hackthis_archive (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hackthis_archive) wrote2006-01-19 11:25 am
hackthis_archive) wrote2006-01-19 11:25 am
Entry tags:
RPF - The Midas Touch
This is for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
literaryll, who very specifically asked for this storyline, and who I could not deny because she's provided me with like 30 mp3s in the last two weeks.
RPF - Ari Gold, George Clooney, Daniel Radcliffe (by name only) and lots of offensive and slanderous talking about everyone, including your mother. I'm sure reading The Incredibly True Adventures of Four Stars, Two Actors in Love and One Gay Landmark would help, but it's not required.
The Midas Touch
Ari Gold loves the smell of napalm in the morning like Nicole Richie loves putting Columbia's #1 export up her nose. Not that Ari knows what the fuck napalm smells like, but if it's anything like the Warner Brothers/ InStyle Party then it smells a lot like champagne, undercooked ahi tuna, and bulimic actresses.
"Tom, baby, I've seen the dailies from that Da Vinci bitch. I can't believe you let Ron put a dead animal on your scalp. If it were me, I'd shave my pubes and stick those on instead, it can't look worse!"
Ari's winging his way through the post-Golden Globes parties, looking for his boy, because George just won himself a pretty, gold toilet paper holder, and Ari's only moderately pissed that George didn't thank him on TV. Yes, George gave him his due in the press room, but only the press are in the press room, and Ari wants the entire fucking free world, and all those fuckers in the sweatshops, to know who's George Clooney's number one boy.
"Drew, baby, you look fucking fabulous in that dress, and I don’t even care that your tits are down to your elbows. I say nature is the best support any woman could have."
Drew gives Ari the finger, and he flicks his tongue out at her. He'd hit that in a minute; sometimes it's good to be one of the most powerful men in town. Who the fuck is Ari kidding? It's always good to be one of the most powerful men in town. What's even better is when you're second only to your favorite client ever. Okay, so Ari tells everyone that they're his favorite client, but with George Clooney it's actually true, because how can you not love someone who makes you a millionaire at least three times a year?
"Reese, baby, I heard about the Chanel fiasco. Call my people and they'll cut off Karl's ponytail just for you and then you can do the Delilah number all over his coke-addled corpse, okay?"
Ari grabs a flute of champagne from the nearest cocksucker for hire and looks around the room. At this exact moment in time, his #1 client is so hot that George could leave a steaming pile of dog shit at the gates of the White House and people would applaud. This is the good life, and Ari's on a mission right now. Neither God, nor wife, nor Teri Hatcher's pneumatic frame is gonna keep him from it.
"Harvey, baby, looking good, gastric bypass is a miracle isn't it? And Eva? Still just as bitchy and horrible as ever, aren't you? You better suck Harvey's dick now, baby, because your 15 minutes are nearing the end. Even I know not to be mean to the help."
Speaking of being mean to the help, Ari tosses his flute of champagne in the nearest potted plant and pulls out his Crackberry. There are four messages from Lloyd, the best gay ass-monkey a man could have, and ten from the Sony bitches who tried to stall him on Vinnie's contracts last week. There's even an e-mail from Harry Potter's manager, and Ari's been trying to get in her stiff Brit panties for months.
Pretty soon Ari's going to rule the world with political flics and pubescent wizards. Plus, right now, Ari's secure in the knowledge that at this moment a congratulatory basket the size of Israel is winging its way up Doheny, through the hills, and to Georgie's house. Ari already had a consolation basket waiting in the wings, but now that that's not necessary, Lloyd can just cannibalise it for parts.
Ari's been sending Georgie a lot of baskets recently of the "I'm sorry your fuck buddy impregnated the family whore" variety.
With both Matt and Brad, and even out-of-favour Marky Mark, getting their beards knocked up, well, Ari's actually getting a lot of mileage out of the family whore basket. He's already got the patent paperwork together.
"Ari! Ari "I never fucking return anybody's phone calls" Gold! You motherfucker, you are the suckiest agent in town!" Ari glances up just in time to see Nick Nolte barrelling towards him, and he has to hide behind Camryn Manheim fast, because Nolte is almost as crazy as Gary Busey.
