I am wondering if any of you would consider reviewing the book. It will be released on Amazon/Kindle on October 18th. I need reviews from regular folks posted to amazon on the release day, if possible. You get a FREE pdf, word.doc or .mobi (Kindle ebook file) copy and plenty of time between now and mid-October to read it. Let me know, friends!
You want comic relief? Chapter 13 has got it for you! This was so much fun to write and tweak. And I think I did a pretty good job giving each character a distinct personality here. What the heck are we doing in the reality TV world every five chapters or so? You'll see (later)!
Btw, when I was making up reality TV show titles and premises I realized that the sky was the limit. Anything I thought was over the top outrageous and offensive was still "in bounds" by today's "standards"!
And this was something I threw in for fun...The woman’s name is Kiki. She runs a delivery service and she’s got tattoos everywhere.
It's a reference to one of Hayao Miyazaki's lesser known Studio Ghibli movies, "Kiki's Delivery Service"!
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Khail, honey, you know we have a production meeting in half an hour. Stop working out and get yourself ready,” said Dimi Konstantos, star of the number one reality show on TV, Dimi & Khail: U Wish It Wuz U. Dimi’s ascent to stardom began when she appeared as a dancer on some hit music videos in 2005. But her dance moves weren’t what caught the imagination of viewers—what fascinated them were her mammoth breasts, weighing in at size 34DDDD. And these weren’t implants—they were the real deal. By 2007, she was a YouTube sensation after a series of nipslips, which were certainly not accidental. By 2009, the reality show launched and went straight to number one. A year later Dimi’s line of lascivious lingerie, Saturday Night Sexsations, exploded across the malls of America.
“Sweetie, I gotta stay in shape,” Khail grunted, about to hit sit-up number two hundred. “You think The Ebony Adonis can take days off? You know what I gotta do to stay on top? Plus I like to be the entrepreneur. All the stuff I invent, the ideas and shit. I got more goin’ on now than just our show.”
“Put the show first, Khail. You can stay on top by being a bigger part of it,” Dimi insisted. “You’ve been away modeling too much. We’re going to be at show one hundred soon—we need something great for that and you haven’t had a single idea for that show, have you? On top of that, now we have all those submissions from the fans who want to be our next hit series. Do you even know where we’re at on that?”
“Not too much. Chris told me a little. So okay, I’ll be at the meeting. Where’s it at?”
“Jak’s office. Be a man now and show those people you have real ideas for TV—some innovation. You can’t just be a pretty black man parading your abs around. Remember when you told me I should be more than just my titties? When you broke up with me because you said I wasn’t respecting myself? Don’t forget, we got back together because I saw you were right. I listened to you then. So now, listen to me, Khail. You can be more than a stupid fantasy for all those suburban white women out there, getting their perfect little JC Penney white cotton panties all damp, starin’ forever at you in a shiny magazine. Besides, on our show being pretty is supposed to be my thing. I’m supposed to be the pretty one—not you. You don’t wear the leopard thongs. I do. You’re the man. So act like one.”
“Hell, Dim, you don’t got to go shootin’ me down so. I got a big launch coming up. There’s crazy money goin’ on in the fashion world—you just don’t understand. I gotta be in Toronto, then Paris, then Hong Kong. I can’t be the king of the runway unless I work out. Plus I’m more of an entrepreneur. This acting is buggy.”
“All right, people,” said Jak Hammer, executive producer of Dimi & Khail. “Who out there in Middle America wants half a million dollars’ reward? And who wants that and more—their own reality show produced by us, the best in the business? I’ll tell you who. Four thousand rabid fans of Dimi & Khail across the country.”
“Ha, rabid is right!” Chris Bronsteyn muttered.
“Four thousand? Damn!” Khail said. He was wearing torn jeans and a two-thousand-dollar designer linen shirt.
“Jak,” Dimi whined, “can we please turn off the cameras? My nails look terrible. I can’t be darling Dimi 24/7, okay?”
“Yes, Demetria,” Jak sighed. “Lennie, have your guys take the rest of the day off. We’ve got plenty of random office footage already.” Dimi blew Jak an exaggerated kiss. She loved the cameras only as long as she looked fantastic at all times.
