Saturday, April 09, 2011

Priests wear blue collars.

I work on the set of Taxi.

There is the short fat balding one,

there is the funny crazy one; the wacky guy. So zany.

There is that mouthy cunt, what’s-her-name.

And the accent-guy, fucking foreigners.

There is that one guy we can all relate to because he is us, detached and cool.

There is that vehicle in which we always envision ourselves. Like a soul.

It never says a thing because it is the last thing and sometimes the never thing that we ever think about eventhough the show brags it’s name: the taxi.

That quiet little cab just sits there and waits to carry these fools. It never says a thing.

It never moves a man to cry; but I do.

I weep for that little yellow taxi in that Taxi shop.

Surrounded by idiots and failures.

I work on the set of Taxi.

There is that mouthy cunt and there is the joker and there is the boss and there is the cool-jerk.

And here is the cab.