Camryn doesn’t seem very amused by Ari practically sniffing her ass, but Ari's only into the hot lesbians. "Sorry, Cam," he says with a smirk, backing away, "there used to be more of you to hide behind."
Camryn's face goes from annoyed to pissed off faster than Ari's Porsche can get up La Cienega, and he just misses getting knocked out.
"Ari, how many times have I told you about alienating the target audience?" George's tone is all amused tolerance, and Ari's too excited to even justify his actions.
One minutes he's running from a lesbian beatdown, and the next he's jumping into George Clooney's arms and hollering at the top of his lungs. "ALL YOU DOUBTING MOTHERFUCKERS WHO SAID WE'D BE LIVING OFF ER RESIDUALS UNTIL GEORGE CAME OUT OF THE CLOSET CAN KISS MY ASS!"
This is Ari's version of 'I'm very proud of you, well done' which is probably the only reason that George doesn't drop him on his head immediately -- he waits two whole seconds. And if Ari looks like he's been climbing all over his favorite client, well, that's just because he has.
"Ari, don't you think it might help if you didn't alienate the entire room before midnight? We still have to make it to the Oscars." George sounds like he's chiding Ari, but the smile is all indulgence.
"Fuck these lame ass motherfuckers, you have this shit locked up better than Mia Farrow's children after the Soon-Yi mess." Ari is all glee and nothing is going to mess with that. "First the Golden Globes, and then the Oscars, and then you'll be president, and you can make running off with the family homewrecker a felony punishable by no more adopting of foreign children."
George does his best not to snicker, but Ari knows he's a funny fucker. Plus, tonight is their night. They can do no wrong. "I'm so happy with you, I'm not even going to give you shit about not thanking me in front of your millions of viewers. Oh, wait, yes, I am."
"I thanked you backstage," George points out, eyes wide as though Ari's some starstruck woman or fudge packer between 8 and 98.
"I thank your mom backstage, too," Ari points out. "Normally, when she's sucking my dick."
George scowls, and Ari holds up his hands. "I'm excited, I went too far, I'm sorry. I'm going to sign Harry Potter in the morning and own the entire fucking world by noon, you'd be excited too."
George just shakes his head, waving at someone over Ari's shoulder. There are people attempting to muscle in on their conversation, but Ari's not having any of that. "Back the fuck up off me," he says to some blonde chick that looks like Hillary Duff's ugly twin. "You're not his type, and you're too flat for me."
George makes a choking noise, and Ari turns back immediately. "Ari, do you know who that was?"
"No, and I don't care either. Now, I want to talk about this Brokebitch sequel business. Are you serious about fucking Heath Ledger, because you know, if you wait a bit I can get you that Harry Potter kid? It'll be Jake's kid and Heath's kids getting together. The Godfather III does Brokebitch. You'll love it."
George just laughs. "Heath's kids were girls in the movies."
"Who cares?" Ari says, snagging two flutes of champagne and handing one to George. "One can be a trannie. Felicity already broke that one in."
George takes a sip of his champagne and raises an eyebrow, but if he hasn't automatically said no, then he's at least considering it. "No, Ari."
"Oh, well, fuck. Okay, you want Heath to suck you off, is that it? You know, if it'll get you another golden statue, I'll suck you off instead."
"Ari."
"Oh, you want to work with Jake again, is that it? You know he died in that last film, right? You might wanna just hire him to be your fluffer. You put it under catering or some shit." George is starting to look around, and Ari knows his time is running out. He's just excited, he's been with George since George was sleeping in Richard Kind's closet. Literally. "Okay, seriously, big man, congratulations, we can talk work tomorrow."
The smile George gives Ari is the reason that Ari is sending out so many 'Sorry about your fuck buddy baskets.' "Thanks for the offer, Ari."
"Hey, I can suck cock with the best of them," Ari says, clinking their glasses together.
George coughs, his unflappable façade actually cracking for a moment. "Ari, no."
Ari winks. "I'm just offering, Georgie."
"That's what I'm afraid of."
Ari just snorts. "Please, you know I bring all the hos to the yard. But for you, as long as you keep bringing home the gold, I'm still your fag."
George's laugh catches the attention of everyone standing near then, but Ari's not deterred. "Hey when you've got Gold, what more could any man want?"
