Hey, wait a second, hold on. Frank, what are you doing, man? What the hell was that? “You can go about your business? Move along?” You call that an interrogation? And where do you get off saying we don’t need to see his identification? Has the heat gotten to you? Look: you see those two droids, with that old fart and his dorky grandkid? Yes, Frank, the ones that just passed us now.

Dude, these totally are the droids we’re looking for.

Come on, those are our guys, man! Seriously! What do you mean, you just have a feeling? You’re real weak-minded, Frank, you know that? And don’t you dare feed me that bullshit about “the Force” again! You know I hate hearing that religious crap. Next, you’ll be telling me you believe in little green spacemen who can lift things with their minds.

We seem to be made to suffer. It’s our lot in life. Why won’t you ever listen to me? Remember when we were supposed to capture the Princess on the ship? I said we should sneak up on her, but you had to go and yell “Set for stun!” like some nerf herder. And then she blasted Steve. Dude, you got Steve killed!

Then, after we follow that escape pod down here to a dead end, and I’m finally looking forward to a little R&R on Alderaan, you have to be all like, “Someone was in the pod, the tracks go off in this direction!” You kiss-ass. Now we’re stuck here, on a goddamn desert planet, doing guard duty in some wretched hive of scum and villainy.

Great: I’ve got sand in my armor. Agh, this sun! I think I’m melting! This is all your fault!

Okay, Frank, have it your way. You’re right: those two droids, the droids that fit the EXACT description of the two droids we’re supposed to find, are not them. Makes perfect sense. I don’t care anymore. I’m thinking of quitting this lousy imperial job anyway, maybe getting into something more freelance – like bounty-hunting. Now that’s where it’s at. Hey, dude, don’t call them scum. That’s just rude.

And one more thing: not a word about any of this to the big guy, Vader. Why? He doesn’t like you. You know what? I don’t like you either.

Let me ask everyone reading this a question:  Where the hell do you get off?  You all probably pay taxes, right? Even if you’re like me and you live outside of the Holland Tunnel with a moldy rucksack and a collection of Folgers coffee tins and you’re missing five teeth and you haven’t passed a solid bowel movement since 1996 and your pet dog Stan was stolen by the guy that was sharing your space outside the tunnel for two weeks and he’s probably halfway to Sacramento by now, you still pay taxes every time you buy a cup of coffee or a pack of Pall Malls.  So I contribute to the United States government just like the rest of you.  So consider me an equal when I ask you all, why the hell do people no longer condone public urination?

I miss the glory days of the ’80s, when I was living in the lower east side of Manhattan.  Crime was high, the food was greasy, and I had to fight for my spot over the sewer vent.  It was hard work, you know?  I earned every scoop of beef stew I got.  But most importantly, I was allowed to spit, puke, or piss anywhere I pleased.

Those days are long gone.  Now, if I’m sitting outside the Port Authority bus terminal, putting in a long day of work, I can’t just stand up, unzip, and let it flow.  I have to walk around the corner and piss on W. 41st.  If I become the crazy bum with the shopping cart that pees everywhere, people are going to take their business elsewhere.  I’ve adjusted, but it doesn’t mean I’m happy with it.  Oh, and that reminds me, do you all really have to stop and stare at me when I disrobe and get naked?  It’s very uncomfortable for me to be forced to see how uncomfortable I make you.

In conclusion, I ask you all to place my need to piss when and wherever I please before your own frivolous proclivities.  If you want to live in a town that doesn’t smell like fried noodles and urine, move to Buffalo.  Now if you don’t mind, I can really use that 75 cents that I know you have.  That’s all I’m missing to buy a cheeseburger.

Woo doggie, it’s been a while! Sorry I have not written in some time. So much has happened since my penthouse apartment went from Sunday Times Home Section to a pile of beautifully-scented ash. In an attempt to clear my head after all my possessions were incinerated, I decided to donate all my assets in a packaged giveaway on craigslist and I took a cab to New Jersey, where I snuck into the back of a ROADWAY semi-truck parked at a weigh station and let the whims of said commercial trucking company dictate where I would end up.

I now find myself in a place called “Oregon.” After getting dropped off in a town known as “Bend,” I started walking towards the mountains. For several days, I walked, my feet sore with blisters, my throat on fire from dehydration. When I felt I could go no further, I stumbled upon a small farming community. This is where I met Mooncrystal. The woman with whom I now know I will share a cosmic connection in this life and the next four. Mooncrystal took me in, gave me food, and told me that if I wish to stay, I must learn to contribute to the community. She taught me the way of the hoe. I now spend 17 hours each day tilling the earth, giving back to our mother the creator what she has given to us. What joyous wonderment!

Each day, we have a community forum. Each of the members of our community congregate and we discuss the day to come, what we are planting, and we all give thanks to the earth for providing us with tomatoes and chickens and rocks. As an initiation, I have been called to sacrifice three goats tomorrow night. I don’t have to drink their blood or anything silly like that, but I do get to skin them and wear their hides! And to think, four short months ago, I was wasting my time drinking 18 dollar cocktails and discussing the state of my hedge fund. What is a hedge fund, anyway?

