A Bad Joke

“So what do you do?” the stunning red-haired girl asked.

“I’m an attendant,” Morris replied.

It was a Hollywood party, with Armenian artists, some hippie interior designers, and a bunch of wannabe film people. Somebody claimed Russel Crowe was seen, but that was still to be confirmed.

“What does that mean?” she asked.

“What does the word ‘attendant’ invoke? What does it make you think about?”

“I don’t know. A flight attendant?” she laughed, “No, sorry. You probably work for a director or somebody. Are you a PA or a production intern?”

“Not even close.”

A hot Asian girl was walking by.

“Lisa,” the redhead called her, “Come here, talk to this guy. He’s a mysterious one.”

“Ooh, a mysterious one,” said Lisa, “I love a little mystery. What makes him mysterious.”

“He’s an attendant, but he won’t tell me where he works.”

“Let me guess. Do you work at the zoo?”

“No, that’s not it,” said Morris.

“Well I know who will know. Clift,” said the redhead, and then she yelled across the room, “Hey Clift! Clift!”

A young man with a bushy beard and a male model’s body approached. “Yeah?”

“Do you know this guy?”

“Yeah, it’s Morris. How you doing, Morris?”

“Nevermind that,” said Lisa, “What does he do? For a living?”

“He’s an attendant, aren’t you, Morris?”

“Yeas, but what does that mean?” the redhead screamed, almost falling over.

“Does he work at a gas station?” Lisa suggested.

“No, that’s not it,” said Morris.

“Please, tell us,” said Lisa, “Or she’s going to have a heart attack.”

Hours later, when Clift was saying goodbye to to the last few guests, he put his hand on Morris’s shoulder.

“Hey man, are you coming to my birthday party in two weeks time?”

“No, sorry Clift. I have a different party I promised I would attend.”

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