“All right, so let’s get this meeting started,” Jak said, rolling up his sleeves and popping open a Red Bull, which was now, sadly, his only vice since his doctor forced him to give up hard liquor. “Trish, start taking notes. For the record, today we’ve got Dimi, Khail, and Chris Bronsteyn, Khail’s baby-faced adviser; plus Julio Campana, Shontae Bridgewater, and myself from the production staff. So, people, today all I want to cover are the e-mail and video submissions from the public for the competition. FYI, the social media on this thing has gone wild. Great idea, Julio, as usual. Chris, Khail insisted we put you on point for this. Where are we on this thing?”
“Yes, Jak, we’re actually now at five thousand submissions. We’ve hired extra interns to weed through them. We should give them hazard pay, I think, considering the possibility that their eyes, ears, or brains, or all the above might start to bleed or even explode from what they’ve been subjected to. Some of the submissions have been mailed from prisons and mental institutions. And there have been plenty more from just plain folk that were scary as hell. By the way, spelling and grammar? Not a part of the equation.”
“Okay, Chris, we get it, not everyone is Stanford material like you.” Jak had already drained his first Red Bull and was popping another open. “This will just make you feel even more superior, right? So drop the ‘I’m better than you’ crap and give us the stories.”
“Jesus, Jak. Take a chill pill along with your caffeine, will you?” Chris shot back, determined not to be cut down by Jak the sleaze. “Anyway, OMG FYI OMG, here are the promising ones so far—”
“Chris, you little fuck, OMG FYI OMG is my fucking catchphrase, understand? You know how many times TNZ has shown me saying that? Cut the crap!”
Chris rolled his eyes and sighed, making sure everyone noticed, then spoke. “First off, there’s a show these down-home folks have tentatively named Bike Path Lovers. It’s about this divorced man and divorced woman in Nebraska who met on a bike path. They’re both about forty-five or so. He’s got dental hygiene issues, but they’re not too gross. They keep meeting secretly on the bike trail because the teenage kids on both sides totally disapprove of them being in love. The guy calls himself ‘No-Tush’ because he says riding his bike all the time has smashed down his ass. Weird. The woman’s name is Kiki. She runs a delivery service and she’s got tattoos everywhere. I mean—everywhere. We could really play with that. Jak, I know that’s a thing for you, the tats in private areas, right? Kiki’s a big girl, but she gets her exercise on her old pink Schwinn, streamers and all, that she had as a girl, pedaling every day to go hookup with No-Tush.”
“You said hookup?” Jak said. “So they actually do it out in the woods? On the trail or whatever?”
“Jak’s getting a woody from this one,” Shontae whispered to Julio.
“Not sure, Jak,” Chris responded. “They sent a bunch of photos of themselves on the trail, standing there by their bikes. Such sad faces. You can see there’s a lot of passion and pain going on at the same time. The kids on both sides are totally obnoxious, all except one. She’s the sweet nerdy twelve-year-old with braces who just wants her daddy to be happy. Apparently the others beat her down and make fun of her flat chest. We’re talking big-time, up-and-coming young effing white-trash talent here. Pass this photo around, Trish. These are the kids.”
“Ooh, damn. I don’t wanna meet up with them out back the Walmart,” Khail yelped. “Check out that white boy’s mullet, whoo-ee!”
“There, see what I mean? And here are a few photos of No-Tush and Kiki. They found a photographer in Omaha to make it up in sepia-tone. Gotta love it.”
“Aww,” Shontae purred. “They’re in love. You can see it. They’re sweeties!”
“I like it. Yeah, this has real potential.” Jak tousled his one-thousand-dollar frosted ‘do.’ “Kind of a Romeo and Juliet upside-down. Instead of Daddy Montague and Old Man Fucking Capulet, we got the kids hassling the adult star-crossed lovers.”
“What’s a Schwinn, Jack?” Dimi asked.
“It’s an old bicycle, Dim. Used to be the top brand back in the day. But by today’s standards they’re kind of heavy and clunky.”
“Like Kiki, then, huh?” Dimi asked. “Yeah, I dig it. She looks so sad. Too bad she’s fat. Look at this other pic—her ass is like two big wobbly dumplings.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot,” Chris said. “She has a tattoo that’s misspelled. Priceless. It says ‘Love Fourever’—F-O-U-R-E-V-E-R.”