I better go, the internet station is only for our illicit money-laundering pyramid scam. If Mooncrystal finds that I’m contributing to an online newspaper, she’ll cut off another one of my toes!

Hello, sir, madam. How are you both this evening? Have you decided on anything yet? Our specials today are — excuse me? No. I’m sorry, no. Yes, I get that all the time. Yes, I know I look a lot like him, but it’s just a coincidence. I assure you. Anyway, our specials-what? No! Yes, I’m sure! Well, I think I would know, wouldn’t I? Ma’am, would you please keep your voice down? You’re disturbing the other patrons. I — oh, Jesus. Fine. Yes, I’m him, okay? Now will you please tell me what you’d like to — what am I doing here? What does it look like I’m doing here? I’m trying to do my job! No, I’m not joking. No, I’m not doing research. Ma’am, would you please lower your voice? Sir, put the camera phone away! You’re starting to make a scene. Look, I — shut UP!

Okay. I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. Can we just start over? Our chef this evening has prepared-will you just let it go already?! All right, if I tell you what I’m doing here, will you please stop harassing me and order the French onion soup? The grated cheese crust is a special touch this evening, the chives imported from — oh, right.

I never wanted to be famous. Okay, I did, but not like this. I never wanted to be an actor, a movie star. I wanted to be the best damn waiter in town. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, ever since Dad took me to Olive Garden for the first time, and I saw our waiter balancing five plates on one arm while reciting the entire menu by memory, all without spilling a single bread stick or pausing to take a breath. From that night on, I had it all planned out. I started out doing all the right things: I didn’t go to college, began at the bottom rung, mopping floors at Burger King, paying my dues. And then I slipped up: I agreed to do the Burger King commercial when the camera crew showed up. Hey, it’s not my fault; I was young, I needed the money, and they promised me it was a one-time deal, no strings attached. How was I supposed to know that the commercial would get picked up and go national? Next thing I know, “Law & Order” is approaching me for a guest spot. I know, I should have said “no” and stuck to my craft, but it was so much money, and I figured I could afford a short break from my goals. Three years later, and boom: Oscar-nominated. You just never can see it coming until it’s too late.

It all happened so fast. When I finally woke up and realized what was going on, I tried to get out. But both my manager and my agent told me I was now locked in some stupid Emmy Award-winning series for two seasons, minimum. Then one day, I’m eating lunch at Spago, and I suddenly realize that my waiter is this guy I did a couple episodes with on “Lost” last year! And now he’s here, at Spago, the lucky son of a bitch! I ask him what happened, and he mumbles something about having an attitude problem and getting canned. Get this: when I congratulate him on his big break, he actually spits in my goat cheese-infused, low-carb, seahorse salad. It just goes to show: when someone makes it they forget the little people. But it didn’t matter, because I had finally figured out how I could get back to pursuing my dream: all I had to do was get fired!

After that, I started showing up stoned every day on the set, snorting lines of coke off of boom mikes, urinating on scripts and screaming profanities at the director and production assistants. Sure I felt bad about doing all this, but I had a plan, and I had to be ruthless in seeing it through. And you know what happened? Not only did I not get kicked off the show, I got a raise! A starring role, a larger trailer, and more free call girls than I knew what to do with! I ask my manager what the hell’s going on, and he says something about my growing reputation as a “troubled and temperamental star” increasing my appeal. Then my agent calls, cooing, practically making out with me on his cell, and says the movie studios are taking an interest in me. I’m so hot right now, he says, so hot, that he can get me anything I want. Any job. I figure this is my shot, and I tell him point blank: I want to be a waiter. There’s silence on the other line for like half a minute, and then he says, Babes, you want it, you got it. I hang up, breathing in deep the sweet scent of long-delayed victory.

And that’s how I got cast in The Waiter, that stupid, gritty thriller that’s up for like twenty Academy Awards right now, even for animation. There wasn’t any animation in the entire goddamn film! Working on that movie was like methadone for a heroin addict: they let me research my role by taking lessons from some of the masters in the business. This one guy (I don’t even have to say his name, he is one of THE preeminent artists in the world of waiting) actually complimented me on my napkin folding formations! It was like… like they had switched the heroin back in for just one day. But it couldn’t last. After a few weeks, the studio told me not to go all “Brando” on them and get on to shooting the scenes. Several months and millions later, I got the Oscar nod. For a moment I felt redeemed, like my performance as a waiter had meant something. But as the weeks went by, and the box office numbers kept climbing, I knew, and all those real waiters in the packed megaplex audiences knew, that I was a fraud. You just cannot fake an art like that, and my imitation made a mockery of all my childhood dreams.

