so this movie...

This movie, as it is, it's being presented as a dark comedy. I guess the production company feels that that designation gives them more license in some areas. Like, because it's comedy and could be viewed, I guess, as a parody of sorts, it's not wrong and they won't get sued to have a script dealing with "slayers" with a character named Xander. With those not familiar with the Buffy-verse, I direct you to wikipedia, or the internet in general. Let's just say this is ground that has been covered by others and is all copyrighted and stuff.
Jill, from the production company, she's the one who wrote the script and seems to be mostly in charge, calls me to schedule a time on the following Saturday morning to have my werewolf teeth fitted. This was a week before the 4th of July and they are located in Bristol. For those of you not familiar with Bristol, they take the 4th very seriously. There is traffic.
It took me quite a bit longer to get there than I thought it would. I was going to be about a half hour late. I called Jill to let her know. She said to not worry as the make up guy, Brian, was also in traffic, and would be late as well.
Oh golly, I thought, that is a relief. I know that sounds sarcastic, but it really isn't. I hate to be late and was relieved. I might have skipped the oh golly bit, though.
I get to the house about 20 minutes late and was expecting Brian, the make up guy, sometime soon after that.
I ring the bell for the apartment and Jill let's me in. Because I am trying to be kind, I will not describe what Jill looks like. Don't ask me. I'm working on a karma re-distribution thing and hope the Universe notices how I am not saying anything about Jill's appearance.
Universe? Are you taking note? This is not easy.
I enter the small apartment and am immediately hit in the face with a mesh bag full of thick, moist cat feces. The cat feces enters my throat cavity through both my open mouth and now raped nostrils. I am drowning in a brown whirlpool of stink and gagging up my soul.
On the inside.
It only feels like this is happening.
It's all in my mind.
It's just that it smells like a cat box that had not been changed in six months.
The other people who are in the apartment, do not seem to either notice or mind. I am agog and flummoxed.
I am invited into the living room and I situate myself in front of a blowing air conditioner, hoping for a pocket of fresh air.
I sit in the chair, and realize that I am still breathing crap-air, only now it is very cold crap-air.
I sit there for a period of time, trying to make clever conversation while not breathing at all. It is tricky.
I ask to use the bathroom and enter the heart of darkness.
The cat who lives in this house is a saint and has at least some level of engineering education.
A saint because most cats will say screw you if their box is dirty and will leave their poop out in obvious places until you clean it.
An engineer, because it does not seem to mind using a box that had not been cleaned in, it appears as though my original estimation was off, a year. In order to keep using the box, it has had to stack its turds in complicated designs. It look, in some areas, as though the cat has set up games of poo Jenga.
I do not feel clean when I leave the bathroom.
Brian seems to have gotten trapped in MUCH worse traffic than I encountered and is MUCH later than I was. One and a half hours later. That's a lot of time to sit in a pocket of cold stink, watching CNN. I mean, at least put on a good movie or something, or offer me a drink or a gas mask.
When Brian shows up, I am relieved, but it is premature.
Brian walks in, lays a fake gun down on the counter and asks who is getting the teeth.
I stand up and say, "Me.". I stand up both because I need a reason to try to move and possibly find a small spot of clean air to breath, and because I don't have a clue what I'm doing.
This becomes very apparent when, after I jumped up to be immediately available for make up, the make up guy takes another 15 minutes mixing up a small bowl of lumpy concrete. That's what it looks like anyway. It's the material to capture a mold of my teeth so that my werewolf teeth can be custom fitted. I don't want werewolf teeth off the rack, after all.
Once it is mixed to a lovely lumpy grey thickness, he slaps an ice cream scoopful of it onto a large dental protector thing like Rocky would wear when going up against Clubber Lang.
Combined, it is large. It is a lot of stuff and when he tells me to put it in my mouth and bite down, I ask him to put something of mine in HIS mouth, only to not bite down.
Brian is not endowed with much of a sense of humor, I guess and he just stares at me.
Everyone is watching and while I do not in any way feel this is a professional organization, I want to act like a professional. I stick the whole thing in my mouth and bite down.
It is unpleasant. It tastes like greasy grit, but with a hint of mint, which is nice.
Of course as soon as I bit down, most of the mass is displaced and heads for the back of my throat. I cannot brush my back teeth for long, as I have a sensitive gag reflex.
I was soon wishing I was sitting in my nice pocket of cold stink without four pounds of wet minty sand tickling my tonsils.
It is unpleasant. I know I said that before, but I am trying to make a point. It really sucks. I do not recommend it.
Brian tells me it has to stay in for about five minutes. I laugh as best as I am able, but Brian, with the no humor sensing thing, stares at me some more.
For five minutes I juggle a grapefruit made of Silly Putty in the back of my throat. I can honestly say I am amazed that I didn't swallow any of it.
I kept having to swallow, though. It is one of those things your body likes to do. We do it all the time without even being aware of it. Like blinking. Try not blinking or swallowing for the next five minutes. I'll wait.
How did you do? Sucks, right?
Put a mushy softball in your mouth, ALL the way in your mouth and try again.
What do you mean you don't have a mushy softball? Geeze.
The five minutes go by. I survive. He pulls the whole mess out and it is followed by a quart (approx.) of saliva that I was not able to swallow. He recoils and drops my mold on the floor. It is embarrassing. When he recovers it, there is a lot of blood on it. Apparently I have gum disease. It is embarrassing. He covers the mold in some paper towels and holds the whole thing like I had asked him to hang on to a sample of some of my bodily fluids for me.
Actually, in a way, I guess I did. Sorry Brian the make up guy.
As soon as Brian was done, I was out the door, thinking for not the first or the third or the fifth time that I should disengage from this project.
I've got this thing though. When I tell someone I will do something, I have to have a REAL good reason to go back on my word. I have not found it yet.
But, I am looking.