Sometimes being an actor is like a 50-yard field goal in NFL, wherein your butt is the football.I posted a few months ago about getting to kiss a Playboy playmate in a scene in a movie. What I didn’t mention was the gist of the scene: the woman I was kissing wasn’t my girlfriend, and when my girlfriend showed up she was one pissed chick, and delivered a richly-deserved slap across my face.
My girlfriend was played by an actress named Timmi Cragg, pictured with me, above. Timmi is a super-sweet Canadian girl, and was hesitant to really whale on me. Attempting to be some sort of a dedicated actor, I told her to let it rip.
What ensued was a series of me answering the door, Timmi cranking me in the face, the director yelling cut, Timmi apologizing and me telling her I was fine. Then I’d close the door for the next take and mouth a giant “Ow!” to the crew, who cracked up every time. Twelve takes of that. My jaw clicked for week.
Now I know certain friends will leave comments about this post, questioning my manhood, which is fine (I get it – a 105-lb. woman rendered me a wuss). But the reason I wrote this today was more cathartic than anything else. You see, I found out last week that the boss who replaced the toilet seat boss, a man who turned out to be twice the jerkoff of his predecessor, is retiring at age 52 and moving to Cabo.
I simmered about it until yesterday, when one of my best friends pointed out that people who retire at age 52 are often doing so because they hated their careers. And that was this douche in a nutshell. I felt remarkably better, because I truly love my career. I get to go places few people get to go to. I get to meet people (and sometimes monkeys) few people get to meet. And I’ll be doing it well past the age of 152. Yes, 152. That ain’t a typo.
So enjoy thinking about your legacy every day in Mexico, pendejo. I gotta go get paid to kiss a Playboy playmate.
