I never finish anything.
(As evidenced by my last post, Instant Vagina.)
Here’s what usually happens: I have an idea. I’m really excited about that idea. Usually it’s an idea about something I want to make, or build, or write. The idea comes to me full-formed, and I can see exactly what the finished product will look like. More specifically, I can see how much everyone will love me when it’s done.
There will be applause. Commendations. Possibly some plaudits.
I’ll have to give a speech. It will be on TV. Newscasters will cut away from their newscasts to bring you the breaking story. I’ll thank my mom, and God, and my agent, and most of all my beautiful wife, Halle Berry.
Then there will be a parade.
I’ll have fans. Fan clubs. Groupies. Girls will compete for my attention by sending gifts of chocolate chip cookies, or blowjobs, or — my favorite — chocolate chip blowjobs.
Female fans will organize sleepovers to discuss me, and to practice kissing. Friendly rivalries for my affection will develop. Luckily, these rivalries will not be anything that can’t be healed by the soothing balm of group sex.
Orgies will ensue, but without any of that post-orgy awkwardness. Nobody will feel weird shaking hands when saying goodbye, even though they know exactly where those hands were just a few minutes before. We’ll all remain friends, and the girls will continue to get along throughout the rest of the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition photo shoot.
And Halle, God love her, will give me her blessing, as well as a lap dance and $14 million in spending cash.
I won’t need the money, of course, but I’ll take it just so she feels appreciated. The truth is, my idea will have generated more money than any human could possibly spend in his lifetime.
I’ll have a mansion. And parties. Hugh Hefner will call. “I hear you’re having a party,” he’ll say. “Can I come? I’ll bring the Playmates.” I’ll laugh. “They’re already here.”
A private jet? Sure, I’ll have a few. I won’t fly in them though. I’ll just have them fly shit to me. I’ll never have to leave the house. “I’ve always wanted to see the pyramids,” I’ll tell my staff.
“Just set ‘em up in the front yard. Wake me when you’re done.”
There will be an entire TV channel dedicated exclusively to covering my extravagant lifestyle. The most popular show will be the one at 7 PM, where I spend obscene amounts of money on stupid shit, just because I can. It will be called, “I Hate That Rich Fucking Asshole, Almost As Much As I Want To Be Him” (or IHTRFAAAMAIWTBH, for short.)
The best episode will be the one where I buy a yacht, then I buy a bigger yacht to take the first one from place to place, so it doesn’t get wet.
After that, I’ll assemble a team of the world’s best scientists and aeronautical engineers to build me a rocket ship. Then I’ll pay another team twice as much to take it apart.
While they’re doing that, I’ll download the entire Taylor Hicks album from BitTorrent, then I’ll buy the CD anyway.
That episode will get nominated for an Emmy. It will win. My channel will do a special called “IHTRFAAAMAIWTBH: Road To The Emmy.” That will also be nominated for an Emmy. It will win too.
We’ll enter into an infinite recursive loop of Emmy wins. Finally, the Emmy people will decide to stop holding the awards show altogether, and just deliver a truckload of Emmy awards to my estate every year. But I’ll have to turn it away, because where am I gonna put all those Emmy awards now that I have all these Oscars?
The hardest part about being the most talented, highest-paid, most revered writer/actor/director/composer in the history of Hollywood will be remembering that film is a collaborative medium, and I couldn’t have done any of it by myself. Then again, if it wasn’t for me, none of those fuckers would have any jobs, so I really kinda will deserve all the credit.
It will be on the set of “IHTRFAAAMAIWTBH: The Movie” that I will meet Natalie Portman. It’ll be awkward knowing how badly she wants to sleep with me. I’ll explain that I’m trying to keep our relationship on a purely professional level, but she’ll insist that me having sex with her several times a day will make the movie better.
It will be impossible to argue with that kind of logic.
The studio will agree. They’ll include money in the film’s budget for a trailer outfitted with a king-size waterbed. Natalie will ask them to also budget for a Himalayan sex swing. They’ll buy two.
Not all of my time will be consumed by having mind-blowing sex. For example, my afternoons will be filled with visits from respected writers, directors, and artists. They will reiterate again how much they respect my work, and how much I have influenced theirs.
Tom Cruise will be there, as well as Tom Hanks, and Tom Sizemore. Spielberg will stop by. Scorcese will drop in. Woody Allen will send chocolates. Jack Nicholson will leave a voicemail. I’ll get a fruit basket from Zach Braff.
At some point, I’ll get tired of spending so much of my time on hedonistic pleasures of the flesh. I’ll decide to do something important, like save the world. I’ll find a cure for cancer. Or AIDS. Or I’ll find a way to give AIDS cancer and knock both of those fuckers out at the same time.
The Nobel Prize ceremony will be nice. I’ll wear a tuxedo.
When the Pope calls, I’ll pick up, even though I’m not Catholic. I’ll thank him for his offer to make me the first-ever living saint. Then I’ll politely decline. After all, being a living saint would be kind of a step down for me.
Yeah, I’m Christ.
But, see, here’s where the problem occurs. I spend so much time thinking about what will happen once I finish my great idea, that I never actually finish my great idea.
I do start the idea. I have to take credit for that. A lot of guys just talk about their ideas, but they never actually take any steps towards actually executing them. But not me. I’m all about executing my ideas. I give them their last meal. I walk them down the green mile. I sit them in the chair, strap down their wrists, and put the electrodes on their temples.
I just never throw the switch.
I have come to find that there’s only one thing in the world better than a great idea: the next great idea. The closer I get to finishing one great idea, the louder I imagine the applause to be when finishing the next one.
Soon, I start thinking, “What am I working on this piece of shit for? I should be working on my new idea.”
Like now, for example.
