17

When I heard this, I immediately dragged my friend Margaux to the same spot and made her listen to it with me. We obsessed over this thing. A few months later, we returned and ripped the recording by plugging a tape recorder into the audio guide. I play it now for your enjoyment.

You may ask, “Shouldn’t I see the painting before hearing the description?” Absolutely not! No no no. Don’t even google the painting. Your enjoyment of this recording will be far greater if you never see the painting. Just picture yourself standing in front of a painting, any painting, and listen to these academics explain to you why the painting is in a museum in the first place. It is a thing of beauty!

You will ask yourself, as I did that day, “How did it ever come to this?”

I considered transcribing the audio and including it here, but that would ruin it. Just listen. Marvel at the earnestness. The slight academic smugness. The outright futility of it all. And most of all, the timing. It’s perfect in every way.

9:00 a.m. I arrive at the Sony lot in Culver City to sign in and pick up my free t-shirt. There are no more t-shirts available. I feel stabbed in the back by my own union. I forgive, but I will never forget.

9: 05 a.m. I am assigned to picket Gate 1, the executive entrance. My guild has placed me at the front line, to be the public face of the strike in the eyes of the people who count the most. I consider this my second stab in the back.

9:10 a.m. I can’t remember how many laps of this gate I have made. Four, maybe five. I’ve lost track. There is a burning in my calves like I have never experienced before in my life.

9:15 a.m. The distinct taste of rust climbs up through my throat with every wheezing breath. I desperately check the headlines on my iPhone, hoping against hope that this madness will end. That the people who have signed up for the next shift will not have to endure one minute of the pain I have now been subjected to for over seven agonizing minutes.

9:25 a.m. The brain plays tricks on one who is under this much duress. I think I see my father, who has been dead for 15 years. He smiles and offers me a five-foot cone of cotton candy. But when I try to lick it, I am told I am molesting one of my fellow strikers.

9:32 a.m. An older man stops by to chat, telling us that he worked as a teamster for many years and supports our cause. He reaches out to shake my hand. I have never been so afraid.

10:00 a.m. Every muscle in my body screams for mercy with every step. I begin to marvel at my own naiveté. For years I believed in God. Now I know for a fact that he doesn’t exist. He can’t exist. No God would stand idly by, watching this happen to one of his own children.

10:01 a.m. My momentary panic subsides when I think of the people of Darfur. I feel humble, even grateful, to realize that somewhere in the world there are people who may understand what I’m going through.

10:45 a.m. I find a volleyball, which I decorate with the blood from my own hand. I name it Wilson. I am told I am molesting one of my fellow strikers again.

11:00 a.m. A strike captain arrives with news from the front. The strike is getting great coverage in the press. At the NBC lot in Burbank, Jay Leno has shown his support by dropping off Krispy Kreme doughnuts for the strikers. But where is our Jay Leno. Who will be our Jay Leno? Jay Leno can’t help us here.

11:12 a.m. The minutes blend into one another. I have lost all sense of day or night. A policeman stops by to remind us if we parked on the street, we’ll have to move our cars after two hours. I fall to my knees and confess to the 1996 Atlanta bombing.

11:21 a.m. I receive a supportive text message from my wife. I weep, just like a contestant on Survivor, who wins a reward challenge and is allowed a five-minute AOL video chat with her mother, who, just a week earlier, was told her cancer had recurred, but who, during the video chat, tells her daughter she was right to stay on the show, and that she’ll be proud of her no matter what the result, and then, because the producers are so moved by her story, they give her a Pontiac Sunbird.

12:00 p.m. I beg to have my legs amputated.

12:19 p.m. A rumor spreads like wildfire through the line. Late last night, in a back-channel negotiation, our union leaders were also offered a Pontiac Sunbird. They turned it down. What were they thinking?

12:45 p.m. Some of the replacements are beginning to arrive. I see in their young faces something that I once had, but that I will never regain: optimism.

It’s because taking an oath involves touching a bible, and he cannot safely do so without incurring second- or third-degree burns.

Bush, the devout Christian, understands this. And with his well-documented penchant for compassion and empathy, he simply refuses to put another human being in harm’s way to serve his purposes.