So I took off. I told my agent and my manager that I was going into rehab; my publicist, that I had a stalker and was lying low; my accountant, that I was exploring some real estate opportunities in Montana; and my mom, that I was hanging out with Jude Law for a few weeks. I dropped off the Hollywood radar, and now I’m just trying to get back in the game, play some catch-up. Anyway, I’ve explained to you why I’m here, and I’ve got about six or seven other tables right now, so have you guys figured out what you’d like? Uh, no, ma’am, my autograph is not on the menu. Yes, I get it, that’s a good one. Yes, ha ha, very good. Now, about that French onion s– No, sir, you can’t tell anyone I’m here! No, not even your brother. I don’t care how big a fan he is! Sir, put the phone down! Great, now everyone’s looking over here. No, I’m not him! I’m not! Don’t listen to these people! No, you shut up! SHUT YOUR HOLE! Oh, God, I can’t take this, I haven’t got nearly enough Xanax on me to deal with this mess. Enrique, take over for me. NOW! Do you know who I am? Do you know who I am?! I don’t need this! God DAMN it! I’ll be in the kitchen!

I’m having a really shitty day. I go to pick up my dry cleaning today and the stupid dry cleaners mis-pressed my brand new Hickey Freeman black striped super 120s wool 2-button suit. I tell the person that if I wanted my suit to be pressed like it were a 3-button, I would have brought my Gucci navy lambswool 3-button. But I didn’t. I brought in my Hickey Freeman black striped super 120s wool 2-button suit and now it isn’t even suitable to donate to one of those “consignment” boutiques.

All of this, and it isn’t even 10am.

I need a drink. Badly. I go to my second favorite lounge, the Vespa Quart on E. 47th and order a Square One Organic Vodka and Diet Club soda. I ask the new bartender to heat it up, because I hate cold vodka. He gives me a puzzled look, and asks if room temperature was okay. I almost rupture a vein. First my 2-button, and now an inept bartender?

No day can get shittier than this.

As I near my apartment, I realize that I am in one of those taxis that has not yet installed the credit card machine, so I am forced to ask the taxi driver to take me to the nearest ATM machine so I can pay him. Seeing as how the last time I used an ATM was during my youthful years at Yale, I had no idea how far the nearest ATM was from my apartment. He drives me all the way to 8th Ave. and W. 42nd St., where I withdraw 200 dollars. I do not ask for a receipt, but if gives me one anyway. I hate ATM machines.

I return to my apartment, only to discover that the entire place smells like old eggs. I call the super, some guy named “Gus,” I think, and get his answering machine. I tell him my place smells like that God-awful Thai stand in Chelsea and that he needs to get somebody up here to get rid of the smell before it embeds itself on all my precious belongings.

Unable to handle the stench, I take the elevator to the lobby, then I exit the building and I go for a walk. Fifteen minutes into my rather mediocre stroll, I am almost taken out by a line of speeding fire trucks. Just because somebody’s apartment is burning down is no excuse to almost kick up mud from a mud puddle onto my new Zegna suede jacket.

Thank God I can afford a new Zegna suede jacket, though.

Whoever said ignorance is bliss is just wrong. They’re wrong because I should have said that first. Ignorance most certainly is not bliss, but one thing that is indisputably true is that my life would be a lot easier if I didn’t know that I was better than everyone else. It wasn’t always this way. There was a time when it was very easy accepting that I was better than everyone else.

But that was long, long ago. The only thing that has changed, really, is my outlook. I am still devastatingly attractive. I am in perfect physical shape. I eat only the healthiest of foods and I enjoy them. I donate my time to charity. Okay, that’s a lie. My personal assistant donates his time to charity on my behalf, but I make sure he doesn’t get paid for it so I can give my firm a tax write-off. I only date exceptionally wealthy and attractive women. I have not made a dinner reservation in over 15 years. I just show up and they find me a place. Because I am me. I never RSVP to a party. I show up if I feel like it. I am incredibly intelligent. Economists and scientists worldwide persistently ask for my consultation. I have never provided them with my vast insights. I just don’t want to. To be honest, I have lost count of how many cars I own. They are all very very expensive cars. And they’re all made in Europe. As most people age, they worry about their looks fading. They worry about their mind slipping. I am one of those people that will become more attractive and wise as I age. What can I say, I’m just better than everyone else.

But none of this is to say that my life is easy. What lesser people (read: every single person on this planet except me. And possibly Christian Bale) will never understand is the tremendous amount of pressure placed on perfect people. It’s not like I ever expect to deviate from my exceptional ways; it just gets a little exhausting being the alpha human. I do not know why I am even writing this. No one will ever understand. Except Christian Bale.

At least poor people can see what needs to be done to ease their pain. It’s just that most of the time, they can’t afford the doctors that will make them feel better. But what about me? What about my problems? I’ve tried everything from zero-gravity meditation centers to $2,000/hour silent treatment therapy. Nothing is working. I just want it to be easy knowing that I am better than everyone else. For someone like myself that has everything, is that so much to ask?