Speaking of Paul Newman
One time in the seventies my dad spotted Paul Newman at a bar he liked to frequent. Minutes later, the following conversation apparently took place:
MY DAD: Hey Paul, can I buy you a drink?
PAUL NEWMAN: No.
I sometimes embellish this story by adding a middle finger or crotch grab on Paul’s behalf. I do that because one time I tried to use his steak sauce and, not realizing the bottle wasn’t one of those plastic capped shaker deals, accidentally glazed my entire kitchen table with it. Imagine your whole meal ruined by some former actor’s tangy blend of ketchup and Worcestershire. Now you know my private pain.
That’s right, Paul. I’ve been telling people you jostled your package in my father’s general direction. Try to live with that kind of press. Your career is ruined. Your grinning visage will sell salad dressings and popcorn no more. Victory is in the hands of the Greenes. Enjoy your long, dark eternity in Hell. I hear they have cable down there (but there’s only one channel, and all they show is “The Dog Whisperer”).