I skedaddled upstairs, not sure what room Drew was in, but luckily I saw one of the old night watchmen, who likes me, and has a great deal of pity for me (thank God) and after I shook him a few times and offered him a bite of my candy bar, he gave up the room number. I shant reveal it here, on the internet, in order to honor Drew's privacy.
I knocked on Mr. Carey's door ever so nicely, with a gentle swing and sway of my arm, so as not to wake him. But then the night watchmen suggested that if I didn't knock loud enough to wake him up, that it would take a long time for him to get to the door, probably not until he woke up naturally.
I kicked on the door with my boot then, and it wasn't thirty seconds until the one and only Drew Carey was there in the flesh, indeed wearing only his Dorothy Kilgallen mask, otherwise totally unveiled. I was a little disappointed and started to cry.
Drew Carey, being one of the nicer people in Hollywood, took me in his arms and caressed me (as only two heterosexual men can) and explained that he was sorry that his body was not as buff as it could be, asked me why it mattered to me, then unhinged from my hold, closed the door and said goodnight.
When I got down to the van and left for my next hotel, I realized that it takes a pretty big man to sleep in the raw, except for the Kilgallen mask, open up your hotel door to greet the paper boy in the raw, and then cuddle him in a manly way when he starts to cry over your inadequacies.
And this is my famous person story.
Joe
posted by Mr. Liberty at 3:07 AM
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