“Well, that’s an OMG—FYI,” Julio said, winking over at Chris.
“Yup.” Jak ignored Julio’s swipe. “Okay, moving on. Chris, what’s ne—”
Suddenly, Khail’s 2 Live Crew ringtone blasted away at full volume. He grabbed his cell and began talking. Jak, used to this kind of interruption from Khail or Dimi, sat and waited, drumming his fingers on the table.
“Hey, all y’all, sorry, I gotta take this. It’s the modeling gig in Toronto. I gotta get the details. I’ll go in the hall and talk.”
“Okay, Khail,” Jak said. “Chris—go!”
“All right, number two—Baby Got MBA. Three couples in Palo Alto who are constantly one-upping each other to make sure their precious tiny toddler makes it into Harvard or Yale, MIT, my alma mater, et cetera. They’re the ultimate helicopter parents and they’re proud of it. Their little superbabies are learning Chinese in multiple dialects; they have chess tutors, math tutors, Suzuki violin classes, subliminal motivational tapes that loop all night while the kids are sleeping. They’ve got them set to enter exclusive private kindergartens and even have the kids’ names on internship waiting lists here and there. It’s pretty messed up.”
“Oh wait, aren’t these your parents, Chris?” Jak asked with a smirk.
“Sounds interesting,” Shontae said. “More upscale than the usual stuff. Tell us more.”
“Here are photos.” Chris ignored Jak. “Check out the diversityreally hate each other. They’ve only banded together with the submission because each couple is desperate to get their kid on television. One of the gay guys used to be a porn star—hetero porn—totally not kidding you.”
“Damn. Winner, I think,” Julio declared. “But can’t we get some Hispanic people on there, too? We got to represent my people more. Make sure there’s a kid named Miguel who isn’t just going to grow up to excel at yard maintenance—that’s all I’m saying. We could cast that, you know.”
“I’m sure Jak could do that if he wants,” Shontae said.
“Like I said,” Chris pointed out, “these people are desperate to get on TV. And they’re weird. I can tell you they’ll battle the directors on everything.”
“Good, that’s what we want, Chris. Don’t you know what drives production of reality TV? Haven’t you been paying attention to the behind the scenes?” Jak railed.
“Yeah, okay, Jak. They battle each other, they battle your directors, they kidnap each other’s kids and do secret lobotomies on ’em. Great stuff, right?” Chris said. Oh my God, did I just say all that shit? Lobotomize toddlers? Where did that come from?
“Good!” Jak pulled another Red Bull from the mini-fridge. “Okay, what’s next, Chris, my little man? We’re on a roll, right?”
Khail came back in, still scrolling through messages on his cell. “Yo, people, I gotta be in Toronto for sure next Thursday. They finally figured out when I gotta be there to try on the threads for the new Xania Latrois trunk show. You won’t see me for about five days, ’zat cool with all y’all?”
“Baby, I’ll go with you. I haven’t been to England in forever. We can go to Piccalilli Circus, honey,” Dimi said, smiling all pretty for her man Khail.
“England, Dim? Whatchoo mean, England?”
“Well, Toronto’s part of Canada. It’s somewhere in England, right? They got the damn Queen on their money, I know that. I had some of those bills when I was in Vancouver opening one of our lingerie stores, Khail.” Dimi looked over at Chris, batting her eyes. “Toronto’s in Canada, right, Chris?”
“Well yes, definitely,” Chris concurred with a smile.
“Dim, we got to get you a map to look at or a globe or sumpin’.” Khail shook his head. “Canada ain’t in England. It’s north o’ here. Like on the way to the North Pole.”
“That’s Alaska, honey,” Dimi responded. “Alaska is what you’re thinking of, sweetie. Anyway, now you’re fighting with me and I don’t appreciate you fighting with me when the cameras aren’t rolling.”
“Oh shee-it! Yeah—okay, I’ll shut up now. No sense. Go ahead, Chris. What’s next?”
“You’ll like this one, Khail. Proposed title: Little Men/Big Gas.”
“You say little men, Chris? Is that what I think it is?” Khail flashed his perfect male-model smile.
“You got it, Khail. Little people—your favorite, I know.”
