Why be just April's Fool?

Hot blonde soccer mom in my front seat on the Hollywood Death Cab Tour. Just luvely, with her two boys and beer. I can smell the beer with every big swig from her Sponge-Bob 32 ouncer, the other arm supporting a kid. She sez the boys like it here. She likes her beer. It's a good match. Daddy has no idea how she spends her daze. She misses her sales job, takes a weird Hollywood tour more than once, always with a cozy buzz. Can she handle her high? For now, the two 32 ouncers of beer, are followed by a large Sponge-Bob container of soda over the last part of the tour. It used to be a longer cooling period, but she thinks she has the science wired now. "Maam, is this your child?" She was looking at the spot where Belushi ordered his last hit of cocaine, when she hadn't noticed lil' Jenson wandered away bored. Fuck, fuck, fuck she thought to herself. Must handle my high. She was the queen of organizing her drunk life once, taking the thrill as far as it could go before endangering her sober world. She got the soda a half-hour early today, a thanks-offering to her god Bacchus.

Meanwhile, I'm waiting for the shit to storm. I feel like it's a matter of time before I'm outed as an evil force. Before things I blabbed when drunk get communicated to various and sundry. It's one chatty coven at Hollywood Death Cab, and when some of the word-bombs I lobbed at this part to one of my fellow Cabbies come rolling back towards me, I'm gonna lose some limbs. Went to our ESP meeting tonight. Extra Special People is the name of our program for the guides who lead royalty. The Sultan of Brunei, the Prince of Bel Air, the Captain of the Airwaves. All these goombahs need a captain of their Death Cab, and we have an elite fighting team of guides who shuttle them around Hollywood called The Extra Special People. I submitted tonight for the clan, but I fear some of my higher-ups may give me the kibosh, the stink-eye for my recent interaction with administration. I went too far in typing a verbatim transcript of my interaction with a Cab maintenance supervisor, and then quoting it back at him. He's hating me right now. I was just reacting like I was still in accounting culture, where you are held accountable for every utterance. I went overboard, but I thought I was being so thorough. I have this ability to engender hate for myself, when I get this precious. And since there's nothing more subjective then a review of my speil, I feel like I'll be gone when they hit and run me out. Oh well, it was a fun year. The Extra Special guides talk about ESP like it's Harvard. The guy who runs the program tells me he plans on dying at Hollywood Death Cab. Yes, mom and pop raised me to take folks around a scuzzy town in a shitty outfit that makes me look like I work for a Pork Chop Restaurant. Green Polo shirt and courdaroys. Not what an emissary to hollywood should dress like in my mind, but in this costume, I will be the best of the best. A guide, showing all the other outsiders, what the inside of Hollywood looks like when you are about to die, the Hollywood-inside that I wasn't good enuff to be a part of in any long-term way. Great summer job for a 22 year old, but is this the pinnacle of my life? Fuck. Me.