While it’s a well-known fact that chicks dig a tricked-out ’95 Chrysler Concorde, the same can’t be said for Hollywood producers.I passed this guy’s car the other day, and if you also live in L.A., you’ve most likely done the same. His name is Dennis Woodruff, and he wants you to buy his films.
The car practically burned my corneas, but the loon did grab my curiosity enough to pay a visit to his website. Which, by the way, made the car look positively rational.
Dennis claims to have sold 100,000 movies out of his trunk, and his ongoing network-less reality show features people he bumps into to (translation: starlets he wishes he could bang.) I watched half an episode, and if you suffer from excessive heart burn, shortness of breath or any modicum of taste, stay the hell away from them.
God bless him for making the effort and living out some sort of dream in Hollywood. Many days I wish I worked ten times harder. But if I can’t keep my car one tone, I’ll settle for eating peanut butter out of the jar every night until it’s my predetermined time to shine.
