Acclimation process 

Is there a way to prepare for making out with movie stars?

Grant now believes his black ass has special powers, and I would never have believed him except for yesterday. But before I tell you what happened, and by the way I cannot wait to tell you what happened, I have to explain that Grant has been saying lately that things happen to him, special things, when he's wearing his black ass, as opposed to when he's wearing the white one, even though he bought both from the same online fake padded-ass purveyor.

"Why would your black ass be magic and the white one not be?" I asked.

"I don't question the magic," he said. "I just sit back and let it happen."

But Grant's definition of magic must be a lot more sweeping than mine, because I don't exactly consider magical the fact that he makes more bartending tips when he's wearing his black padded ass instead of the white one or none at all, and the fact remains that he almost always wears the black one. He simply prefers it – especially now that he thinks it's magical – so if special things are going to happen the odds are better of them happening during black-ass time.

And let me take a minute to say, also, that you cannot even tell Grant is wearing a padded ass unless he yanks it up past his waistband to show you. In fact, if you ask me Grant would have to wear 50 pairs of those padded underwear for them to have any effect, because Grant's natural ass is not just flat, it's concave.

But maybe Grant is just trying to take it slowly, the building of his ass; maybe he doesn't want to burst on the scene with a butt where up until recently there was none at all. Who knows, there might need to be some sort of acclimation process. I'm reminded of the passengers on the international flights I used to work, and how they'd plug their ears and pop a handful of Valium to ensure they experienced as little of the journey as possible, so when they arrived they were not prepared. This is opposed to back in the day when people traveled by camelback to the horn of Africa and whatnot. They couldn't help going from one place to the other without acclimating to the people they encountered along the way.

Anyway, Grant and I are in Beverly Hills, an occasion to which Grant credits the power of his black ass. I personally credit our visit with the fact that I wrote a book and the film rights got optioned and it was, like, hard work and shit, but whatever. We had a meeting at the Polo Lounge in the Beverly Hills Hotel, which is a super nice place that evidently, and surprisingly, has no door policy or discrimination process at all, because they let Grant wade on in wearing faded Vans, frayed cutoffs, a T-shirt that said, "Smile You Empty Soul," and a trucker hat emblazoned with a picture of him wearing a trucker hat emblazoned with a picture of him. He was also carrying a plastic bag from the 99-cent store.

We had not gotten two steps past the hostess podium when Grant whispered to me, "George Clooney." And that was all he said, but then that is all he had to say. And I heard Grant say the magic words. I heard him say "George Clooney," but I could not turn around just then on account of how, you know, the perfection of that man's visage might cremate my corneas. But Grant was wearing his padded black ass, so he pushed me on toward Mr. George goddamn fucking Clooney, who had gotten up from his table to greet us – OK, not us in general, but our friend Laura in particular, who was with us, so that counts – and Laura, like, introduced me to George goddamn fucking Clooney, said my name that actually went into his ears and triggered his synapses and everything, and, I swear this is true, GEORGE CLOONEY KISSED ME!!!!!! GEORGE CLOONEY KISSED ME I SWEAR HE DID YOU CAN ASK GRANT HE WAS THERE GEORGE CLOONEY KISSED ME ON MY RIGHT CHEEK I HAVE GEORGE CLOONEY DNA ON MY CHEEK HE KISSED ME ON MY CHEEK KISSED ME KISSED ME KISSED ME.

And right there I was reminded of the passengers I used to serve on the international flights again. Because here Grant and I were, somehow having arrived at the Beverly Hills Hotel, somehow the guests of one movie star and thereby privy to this conversation with another – Grant with his magic black ass and me with my corneas set to cremate, and it occurred to me that I missed the acclimation process. I am unprepared. Then George goddamn fucking Clooney said goodbye and kissed me AGAIN! I SWEAR IT HAPPENED ASK GRANT GEORGE CLOONEY KISSED ME AGAIN HE KISSED ME TWICE TWO TIMES I MADE OUT WITH GEORGE CLOONEY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Hollis Gillespie founded the Shocking Real-Life Writing Academy. Her third book, Trailer Trashed, is out now. www.hollisgillespie.com

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