The Hunt for Remote Remorse

It’s hard to feel bad for Alec Baldwin when his only deeply felt take away from killing a cinematographer on a film he was producing is victimized aggravation for costing him work. Alec Baldwin calls his agent at CAA, “What do you mean Tarantino doesn’t want me to play a young Victor Vega in Reservoir Dogs Without Remorse? Isn’t there a statue of Woody Allen in Spain still standing? Can’t Woody write me a star vehicle where I play Javier Bardem’s chef Dad who butchers the Spanish language after becoming reunited with my pig son in The Mighty Punta Bitch Dad? Isn’t Marty sick of working with Leo yet? Can’t he jam me into a script with Dinero despite that dumb mook on the View these days looking like Betsy Ross falling apart at the seams? Would Seth Rogan be willing to work with me? I can play a recovering alcoholic who becomes a famed pitch person on the QVC for a new brand of gum to wane your addiction off highly boozy IPA’s, called, Hop-O-Rama Chew. But he gets fired from that job because he shoots off at the mouth too much on air about how craft beer enthusiasts in Brooklyn look like special needs hobbits who should be eligible for 3rd term abortions in New York State. I’ll even do voiceover for Kevin Smith in his woke reimagination of She-He Man. I could play the alt right Skeletor with a MAGA hat on top of my purple hoody like the Grand Dragon of disinformation regarding the downside of pubescent genital mutilation despite Billy regretting his decision after mounting a fat assed Latino girl at the China Club on his 18th birthday, after realizing his missing link to banging old school hip-hop beats of yesteryear when Rum Shaker broke big, is gone baby gone.” Challah, thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth