est. 1925 – the LEADING Background Actor casting company in the United States…
220 S. Flower Street
Burbank, California 91502
Why do I call myself an actor?
I wanna know “when.” Everything I’m doing’s such a fuckin’ joke… workin’ on your sets.
The last Coppola weeks – God, father. I’m treated like a fuckin’ disease. Mutha fucka, I’m actin’ like a sucker and a prick cuz the center of a Tootsie role can make ya. Fuckin’ sick, yo!
You think I’m a dink… but I’m not. I think, “I’ll break your fuckin’ legs and stick my dick inside ya!” but… WHOA! I’m actin’! Like a squirrelly!
Fuckin’ nuttin’… I’m about to Blow smoke and molten lava pot.
So now I’m on fire and I’m hot? Meet your Fight Club in a pub?
(in a parkin’ lot, suckers…)
“Why do I call myself an actor?” is the mutha fuckin’ question…
It’s nothin’ but fuckin’ rejections.
Back when I was young, gettin’ the job done was nothin’. I must’ve thought the movies were glamorous, or somethin’. I got a job workin’ in a theatre earnin’ minimum wage: four and a quarter. Yeah… and I would float by. I’d look at all the posters hangin’ on The Wall$$$ – I’m hooked now. So Imma start studyin’ these!
I’m droppin’ outta school, I’m droppin’ LSD… Schlitz… a mushroom cap down the hatch, I’ll switch.
Hittin’ up my head so I can fuck with you.
Bitch, why do I call myself an “actor?” I’ll tell ya because I sold some old memorabilia. Every 3-sheet I’m rollin’, I’m rippin’ one for me – the whole collection was stolen.
Ownin’ ’em. Payin’ it back till I bleed.
Kick it on The Cape, smoke an ounce of weed a week with Dead (fuckin’) Presidents. I’m rippin’ off credits cards again and without a hesitation.
Man… “Why do I call myself an actor?” You ask me because my “act” is so mutha fuckin’ nasty.
Do this, do that…
In a minute…
In a sec…
In the meantime…
My soul is turnin’ black.
Cigarettes on the sets and my lungs need a rest. I want a marijuana break, fast.
So why not try and ‘act’ a part?
It’s like a Cuckoo’s Nest.
I’m flyin’ in the Darkness and they may never Catch Me…
Anyway, I’m not on lock-down, so:
Mutha fucka, stay away.
So. You think I’m gonna quit this biz? I’ll be DAM!
I’m an actor for life.
Brothers: can you dig it?
Warriors come out and play.
“Knicka-nacka-paddy-wacka” givin’ Doug a bone…
Man: “I’m talkin’ on my cellular phone…”
“Here I Go Again!”
(like an Old School song)
- What’s Wrong
- Get Along
- Little Doggie
- Hit the Bong
- Makin’ the Bacon
Fakin’ it like Sally did: OMG!
“Where’s the fuckin’ beef with this side of fries…!?!?!?”
Where’s the mutha fuckin’ snake tellin’ you those lies?
I’m not here to brag.
I’m not here to boast, but…
I’m a Caped Crusader from an Eastwood Coast and I’m reel with this. I gotta keep my shit.
Hard Puppet on a string, from the beach of Cape Cod.
Now get it?
(from an underground poet)
“I love it, I need it and I act it because it’s SHOW biz. And if you think I’m flushin’ a career… then I’ll see you in the sequel.”
Yeah? I’m in?
“Act” like this, “act” like that…
The actual fact is that I’m wack and never laid back, like, a Clone who’s attacking your dome with a laser and a mutha fuckin’ samurai sword into your navel.
Makin’ a mistake? And I’m labeled?
I’ll getcha on all fours, like a cigarette and coffee table… smokin’!
And chokin’ a broken slave.
Broke. And when I’m told…
“Yo, you need to fuckin’ shave.”
“Hey! They cut my fuckin’ hair and didn’t pay for it. I didn’t need the fuckin’ money, but…”
“Fuck that shit. They wanna fuck around with a punk-ass.”
“I’ll cut their tires and their throats and throw the bodies in a ditch.”
I call myself an actor cuz the shit that I deal in.
I call myself an actor cuz the shit that I’m feelin’.
Peelin’ my mutha fuckin’ skin off to the bone, see? You’d better…
Gee.. and let me say another mutha fuckin’ thing: I’ll pound ya like a fuckin’ Berkheimer.
During the fuckin’ King, so…
And get Out of (my) Sight, cuz I am.
DAM! – for the rest of my life,
Central Casting CDs receive collectible one-of-a-kind CDs.
Need to mention:
“ACTOR4LIFE/EFIL4ROTCA” went flop, flop on face. The rap lyrics and vocals were nothing anyone had heard before or since. My only critique:
“Use less ‘fuck’ words.”
Yeah, okay. No problem. Be right back.
(less than 1 week later…)
SCAR WARS Thrill O.G. ~ Episode II: Attack of the Phone-E (special ed. edition) 2003
And to this day…
I wonder how many CDs survived the trash?
The single was not just some .mp3 file or a creepy burn with Sharpie nonsense. The single came limited edition. I’m totally serious. Old School Halloween terror. A pumpkin I personally carved is featured on the disc. Thirty-one copies, total: color cover with insert, jewel cases… real pressed CDs – as decked out as I could design and self-produce/distribute at the time.
Were the rap albums entertainment I’d create for Vincente? Or are they harmless garbage I wouldn’t mind my son being subjected to?
Not a chance. How about that? Honesty. Don’t get it twisted…
Creativity is never threatening.
The CDs were Halloween goodies. And for the record: extras (background artists) are forbidden to pass along bribes or kickbacks to Central Casting employees, so… okay, cool. No problem. Not a gift, just funny-ass music I made. What was I to do though? I wanted to give thirty-one Casting Directors something that year. I gave them something they’d never forget: something almost worthless on the surface.
More meaningful to me, no doubt.
I got what I wanted that Holiday. I really wanted Central Casting scared for Halloween! Like, spooked the fuck out… mainly because Central Casting has helped cast people in so many creepy-ass movies since 1925, they continue to lead all other businesses in casting people.
I continue returning the favor to Central… casting spells.