Dear Mr. Galifianakis:
Today is the 100th Sunday since the 87th Thursday beyond the very first Monday that I began my heretofore financially unprofitable yet still artistically rewarding comedy career.
I originally just went out to buy socks.
So that’s what makes it an especially weird coinkydinky that I should suddenly remember a strange story I wrote many months ago (about 36.8) which involved your persona. I invite you to take a look at (and also proof-read, please) the following passage. Feel free to provide any positive feedback that you can possibly muster.
Some people have nocturnal emissions; I have “daydream admissions”. Occasionally I imagine meeting famous comics. Wouldn’t it be weird if someone with a terminal illness told the Make A Wish Foundation their desire was to be on an episode of the web series, “Between Two Ferns with Zach Galifianakis”? That’s what I would do. But then, I’d probably feel so depressed about my prognosis, I’d be a total drag to interview. And why would they want a non-celebrity on that show, anyway? (Honestly, this is the kind of shit I think about.)
What follows is an example of one of the daydreams I had. I admit that I sort of envision myself as the downtrodden housewife, Naomi.
A Funny Story Involving the Star Zach Galifianakis and Naomi the Downtrodden Housewife
A downtrodden housewife called Naomi goes to famous cougar vixen singer Sheryl Crow’s concert at the local boutiquey musical venue. It’s a lively show, and from blocks away, one can hear the strains of Sheryl singing her latest sellout pedestrian hit (no pun intended), “I Get By With My Nice Body”. Naomi would rather have heard more of Sheryl’s earlier, better work, from her first album, “I Tap Liberally Into Other People’s Creativity On Tuesday Evenings”.
After the concert is over, Naomi tries to exit the venue, but gets lost and somehow stumbles into an after-party for Crow, crowded with her entourage and guests. At first Naomi’s horrified, but then she realizes she’s not likely to ever get to be at such a party again, and she is just crazy enough to decide to fake it and pretend like she thinks she’s invited. She actually spots a local musician/teacher she knows, and they start drinking champagne and conversing about the early Crow songs. At this point, the Star of the Show spots the Intruder and becomes infuriated that her party has been crashed. She makes a beeline for the frumpy housewife, and ejects her from the party. As Naomi slinks away, she loudly slurs, ”Well anyway, you’ll still be a bitch in the morning.”
Naomi ponders what just happened. She thought she’d seen a sympathetic pair of eyes in the crowd as the horrible exchange with diva-lady Sheryl unfolded. Yes; it was a bearded man of below-average height with medium brown hair. Naomi thinks to herself, “What a surprisingly benevolent expression there was upon that serial killer’s face.” And then she realizes, “That wasn’t a serial killer, that was the comic star Zach Galafianakis!”
To her great surprise, this kind, hirsute, funny man catches up to her as she is leaving. “You should not have had to endure that. That was awful,” says Zach as he gently touches Naomi’s elbow. She is so bowled over that someone so famous could be so nice and reassuring. They decide to go into a nearby bar to have a beer, to reassure themselves just a tad bit more.
Naomi tells Zach what a great admirer of his work she is, and how much his demented sense of humor touches a deep chord within her. She rhapsodizes, “It’s like we were twins separated at birth, or something, you know? Or at the very least, like you were my unborn twin that had to be surgically removed when you became too parasitic. Those things usually are pretty hairy when they take them out.”
Zach: “Uh, thanks. I think. That’s really touching.”