My Brush With Greatness? 

or like Kate Nash would sing... why you being a dickhead for?  

Okay, so today we had a Super Bowl Playa on our little dog and pony show. He was scheduled to be interviewed in the first segment, then participate in the next three segments which were as follows--a display of a buttload of Steelers merchandise, a weather segment and a cooking segment. It's local TV, Dude... it's all drivel.

Let me say up front... I was never fond of this creep. I honestly think he's a criminal, but he was going to be our guest, so I had to play along. 

So Beets and I go into the green room beforehand to chat and ask for a photo op. This cat is all hunched down in the chair wearing his brash, big-ass bro hooded coat giving off his best ghetto tude. You know the one, the "I'm too cool for this joint and if you don't stop buggin' me I'll pop a cap in yo ass" vibe. We say hello and politely ask if we could take a photo. Get this... he says NO! and gives us the big brush off, look-away. 

Excuse me? WTF? What. A. DICK! (and I ain't talking about what's parked in his over sized pantaloons)

I go marching into the newsroom where I'm greeted by the director who proclaims "I think we might have problems with our 'guest'." Uh..Yeah. No shit Sherlock. Turns out he did the major stick-up-his-butt to our producer AND started to weasel out of his on-screen commitment. You're not making friends here, Bubba.

Did I mention he was a DICK? I think I did. 

Now granted Mr. Fame-and-Notoriety-Has-Made-Me-Think-I'm-All-That is only in his early 20s and he's been on the go for over three weeks and he hasn't been home or seen his multitudes of illegit progeny and he's tired and.. and.. and.. Waa Waa Waa   

MAN UP! 

This is what fame costs, Cleatus. You wanted this. And none of those excuses gives you the right to be a ... well, Dickhead. It's "losers" like us common folk who put you on the map, Junior. A lesson you would be wise to learn. But I'm not bitter or anything.

Anywho, so we all brace ourselves for the on-air gangsta tude and the inevitable brush off when, lo and behold, he becomes marginally more engaging as soon as the camera light goes on. Oh, NOW we're Mr. Approachable. Is this how we play? 

When the segment ends, I go into my little trained monkey act (that's part of the gig when you're a floor manager--always having to entertain and make nice-nice) and as pleasantly as possible ask if he'd like to join us for the next segment. 

Him: I'm here now. I might as well stick around.

Me: Don't do us any favors, Ass Face.  :0   Did I say that out loud?! 

That segment goes okay--surprise! Jethro's warming up and on board for the weather bit including adopt a pet. And by "pet" I mean a ginormous pit bull with interlocking jaws of death which tugs at his inner Michael Vick. Now he's all kissing on the pooch, being warm and fuzzy. Go figure. A killer dog brings out the soft underbelly of Mr. Jerk Wad.

Next stop, the kitchen and some crappy, tasteless, low-fat gruel prepared by one of our nicer guests. Along the way from Studio A to Studio B, Gomer starts acting like a human. Too late, Butt Munch. I dump his sorry ass on the other floor manager--he's her problem now. So long, sucker. Don't darken my door again.

This is why I'm hesitant to meet famous people I really admire and enjoy. None of us really liked this goober to begin with, but just imagine how disappointed we'd all have been if we HAD admired him. I tell ya, some people's kids... 

It makes me really appreciate people like "The Ghost Whisperer's" David Conrad who stops by often, is completely down to earth and even takes jump pictures with us. Now HE'S cool!