How I Met Geraldo
I’ve received a request to post my Geraldo Rivera story so here, boys and girls, is how I met the man, the myth, the mustache.
Way back when, a country girl moved to the big city. Actually she moved from a smaller city to a larger one. To make ends meet she worked as many odds and ends jobs as possible, and that is how she met Mr. Geraldo Rivera.
My assignment was to deliver pies as a Thanksgiving present to clients. Personally, I was excited for this day. I’ve been told that pie day is the most wonderful day of the year!
I couldn’t possibly know how wrong I was.
I should have known that pie day was doomed to fail because the minute I set foot outside my building it started pouring. Think trapped in the jungle behind Viet Cong territory rainstorm. So after walking 40 blocks in the freezing rain, I reached pie headquarters. Now I thought that I would be delivering maybe 20-30 pies. Oh no, I was in charge of over 100 pies. Great.
We divided into teams of two, which consisted of a team leader and a temp (me). My team leader was good looking in a kind of douchey way; the kind of guy you would only meet in an Abercrombie & Fitch catalogue, or in Congress. He was pretty chill with me…until I forgot to bring my ID and had to run back to pie headquarters to grab it. After incurring his wrath, I was relegated to delivering pies to about twenty different locations throughout Times Square (aka the Seventh Circle of Hell). Oh right, I forgot to mention that I had to complete this impossible task in an hour. Yeah, right, okay.
Now, whoever designed Times Square needs to be shot. Nowhere in this seizure-inducing nightmare did anyone think to place building numbers. Really?!? You couldn’t squeeze a “Five” between the ad for Kung Fu Panda and the Target dog? So I’m running into every building asking if it’s the correct address, which leads me into some theme ride/museum for Charmin toilet paper… Somehow I think I’ve made a wrong turn.
Finally, I find the first location and drop off a bag of pies. The next location, however, is even harder to find. After going through the whole security process (getting my ID scanned, having my picture taken, and signing in) the idiot security guard tells me that the company I’m looking for has moved. He couldn’t tell me that immediately after I entered and told him where I was going? No, let’s waste five minutes getting a visitor’s pass printed to tell me that I have to go somewhere else. Where? He has no clue! Great.
I storm out of there and run up Broadway, trying to knock down as many tourists as I can. Five points for the Germans. Meanwhile, I am getting calls from Cobra Commander every five minutes asking for status updates, because he’s almost done. Maybe that’s because he took the van!
After delivering pies to CBS, I run over to the NY Post. This is where the day starts to get fun… The guard tells me that I have to deliver the pies to the mailroom. Okay, where is that? Outside, around the corner, down the (unmarked) stairs, through the second door, down the other stairs, and at the end of the hallway. There are no stairs. There is no door. There is no hallway. There is no one to ask for directions. Maybe he meant around the other corner…
I run around the block to the adjacent corner, only to be greeted by Fox News Headquarters. Ok, it’s bad enough that I can’t find the mailroom. I don’t really need to be enveloped by the overwhelming scent of bullshit wafting from the halls of Fox News.
My phone rings. It’s Alpha dog.
AD: “Where are you?”
Me: “Looking for the Post.”
AD: “Will you be finished in ten minutes?”
Me: “I have four more properties to deliver to, and they’re within a ten block radius”
AD: “So, yes?”
Me: “So, NO!”
AD: “You really need to pick up the pace.” (hangs up)
At this moment I am so frustrated I can’t take it anymore. I throw down my list, take the bags of pies, swing them around my head, and scream “FUCKING PIES!” at the top of my lungs…and that’s when I realize that I’ve almost smacked some poor bastard in the face. But something doesn’t sit right with me. As if in slow-motion, I see the pies bristle past one of the most magnificent mustaches I have ever seen. Gently grazing each individual fiber of 100% American mustache. As I take a closer look at this frightened specter of a man I realize that it is no man. It is Mr. Tour of Terror himself. That’s right ladies and gentlemen, I have almost succeeded in clocking Geraldo Rivera right in his pie hole with a bag of pies. Perfect.
He looks bewildered for a moment and then continues walking.
My only regret is that it didn’t hit a highly flustered Steve Doocy standing next to him.
Fucking pies.
