Excuse me, dahrlings, but...

People Get Ready, There’s A Plane A Comin’

You know when you want something so bad, Pumpkins, it’s all you can think about. You actually believe you can will him to happen.

Like when the grizzled Grey Goose truck driver gives you that eye. And you piddle yourself – just a little. (I refuse to wear those diapers no matter how many times Whoopi says it’s a party in your pants.) I’ve had parties in my pants, and that ain’t it.

Anyhoo – that’s the kind of desire i see in agent’s eyes. In the cute little drool that collects in the corners of their mouths. Sogging up their masks. The dahrlings can feel the booking. It’s there … just out of reach. Postponed so many times it’s moved to another galaxy in the space time continuum. And your payment? You’ll be long gone before that gets processed.

It’s torture is what it is. The big sales are coming, Pumpkins. In the meantime it’s like watching your beautifully displayed ripe tomatoes shrivel up on the shelf. Unwanted. A leaky mess of gooey pulp.

(The last time my tomatoes leaked the surgeon had to take them out. Now I have prunes. Which sort of matches my face, so not all is lost.)

And damn it dahrlings, we’re not lost either. The governments have thought of everything. There are vaccinations and loads of tests and apps and regulations for each country. The medical knowledge alone we’ve acquired is a bonus to our skill set. Not to mention the pages and pages of instructions we have to include with each invoice that take hours out of our day. It’s all here to help, dahrlings. So we feel safe.

As consumers nervously shuffle through certificates and poke at their phones in front of a grumpy customs agent, have they ever felt safer?

Except maybe in 2001 when security confiscated water. A bold move to save mankind.

Do not despair my dahrlings. It may all look like your twelve year-olds bedroom right now. But beneath the chaos, the crusty socks, the drawings of fanged dragons ripping your head off, there lies … a tortured child. What I mean to say is that’s all part of the creative process. We’re in the cracking eggs part. So of course it’s all a mess.

But any day now, a beautiful soufflé will rise and we will rejoice. And we will sing.

Ivanna Gabbalot


Part legend, part myth, all woman: Ivanna Gabbalot is OJ’s gossip columnist and considers herself the industry’s conscience. Equally annoying to Open Jaw management and inflated egos in C-suites everywhere, Ivanna works infrequently, preferring to snipe from the sidelines.

Leave a Reply