Trapped
All these years. I can't believe how it's all turned out.
Ironically, the song lyric, "Limited," comes to mind. It's sung by that green bitch, in her Broadway show. SHE gets a Broadway show -- whole new story, no longer the villain but some sort of a hero. Meanwhile, I'm living the same-shit-different-day routine for more than 70 years, and someone writes her a whole new role that gets on stage in New York! Y'know, we started at about the same time, both working for MGM, and you know where I am? Still doing shorts on an ever-shrinking screen.
But, hell, it's not her I'm mad at. Nah, she's OK. Good on her, break a fuckin' leg. The one I'm pissed at is that bastard Big Ears.
Can't say his name out loud, now. Might magically appear. Or his lawyers, cuz his frozen boss has to have more money. Mr. Leader of the Band with his own damn empire of parks and TV networks and shit. I've been at this a long while, where the fuck's MY damn network?
No -- I've got to work on someone else's lot -- again -- and once more for that prick, Turner. Never thought I'd miss Bill and Joe so much. Man, I gave them hell every day, but I still miss those assholes. They were the real deal.
So, I'm back in another job, crankin' out the same shit I did 30 years ago -- "I've got an idea, let's have the cat chase you through the whole five-minute episode?" "Or wait, let's have you bug the shit out of him, so the audience can like him again" "Oh! Oh! I've got it! Let's have you team up against the dog!"
Sound familiar? Yeah, I'm still doing that. And they have the bulldog balls to declare "it's all new!"
Not like I haven't tried to break out of this. I made sure those Mammy feet and the other racist shit we did got put in the syndicated reels, so the uptights could lose their minds. We committed violence that made the Manson Family look like a teddy bear picnic, and they went and showed it to kids! Sure, they bitched about it; then they cut three seconds of the maiming and mangling and chopping and blowing-up and showed it to kids again, patting their smug backs about how they fixed it.
Hell, I did everything short of turn to the camera and shout "FUCK!!!" -- and we're still here.
(Come to think of it, I may have actually done that once, around 1981. I don't remember, I was so coked up at the time.)
The cat's no fuckin' help. Y'know that he's Buddhist? Got into it with some hippies in the 60s, but he actually stuck with it, the pussy. Takes everything in stride. Works though stunts that would have Stallone shitting his pants, then goes back to his trailer and gets all serene. Pisses me off. When you see me letting him have it with a hammer or a robot shark or whatever, I'm truly enjoying that.
It's just getting so fucking old! And I'm not getting any younger. I mean, when does Oscar-winning celebrity rodent Gerald "Jerry" Mouse get his due? When do I get to wait for Godot, Gandalf? When do I move from comic schtick to serious films, Mr. Hanks, Mr. Williams? When do I get to just phone it in on a kiddy show while raking in the billions, Mortimer? (Yeah, I know your real name, and a lot more, if you know what I'm sayin')
And, I'm being called onto the set. Sieg Heil, Herr Ted, I'll do your bidding. Be sure to catch my NEW warmed-over scripts on Cartoon Fucking Network, college stoners. And the little tykes can watch too, what the fuck.
Y'know, I've had everything, and I mean everything, thrown at me -- I'm pretty sure there was a nice aluminum kitchen sink involved once -- guns, knives, dynamite, fire, falls, catapults, axes and every blunt object imaginable, along with nets, snares, ropes and even those old-fashioned wire snap-traps, and I've gotten out and away from it all.
But not this. Who knew that old Hanna and Barbera built the perfect mousetrap back in 1940 -- my goddamn contract.
- - - - -
Entry for LJ Idol: Season 9, Week 5, Topic: " Build a Better Mousetrap."
Big thanks to the_dark_snack for the beta-read. For her entry: Faster pussycat, kill, kill!
Ironically, the song lyric, "Limited," comes to mind. It's sung by that green bitch, in her Broadway show. SHE gets a Broadway show -- whole new story, no longer the villain but some sort of a hero. Meanwhile, I'm living the same-shit-different-day routine for more than 70 years, and someone writes her a whole new role that gets on stage in New York! Y'know, we started at about the same time, both working for MGM, and you know where I am? Still doing shorts on an ever-shrinking screen.
But, hell, it's not her I'm mad at. Nah, she's OK. Good on her, break a fuckin' leg. The one I'm pissed at is that bastard Big Ears.
Can't say his name out loud, now. Might magically appear. Or his lawyers, cuz his frozen boss has to have more money. Mr. Leader of the Band with his own damn empire of parks and TV networks and shit. I've been at this a long while, where the fuck's MY damn network?
No -- I've got to work on someone else's lot -- again -- and once more for that prick, Turner. Never thought I'd miss Bill and Joe so much. Man, I gave them hell every day, but I still miss those assholes. They were the real deal.
So, I'm back in another job, crankin' out the same shit I did 30 years ago -- "I've got an idea, let's have the cat chase you through the whole five-minute episode?" "Or wait, let's have you bug the shit out of him, so the audience can like him again" "Oh! Oh! I've got it! Let's have you team up against the dog!"
Sound familiar? Yeah, I'm still doing that. And they have the bulldog balls to declare "it's all new!"
Not like I haven't tried to break out of this. I made sure those Mammy feet and the other racist shit we did got put in the syndicated reels, so the uptights could lose their minds. We committed violence that made the Manson Family look like a teddy bear picnic, and they went and showed it to kids! Sure, they bitched about it; then they cut three seconds of the maiming and mangling and chopping and blowing-up and showed it to kids again, patting their smug backs about how they fixed it.
Hell, I did everything short of turn to the camera and shout "FUCK!!!" -- and we're still here.
(Come to think of it, I may have actually done that once, around 1981. I don't remember, I was so coked up at the time.)
The cat's no fuckin' help. Y'know that he's Buddhist? Got into it with some hippies in the 60s, but he actually stuck with it, the pussy. Takes everything in stride. Works though stunts that would have Stallone shitting his pants, then goes back to his trailer and gets all serene. Pisses me off. When you see me letting him have it with a hammer or a robot shark or whatever, I'm truly enjoying that.
It's just getting so fucking old! And I'm not getting any younger. I mean, when does Oscar-winning celebrity rodent Gerald "Jerry" Mouse get his due? When do I get to wait for Godot, Gandalf? When do I move from comic schtick to serious films, Mr. Hanks, Mr. Williams? When do I get to just phone it in on a kiddy show while raking in the billions, Mortimer? (Yeah, I know your real name, and a lot more, if you know what I'm sayin')
And, I'm being called onto the set. Sieg Heil, Herr Ted, I'll do your bidding. Be sure to catch my NEW warmed-over scripts on Cartoon Fucking Network, college stoners. And the little tykes can watch too, what the fuck.
Y'know, I've had everything, and I mean everything, thrown at me -- I'm pretty sure there was a nice aluminum kitchen sink involved once -- guns, knives, dynamite, fire, falls, catapults, axes and every blunt object imaginable, along with nets, snares, ropes and even those old-fashioned wire snap-traps, and I've gotten out and away from it all.
But not this. Who knew that old Hanna and Barbera built the perfect mousetrap back in 1940 -- my goddamn contract.
- - - - -
Entry for LJ Idol: Season 9, Week 5, Topic: " Build a Better Mousetrap."
Big thanks to the_dark_snack for the beta-read. For her entry: Faster pussycat, kill, kill!