-end-
literaryll, who very specifically asked for this storyline, and who I could not deny because she's provided me with like 30 mp3s in the last two weeks. RPF - Ari Gold, George Clooney, Daniel Radcliffe (by name only) and lots of offensive and slanderous talking about everyone, including your mother. I'm sure reading The Incredibly True Adventures of Four Stars, Two Actors in Love and One Gay Landmark would help, but it's not required.
Ari Gold loves the smell of napalm in the morning like Nicole Richie loves putting Columbia's #1 export up her nose. Not that Ari knows what the fuck napalm smells like, but if it's anything like the Warner Brothers/ InStyle Party then it smells a lot like champagne, undercooked ahi tuna, and bulimic actresses.
"Tom, baby, I've seen the dailies from that Da Vinci bitch. I can't believe you let Ron put a dead animal on your scalp. If it were me, I'd shave my pubes and stick those on instead, it can't look worse!"
Ari's winging his way through the post-Golden Globes parties, looking for his boy, because George just won himself a pretty, gold toilet paper holder, and Ari's only moderately pissed that George didn't thank him on TV. Yes, George gave him his due in the press room, but only the press are in the press room, and Ari wants the entire fucking free world, and all those fuckers in the sweatshops, to know who's George Clooney's number one boy.
"Drew, baby, you look fucking fabulous in that dress, and I don’t even care that your tits are down to your elbows. I say nature is the best support any woman could have."
Drew gives Ari the finger, and he flicks his tongue out at her. He'd hit that in a minute; sometimes it's good to be one of the most powerful men in town. Who the fuck is Ari kidding? It's always good to be one of the most powerful men in town. What's even better is when you're second only to your favorite client ever. Okay, so Ari tells everyone that they're his favorite client, but with George Clooney it's actually true, because how can you not love someone who makes you a millionaire at least three times a year?
"Reese, baby, I heard about the Chanel fiasco. Call my people and they'll cut off Karl's ponytail just for you and then you can do the Delilah number all over his coke-addled corpse, okay?"
Ari grabs a flute of champagne from the nearest cocksucker for hire and looks around the room. At this exact moment in time, his #1 client is so hot that George could leave a steaming pile of dog shit at the gates of the White House and people would applaud. This is the good life, and Ari's on a mission right now. Neither God, nor wife, nor Teri Hatcher's pneumatic frame is gonna keep him from it.
"Harvey, baby, looking good, gastric bypass is a miracle isn't it? And Eva? Still just as bitchy and horrible as ever, aren't you? You better suck Harvey's dick now, baby, because your 15 minutes are nearing the end. Even I know not to be mean to the help."
Speaking of being mean to the help, Ari tosses his flute of champagne in the nearest potted plant and pulls out his Crackberry. There are four messages from Lloyd, the best gay ass-monkey a man could have, and ten from the Sony bitches who tried to stall him on Vinnie's contracts last week. There's even an e-mail from Harry Potter's manager, and Ari's been trying to get in her stiff Brit panties for months.
Pretty soon Ari's going to rule the world with political flics and pubescent wizards. Plus, right now, Ari's secure in the knowledge that at this moment a congratulatory basket the size of Israel is winging its way up Doheny, through the hills, and to Georgie's house. Ari already had a consolation basket waiting in the wings, but now that that's not necessary, Lloyd can just cannibalise it for parts.
Ari's been sending Georgie a lot of baskets recently of the "I'm sorry your fuck buddy impregnated the family whore" variety.
With both Matt and Brad, and even out-of-favour Marky Mark, getting their beards knocked up, well, Ari's actually getting a lot of mileage out of the family whore basket. He's already got the patent paperwork together.
"Ari! Ari "I never fucking return anybody's phone calls" Gold! You motherfucker, you are the suckiest agent in town!" Ari glances up just in time to see Nick Nolte barrelling towards him, and he has to hide behind Camryn Manheim fast, because Nolte is almost as crazy as Gary Busey.
Camryn doesn’t seem very amused by Ari practically sniffing her ass, but Ari's only into the hot lesbians. "Sorry, Cam," he says with a smirk, backing away, "there used to be more of you to hide behind."
