I was present at all of Streisand’s Farewell Tours, Sang a duet of “Say, Say, Say” with Michael Jackson in Budapest, sat Luxury VIP at Justin’s Futuresex/Lovesounds Tour, rode motor bike across the country with Eddie Vedder and Sean Penn, had a recurring role on The West Wing, won three Oscars, trained all the gymnasts at Cirque De Soleil, wrote the bestselling autobiography “I Laugh and I Love That’s How I Stay So Fit!”, made a sex tape with Britney Spears and Kevin Federline (he was on bottom) and I STILL can’t get tickets for f**cking HANNAH MONTANA!
My adopted Anguillan son, Absolam, would be so thankful if some kind, generous, supportive individual would donate a ticket to my sickly, adopted, wretched child. One ticket will do. Absolam can go with the Ritchie’s and play with Rocco and David Banda. I’ll get seaweed facials with Lola, and Zahara. Ooops – mixing up the bastards and adoptees, again.
But the question remains. Out of the billions and trillions of VIP events that I have attended and presided over why the f**ck can I NOT GET A F**KING TICKET TO THE F**KING HANNAH F**CKING MONTANA CONCERT!
[Brief pause. Throws Baby Phat Sunglasses against glass cubed wall. Glasses shatter - upon Glass.]
Incidentally, my assistant, Shoshanna has just whispered to me, that I am the current owner the Staples Center wherein the concert is to be performed. I, apparently, have a private box reserved box.
So, now I am forced to cancel the show.
If I have to go, Absolam will not.
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Beckett Boo, esquire
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