Wednesday, September 26

The Reporter from Hollywood

(This was an English assignment. We were required to make up our own character introduction in the manner of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales)

One Pilgrim was a man fresh out of his teens
who possessed extravagant taste in jeans.
No expense was spared acquiring that exquisite cut
which most expressively encased his exceptional butt—
for there wasn’t much that he loved more
than getting his cheeks squoze until they were sore.

To boast a fair derriere was his ace
considering that he had an unmemorable face!
The composition of his features made such an impression
that had Secret Agent been his chosen profession
it would have served him well,
because—hell!—(you’ll pardon my digression);
anybody who met him would be hard-pressed thereafter
to recall whether or not he looked quick to laughter,
or sharp of tooth, or square of jaw—
whether the skin ‘round his nose looked reddish or raw.
Had he eyes green and sly or soulful and black—
limpid pools like the sky or red-rimmed from smack?
Was he powerful or pallid, obese or just right?
Was he sexy and dashing—did he look like a knight?
Was his stride somewhat hinky?
Were his eyes too close-set? His nose a bit dinky?
Alack-a-day! Who are we to know
whether he looked as from Heaven or from down below!
(A rumor went ‘round, three years back—maybe four—
his own mom called him “Masher!” when he surprised her at a store).
I wonder: “Were his eyebrows joined as though musing a riddle,
bisecting his face where they met in the middle?”
Enough!
One could ruin days ruminating on such stuff!

“But wait!” you ask, “What did this dandy do?”
Hush your mouth, little sawcebox, and I shall tell you!
From an esteemed journalism school he’d earned his degree
and now a reporter was he for the network of E!
The name he went by was Greg Orree.
The intricacies of Hollywood he studied carefully
because how can world events or D.C. dullness compare with showbiz—
would you rather have a man at a podium or an eyeful of Paris (Hilton, that is)?

Mr. Greg Orree owned book upon book
dissecting and labeling every possible look
or turn of phrase or nod of head
known to betray whom was sleeping in whom else’s bed.
Among his fellow correspondents he found nary a peer,
(actor wannabes who wouldn’t know a Hamlet from a King Lear),
not one of them could discern a slight from a spurn—
which in this business was a very necessary difference to learn!
(Celebrities are congenitally capricious creatures,
one needs a sixth sense to read their voices and features
and deduce when a curse is implied by a sigh,
or whether “Hello” means “Piss off” or “Hi!”).

The employees of E! thought Greg a real peach.
They took turns imitating his swagger and his speech,
‘cause as notorious as his need to be invitingly knickered
was the quirk at which these colleagues quietly snickered:
“Get the just of it,” had become his well-known catch-phrase
yet they were taxed to remember the most hackneyed clich├ęs.
(Poor Greg was innocent of his pet malapropism,
for “gist” he confused with that crude substance, jism).

Truth be told, they were jealous, and here is the reason:
Orree was the most sought-after man in town come Awards Season!
In the off-season, too, invites to his mailbox flew,
he came to work often in frocks from last evening’s do.
From his lips fell reviews of each night’s best-dressed,
stories of sloshed starlets he’d managed to molest,
fairy tale weddings with fountains of champagne,
and epic gambling bashes with mountains of cocaine.

Last Christmas he’d spent at George Clooney’s house in Italy,
and the Lake Como terrain he’d photographed most prettily.
These photos ensured his workmates’ ill will did not waiver
when he used them for his office computer’s screen saver.
Anecdotes about Christmas with George had he plenty—
he would be Godfather to Brangelina child number twenty!
And Malibu beach parties? Man, he’d seen dozens—
at one his booty was grabbed by three of LiLo’s cousins!
Ah, if only that tush could but speak,
it would have its own talk show each night of the week!

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