“Khail, you’re sick,” Dimi protested. “What, were you a little people in a goddamn past life? You’ve got a strange obsession with them. Jak, when is this meeting over? I got things to do. I got to shop for dresses, I don’t have time for this stuff. You decide—you and Chris and Julio. And Shontae. Just don’t let Khail have his little people. He’s done enough of that.” Dimi reached into her handbag and pulled out a bottle of antacid, chugging down at least eight ounces. When she was done, there was a little pale-green antacid moustache on her face. Chris and Julio noticed it and grinned at each other.
“Dim, this is just a meeting to look through the entries so far,” Jak explained, weary of being the peacekeeper when things boiled over between Dimi and Khail. “We’re not deciding anything final today.”
“Fine then, I’m so outta here.” She gave Khail a withering look and sashayed out of the office.
Jak sighed. Now only one cray-cray person remained in the room. “All right, Chris, tell us about the little people,” he said, wishing that a sultry, scantily clad young barmaid would bring him a perfectly prepared 7 and 7 right about now.
“Two brothers, about twenty-five. Yes, they’re little people and they live in Reno. They’ve had chronic, very noisy flatulence issues for ten years. The doctors can’t figure out why. They have both had a hard time holding a job, especially if it’s someplace where quiet is important. They were dealers in a casino for a while. The casino was pretty noisy, which benefited them, but the fetid reek of some of their constant gassiness was too much for the tourists to handle. Result? Another lost job for the lads. I feel for these two. They’re actually pretty sweet and quite funny fellows.”
“We could have them trying to get a job in a library,” Shontae suggested. “Set up hidden cameras to get all the people’s reactions when they let a big one fly. Put that in the pilot.”
“Another winner, Chris,” Jak said. “You tell the interns they’ve done a great job. How many more?”
“One more,” said Chris. “Now this one is out there. Ready? Okay, there is this bunch of inbred pig farmers. Somehow all the men are Jesus H. Christ damned butt-ugly but every wife and daughter is totally, bodaciously drop-dead freaking gorgeous.”
“Wait,” Julio said, “the pigs are inbred? Or the farmers?”
“Ha, good one, Hooley.” Chris chuckled. “So these guys say that there are aliens trying to capture their teenage girls and impregnate them. An epically evil outer-space plan to create a whole new race of beautiful blonde three-legged mutants. They say they have footage of a spaceship, supposedly, and all sorts of crazy stuff.”
“Weird. Where are they from?” Jak asked.
“Take a guess.”
“Texas.”
“Alabama.”
“Um, Oklahoma?”
“Nope, you’re all wrong,” Chris said. “Khail, you’ve been quiet so far. You got a guess?”
“I don’t gotta guess, Chris. I know these things. Gotta be Loosiana, where I grew up. Swamp gas state. Aliens use the swamp gas as a cover. Everyone down there knows that.”
“Heck, you’re right, Khail. Good for you.”
“Of course I’m right. Why you so surprised? Why you think I’m stupid, Chris? I mean really, tell me why. Just ’cause I’m pretty? ’Cause I’m a male model? ’Cause I’m black and I’m proud, but I didn’t go to college—some hotshot college like you? But that don’t make me stupid. Besides, I got me a tutor now. Teachin’ me words, man. New words. Here, I got a list o’ power words I’m studying for my teacher.” Khail pulled a ninety-nine-cent spiral notebook out of his five-thousand-dollar Bottega Vaneta alligator-leather handbag and flung it at Chris.
“Hmm, these are tough words,” Chris said, in all earnestness. “Let’s see: reciprocate, pummel, generosity, gorgonzola, emancipate, twerk. Wait, huh? Twerk? Khail, who is this tutor?”
“It’s Theo, one of my bodyguards. He’s done some junior college and he’s damn smart. Listen, man, I can use those words already. Like listen. ‘Hey, muthah, better reciprocate my generosity when I done gave you that emancipated gorgonzola or I might have to pummel your twerkin’ ass.’ See, Chris X-X—not bad for three weeks, huh?”
“That is very impressive, Khail,” Jak said emphatically as he stood up, straightened his tie, and threw on his gold blazer. “Without a doubt, we’re all going to have to stay a safe distance from you and your cheese. Meeting adjourned.”
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