Camryn's face goes from annoyed to pissed off faster than Ari's Porsche can get up La Cienega, and he just misses getting knocked out.
"Ari, how many times have I told you about alienating the target audience?" George's tone is all amused tolerance, and Ari's too excited to even justify his actions.
One minutes he's running from a lesbian beatdown, and the next he's jumping into George Clooney's arms and hollering at the top of his lungs. "ALL YOU DOUBTING MOTHERFUCKERS WHO SAID WE'D BE LIVING OFF ER RESIDUALS UNTIL GEORGE CAME OUT OF THE CLOSET CAN KISS MY ASS!"
This is Ari's version of 'I'm very proud of you, well done' which is probably the only reason that George doesn't drop him on his head immediately -- he waits two whole seconds. And if Ari looks like he's been climbing all over his favorite client, well, that's just because he has.
"Ari, don't you think it might help if you didn't alienate the entire room before midnight? We still have to make it to the Oscars." George sounds like he's chiding Ari, but the smile is all indulgence.
"Fuck these lame ass motherfuckers, you have this shit locked up better than Mia Farrow's children after the Soon-Yi mess." Ari is all glee and nothing is going to mess with that. "First the Golden Globes, and then the Oscars, and then you'll be president, and you can make running off with the family homewrecker a felony punishable by no more adopting of foreign children."
George does his best not to snicker, but Ari knows he's a funny fucker. Plus, tonight is their night. They can do no wrong. "I'm so happy with you, I'm not even going to give you shit about not thanking me in front of your millions of viewers. Oh, wait, yes, I am."
"I thanked you backstage," George points out, eyes wide as though Ari's some starstruck woman or fudge packer between 8 and 98.
"I thank your mom backstage, too," Ari points out. "Normally, when she's sucking my dick."
George scowls, and Ari holds up his hands. "I'm excited, I went too far, I'm sorry. I'm going to sign Harry Potter in the morning and own the entire fucking world by noon, you'd be excited too."
George just shakes his head, waving at someone over Ari's shoulder. There are people attempting to muscle in on their conversation, but Ari's not having any of that. "Back the fuck up off me," he says to some blonde chick that looks like Hillary Duff's ugly twin. "You're not his type, and you're too flat for me."
George makes a choking noise, and Ari turns back immediately. "Ari, do you know who that was?"
"No, and I don't care either. Now, I want to talk about this Brokebitch sequel business. Are you serious about fucking Heath Ledger, because you know, if you wait a bit I can get you that Harry Potter kid? It'll be Jake's kid and Heath's kids getting together. The Godfather III does Brokebitch. You'll love it."
George just laughs. "Heath's kids were girls in the movies."
"Who cares?" Ari says, snagging two flutes of champagne and handing one to George. "One can be a trannie. Felicity already broke that one in."
George takes a sip of his champagne and raises an eyebrow, but if he hasn't automatically said no, then he's at least considering it. "No, Ari."
"Oh, well, fuck. Okay, you want Heath to suck you off, is that it? You know, if it'll get you another golden statue, I'll suck you off instead."
"Ari."
"Oh, you want to work with Jake again, is that it? You know he died in that last film, right? You might wanna just hire him to be your fluffer. You put it under catering or some shit." George is starting to look around, and Ari knows his time is running out. He's just excited, he's been with George since George was sleeping in Richard Kind's closet. Literally. "Okay, seriously, big man, congratulations, we can talk work tomorrow."
The smile George gives Ari is the reason that Ari is sending out so many 'Sorry about your fuck buddy baskets.' "Thanks for the offer, Ari."
"Hey, I can suck cock with the best of them," Ari says, clinking their glasses together.
George coughs, his unflappable façade actually cracking for a moment. "Ari, no."
Ari winks. "I'm just offering, Georgie."
"That's what I'm afraid of."
Ari just snorts. "Please, you know I bring all the hos to the yard. But for you, as long as you keep bringing home the gold, I'm still your fag."
George's laugh catches the attention of everyone standing near then, but Ari's not deterred. "Hey when you've got Gold, what more could any man want?"
-end-
no subject
So I'll just settle for worshipping from afar.
And George - well, you just couldn't make it up could you
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