Two publicists stand side-by-side: arms crossed, brows furrowed, their work cut out.
“Adultery? Sounds good, no?”
They pause, watch as the best golfer on tour stumbles into the tee box, driver in hand. He sets, uncorks a magnificent swing.
“No… happily married. Devout Christian, too.”
Club whacks ball. Sounds like a gunshot. Ball sails off into the clear blue.
“So drinking and drugs… out. Run-in with the law?”
The devout Christian admires his shot – a big, goofy grin on his pale face.
“That look like someone who fucks with cops?”
“No…. shit. Christ, how’m I expected to make beige interesting?”
The Weekday One Hundred 