Bright Lights, Pricey Shoes
Tripping over his pet turtle, which always blocks your entrance into the office, enrages the Pay Less nurtured bunion on your right foot. He insists that the reptile prefers to live in the office, which means, of course, that you're stuck with its complete care. Plus, you're never to refer to it as a turtle. "It's a TERRAPIN, you cretin!" You know it isn't a terrapin; it's a mud turtle. But you need your job, so you comply.
Your jaw clenches as you realize that once again he's off with that will of the wisp Maurice, and his promenading poodles, leaving you with the actual work of writing his books. You figure today he's decked out in his new BOSS Hugo Boss lime green moc toe loafers. He swooned over them when he saw the ad in The New Yorker. "They're to DIE for!" But all you're reminded of are lizard feet.
You're barely thirty, and yet any dreams of ever strutting your stuff in Manolo Blahniks have been dashed. One budget-busting pair of clodhoppers like your grandmother's SASes -- in beige! -- is your destiny, while Lizard Feet sashays around in $400 shoes, the fruits of your labors. You take little comfort in the fact that everyone knows him for the undisciplined, talent-less hack that he is, that he lives for that "roar of the greasepaint, smell of the crowd" adulation. Oh, they know all right. The NY Times speculated that he must have hired a ghost writer because "there is not a thread of comparison between the muddle that was his first book and this marvelous bestseller." Too bad so sad for you that Galleycat linked to the Times piece. Lizard Feet never reads the Times, but when he read Galleycat he yelled, "Drop everything and give me ten ... books!" Then he put on a new pair of Brunomaglis and it was off to the clubs with Maurice, leaving you with the damned turtle and reams of paper to fill.
The Bat Segundo show calls asking you for some info on Lizard Feet for their upcoming podcast interview with him. "Something no one else knows." You don't have time for this, but your foot still hurts almost as much as your salary sparking an overwhelming desire to snark on the vile-tempered one. Purely on impulse, you tell them that Lizard Feet's carefully crafted family history is a sham, that he wasn't born of refined Upper West Side privilege but of a sleazy bathroom transaction in the Times Square Army Recruiting Station. You settle back and smile as you picture Lizard Feet's expression when he's asked, "Is it true that your mother wears Army boots?"
:::Miss Snark checks her bio for Freydian slips::
Score to come