Fears Of An Entertainment Reporter

It has been awhile since I last featured my resident cranky Mountie. I decided to play around with the point of view of the sort of person who tends to get on his last nerve. Enjoy!

These may be the last words I ever write.

He’s coming, and there’s no way for me to stop him.

How was I supposed to know?

It all started two days ago. I was with Access Hollywood up in Calgary doing a spot on the filming of the Fargo television series. Why a show about a Minnesota town is getting filmed in Canada is beyond me, but then again, Access Hollywood didn’t hire Skip Briggs for his brains. Come to think of it.... how on earth did I manage to make it through school?

Anyway, I’m getting sidetracked. My mind gets easily distracted and I wander off into other subjects a lot. Like when I’m supposed to be interviewing a star about their latest movie and suddenly ice cream enters my mind. That tastes good, I’ll tell you. I could really go for a rocky road ice cream bar right about now, or a sundae with lots of fudge and a cherry on the...

I’m doing it again, aren’t I?

It was supposed to be easy. A nice sit down interview with Billy Bob Thornton to shoot the breeze, some cast in action shots, and we’re golden, right? Hmmm. Billy Bob. I knew a Billy Bob back in the day. Wonder what he’s doing. Maybe having a beer down at the corner bar. Maybe off fishing somewhere. I doubt with the name Billy Bob that he’d be something like a doctor. Particularly since Billy Bob Moffatt just wasn’t all that smart.

And there I go again, right off topic.

That’s not the point. The point is, and I’m coming to it, is that I was just doing an honest day’s work as a member of the highly respected entertainment journalism field. To whoever finds this letter- we are respected! Stop laughing! Like I said, I was just doing an honest day’s work. And then I saw him.

It was Lars Ulrich. He was walking through Olympic Plaza. I thought it strange for two reasons. First, he was wearing the utilities uniform of a Mountie. Second, I wondered why the drummer from Metallica would be spending any time in Calgary while the band was in rehearsals for their next tour.

So I did what any respectable entertainment journalist would do. Hey! Stop laughing! We are respectable! We’re as respectable as the winner of a Miss Universe contest. Which reminds me, I hope the show finds someone else to cover that thing in a few weeks. I was supposed to go, but I don’t think I’m going to survive the night. It’s a shame too, because I was really looking forward to Miss Brazil proclaim her outrage at the loss of her soccer team at the World Cup. I hear they’re all still crying in their tequilas down there...

Oh no. I’m doing it yet again, getting off track.

Where was I?

Oh, right. Lars Ulrich. Olympic Plaza. So I walked right up to him, introduced myself, held out a hand to shake his, and said I was with Access Hollywood. I asked him why he was up in Calgary and not with the band, and by the way, were the rumours true that Metallica would record a song for the Fifty Shades Of Grey soundtrack album. That’s the way I put it.

He didn’t seem amused. His eyes were angry.

He told me in a really low voice that he wasn’t that Lars Ulrich.

I asked if he was certain.

That’s when he hit me.

And man, was it a hit. It was worse than that time I got hit by Miley Cyrus while she was driving away from a bar. Well, that could have all been a lot worse. At least I went over the hood, as opposed to under the wheels like poor Sam Carruthers. You know, his funeral was a travesty. The closed casket had to be used, mind you. There wasn’t much left of his face, after all, and it’s not like you want to be throwing up in someone’s coffin while that someone is inside it, right? Come to think of it... was Miley ever charged for that? Was she driving under the influence?

I’ve let myself get off track again. That happens a lot.

So there I am, sprawled on the ground, and this cranky Lars Ulrich advancing on me. He said something about being a Mountie- I wasn’t paying that much attention... I kept trying to ask if he was just joking around with me. And then, for some reason that I don’t understand, I started running. And running. And running some more.

I don’t really know where I am right now. West of the city, I guess. The mountains are closer, anyway. I found this cabin out in the woods. It’s strange to describe, but I’ve felt him tracking me. He’s still out there, still angry, still ready to tear me a new one. I’m completely out of my depth out here in the wild. The last time I was in the outdoors was a location piece I did during the filming of The Lone Ranger. The Navajo told me they had a name for me. In English it meant Not So Swift. I  still wonder what they were getting at. Anyway, designer clothes and shoes were not meant to be worn in the thickets and the great outdoors. My producer’s going to blast me for all the tears in my pants. Besides, I got chased by an angry moose last night, and the damned thing nearly knocked me out of the tree I was hiding in.

I may have to leave here soon. I can’t take the chance of him closing in on me and throttling me.

Oh no.... it’s too late. I can hear him. He’s out there. It’s an angry voice, more like a growl, and he said my name.

Now there’s a loud bang at the door.

I’m going to die, aren’t I?

Tell my family that I want my inevitable Pulitzer prize put on permanent display at the most prestigious museum in the world. I was too young and beautiful to die!

Post Script; One Week Later

I write this from the hospital bed. Well, it’s actually a nurse doing the writing. I’m in a body cast for the next five months, they tell me, and I’ll be eating my meals through a straw. I’m just dictating.

Well, he didn’t kill me. But there are times I wish he had.

Five months. Imprisoned like this in a body cast. Letting my body mend itself. It’s going to drag on forever. My producer tells me that there’s nothing they can really do. On the one hand, the entire world is still pretty annoyed with that Dark Cabal of entertainment journalists who were plotting to take over the world. On the other, Lars Ulrich- the Mountie, not the drummer- has saved the world on more than one occasion, and the world tends to let him do whatever he wants.

I can’t stay like this for five months. I’m an entertainment reporter. It’s a respected and honourable profession, and I’ve got a fan club that needs me back in action covering all the big celebrity news.

How else will they find out about Jennifer Aniston’s fifty seventh unconfirmed pregnancy?