VC = Very Clueless
I can’t keep this in anymore. At the risk of completely blowing my cover, I have a confession to make. Well, not so much a confession, as a blatant mockery of my moss, boss, whatever, for being so badly punked.
This is the season of Borat. Mainly because he has a movie out. Which by the way you need to go see, like yesterday. If you’re carbon based and have more than ten working neurons, you’ll roll down the theater aisles howling and shrieking at the humorousness of the situations Borat gets in and the absurd reactions he cajoles out of people.
But before Borat, there was (and still is) Ali G, the gangsta wannabe from a nice suburb in London. Ali G somehow gets people like Buzz Aldrin, Donald Trump, and Ralph Nader to sit down with him for a questions and answers session in a purported “youf” program. Hilarity ensues when Ali G cross-examines the guests, who either roll with it because they think it’s a serious TV program or let their true colors show by talking mad shit, thus ensuring that we now how rotten they are.
Take the interview with Pat Buchanan:
Ali G: Does you think that Saddam ever was able to make these weapons of mass destruction, or whatevah, or as they is called, BLTs? (BLT =Â Bacon Lettuce and Tomato sandwich – just in case you’re vegan)
Pat Buchanan: Was Saddam able to make them?
AG: Could he make BLTs?
PB: Yes. At one time, he was using BLTs on the Kurds in the North. If he had anthrax or mustard gas…
AG: Whatevah he put in them…
PB: No, no no. If he had mustard gas, then no
AG: Let’s say he didn’t have mustard and the BLTs was just plain. Would you have been able to go there then?
PB: No
By the way, asswipe Buchanan was not pretending. Classic. (See Ali G at Harvard’s 2004 Commencement Ceremony)
Anyway, once upon a time, Beatrix Kiddo received an odd request for a meeting with Imbecilloid, and because a) the afternoon was so murderously slow, and b)Â the calendar had some blank spaces that needed to be filled up urgently, she agreed to give a meeting to this poor soul. The novel business idea “this poor soul” was looking capital for was: ice cream gloves. As in, big rubber garden gloves that you would put on to avoid ice cream dripping onto your hands, suit, whatevah, and also to keep your hands warm.
The day of the meeting, ”this poor soul” came in decked out in chunky rings, massive gold chain, goat tee, a red tracksuit, wraparound glasses, and Air Jordans. En fin, a proper ghetto man, the likes of which this firm had never seen before. The entrepreneur proceeded to pitch Imbecilloid the most absurd business idea ever conceived (if we don’t count nail sweaters). And Imbecilloid sat there taking notes and nodding politely. I knew he wasn’t going to walk out of the meeting because he has a bad case of cojones-lackingatis and cannot confront anyone if his life depended on it.
In the meantime, I was rolling on the floor outside the meeting room at the sheer hilarity of my naughty evildoings as I had quickly ascertained the identity of “this poor soul” the minute he made it through the suite door. The whole meeting was over in thirty minutes and the boss came out spewing venom at “this clueless guy who has a crap product and will never amount to anything.” I think it was the lack of a Power Point presentation that made him so mad.
Fast forward five months. I’m in my couch murdering the Fritos bag and watching the telly. And who comes out?! Imbecilloid and the “Clueless” guy who suddenly didn’t seem so clueless after all. The joke, it seems, was on my boss.
“This poor soul’s” name?
Ali G.
Booyakasha!Â
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