Almost famous

I am not a celebrity, but the guy who jams his camera in my face to snap some unflattering photos of me eating pizza sees it differently.

“Excuse me. Why did you just take my photo?”

“I’m a paparazzi! I work for Access Hollywood.”

“Good for you, but that doesn’t answer my question.”

“I’m a paparazzi,” he says again, as if his job is the only explanation required.

“So you don’t ask for permission?”

He shrugs.

“It’s rude not to ask,” I say. “I really don’t appreciate you taking my photo and I’d like you to delete it.”

“I’m not rude. You’re being rude with this attitude. I shot Howie Mandel. I’m blessed.”

“Howie Mandel,” I sputter. “What’s he got to do with this?”

“He’s a lot more famous than you,” the paparazzi says. “He was so cool and you’re an asshole, but I got you stuffing a pizza into your fat face, so there.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re the asshole,” I say.

“No, I’m blessed. I’m a famous paparazzi.”

“Paparazzi aren’t famous,” I say. “They’re notorious.”

“No. I’m a famous paparazzi.”

“What’s your name?”

“Tony Moss.”

“Never heard of you,” I say. “But tell me something, Tony.”

“What’s that?”

“Who do you think I am?”

“Are you kidding? You’re the guy from Jurassic Park.”

I burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny?”

“What’s funny is how much you suck at your job.”

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