The press reports that Bush’s “compromise” would involve Rove speaking off the record to the Congressional committee. But that’s just the broad strokes.

In reality, the president’s compromise spells out in specific language, just how far away from a bible Rove must be at any given time, as well as what kind of protective clothing he is to be given, how often the word “bible” can be used in his presence, and what protocols should be followed if he happens to see a quote from the bible on his way into or out of the building. It’s more or less a Bible Restraining Order.

It’s not that the president doesn’t want the truth to come out, it’s just an extraordinary picture of how far President Bush is willing to go to keep another American safe.

And these kinds of precautions are not new to the Bush Administration. For example, it was widely reported that former Attorney General John Ashcroft held daily prayer meetings at the DOJ. But what’s not well known is that for these prayer meetings, the bible had to literally be teleconferenced in from a safe location. Ashcroft himself couldn’t look at the screen. But an intern from Bob Jones University would look at the screen and then paraphrase the relevant passages. It took a tremendous amount of coordination and expense. But no one disputes it was worth it.

And of course, the biggest hero in all this is Vice President Dick Cheney. Bush has begged him to take precautions against Bible Burns. But this brave man’s man strolls into the White House each and every day, wearing no Haz-Mat suit, no asbestos gloves, no welder’s helmet or anything. The press will tell you about his “heart condition,” but the truth is, Dick Cheney is being slowly burned alive from the inside by the bible across the hall in the Oval Office. An extraordinary sacrifice.

Q. What part of the word “no” didn’t you understand?
A. Actually the word “no” has only one part. And I understand it completely. My persistence has nothing to do with a lack of understanding. Jackass.

Q. Do you expect me to believe that?
A. My expectations have no relevance here. I am simply stating the facts as I understand them. Pindick.

Q. Why do I get stuck with all the losers?
A. Because of your shitty haircut.

Q. Hot enough for you?
A. Yes it is. My body’s requirement for heat is being met, perhaps even exceeded. Now that I think about it, it’s actually quite a bit hotter than I would prefer. But I’m getting off track here. You only asked if it was hot enough for me, and to that, my answer is yes. A resounding yes.

Q. How many times do I have to tell you?
A. That is impossible to determine without the benefit of hindsight. I suggest we avoid even attempting to predetermine how many times you have to tell me. Simply tell me as many times as it takes to achieve your desired result, and then the answer to your question will be self-evident.

Q. Who’s asking?
A. Rocko.

Q. How much do you love me right now?
A. You got tickets?!! God, I called every place in town! They said “O” is sold out for five months! What did you do, blow the concierge or something? Hey, what’s that look for? Geez I make one little joke. Meanwhile I have to listen to you sing that awful Kenny Rogers song every time I get up from a Blackjack table. This is not the weekend I had in mind. I’m sorry. You know what? My blood sugar must be really low. Can we get a bagel or something?

Q. What will they think of next?
A. The next thing they will think of is a way to clone chicken eggs, which will reduce the cost of store-bought eggs by taking the chicken completely out of the loop.

Q. Was that a promise or a threat?
A. It was a threat. Albeit, an empty one. But not as empty as your half-assed challenge to it. Fuckwit.

Q. Who would fuck him?
A. Any person who finds him sufficiently attractive or compelling. Or a whore.

Q. Could you be any stupider?
A. No. I am as stupid, or for that matter, as smart, as I can possibly be. Of course, I am capable of learning, in which case I will become more knowledgeable. I could suffer brain damage, in which case I would become less aware. But my basic intelligence level is more or less set. Pompous fuck.

Q. Working hard or hardly working?
A. Don’t give me that fake camaraderie, you glad-handing jack-off. I’m working and you’re pretending to be like me by asking that pointless question. You’re probably going to bill someone for the time you spent on this non-conversation. Moron.

Q. What the hell do you know about butyrylcholinesterase K variants?
A. A lot more than Gandys and Schoefield, that’s for sure. I was on the original team that determined the frequency of the BCHE-K genotype in the first place, so don’t be so quick to judge. Asswipe.

Q. How bad am I?
A. Superbad, my man. Superbad.

Q. How fucking hard is it to make a good tv show?
A. Really hard.

Add your own. It’s fun.