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By Hillel Aron
By Joseph Tsidulko
By Patrick Range McDonald
By David Futch
By Hillel Aron
By Dennis Romero
By Jill Stewart
By Dennis Romero
After Paris finally put her “portfolio” away, the teacher explained we would all take turns describing our first impressions of each other to help us learn to cast ourselves. A girl named Sandy got up in front of the class. We all started yelling out our impressions of Sandy. “I bet Sandy drives fast cars!” “Sandy looks like a rebel!” “I bet Sandy drinks regular Coke instead of diet!” “Sandy seems more like a dog person than a cat person.”
Paris raised her hand but then blurted out, “Sandy likes to sell seashells by the seashore.”
At this point one thing was clear — this chick was gonna be huge!
As the days passed and Paris sat there with her bedazzled cell phone, drawing pictures of kittens and hearts on her audition pages, I tried desperately to become her friend. When it was her turn to act, she spoke every line like it was right out of a porno (did I mention this was a “Comedy Intensive”?). It also appeared that the only work she put into the scenes was applying bronzer under the table while she waited for her turn. One time she arrived to class an hour and a half late, explaining that she had been pulled over for speeding and now had a date with the police officer for that weekend, but she was going to Berlin so she wasn’t sure what she was going to do.
One day I got a call from someone announcing themself as Paris Hilton’s secretary. “Paris has invited you to her birthday party in Las Vegas.”
I knew we were bound to be friends! During the five-hour drive, I just kept imagining myself finally posing with her, and appearing on Page Six. When I arrived at the overcrowded Vegas nightclub, I was forced to wait in the back of a very long line. “I got a personal call from Paris’ secretary!” I announced to the doorman, who rolled his eyes and told me to get to the back of the line.
When I finally made it in, I looked for Paris’ private party, but to no avail. I was finally directed to a corner of the club, where a blockade of bodyguards wearing Sean John jump suits held firm. Through the human blockade people were screaming and waving their arms. “Paris, over here!” “Look over here — you invited me!” “PARIS, over here!”
Paris, with a pink bow in her hair, sat with her sister, sipping a drink and waving at her “fans.” Dejected, I unwrapped the beret I’d brought her as a gift, put it on and drove back to L.A.
By Andrew Daly
Like most people, I got into show business for the parties. My plan was to quickly amass enough fame and wealth to join the glitterati and turn my life into one big orgy of booze, drugs and orgies. But this goal proved strangely elusive. After years of entertaining small groups of comedy nerds in tiny theaters, I found myself approaching 30, living in the home of an elderly couple in Brooklyn and using a cardboard box for a coffee table. And no one ever had coke.
But all that changed when I was hired to join the cast of MADtv. The moment the offer came in, visions of young Hollywood self-destruction were dancing in my head again. I packed my belongings into my coffee table and moved to Silver Lake, which I chose for its hipness. This was it! I was (marginally) rich! I was (minimally) famous! It was time to take my rightful place as ringleader to the most epic bacchanals of our time!
In my first week of mad television, I got the ball rolling by putting a sign where everyone at the show’s offices could see it. “Party at my place! Bring anyone! 8:30 to question mark. Exclamation point!”
It would prove to be a poorly worded sign.
On the big night, my first guest was a demure-looking stranger in her 60s. She arrived at 8:30 on the dot and introduced herself as June. She said, “I’m a friend of Jackie’s.”
“Jackie ... ”
“She works with you at MAD,” said June.
Oops. I’m not great with names. I knew Jackie could have been someone I spoke to every day, so I pretended to know who she was and I got June her Sprite.
Then two of my friends showed up. We chatted with June for a while and learned that she was an aspiring screenwriter. And then two more strangers arrived. They were in their late 40s and they were odd. They looked like bow-and-arrow hunters or people who made their own soap. I greeted them and was told, “We’re friends of Jackie’s.”