An auspicious beginning to a long soap-opera career

Show business is so hollow.

Becoming a soap opera star was never a life-long ambition of… Show business is so hollow.

Becoming a soap opera star was never a life-long ambition of mine – or even a minor thought – until I noticed that an open casting call for “soap opera stars” was being held right here on our very own Pitt campus. I decided that this was my big chance.

I could be the biggest thing to happen to the soap opera industry since that one episode of that one show in which Monica discovered that Brad was having an affair with that three-eyed midget who is the illegitimate child of Kerry, the husband-swapping black widow, who was accused of cheating on Brad with Stephen, who is the father of the three-eyed midget, who is the father of Brad – considering Stephen had to patch up his relations with Stephanie just as she awoke from a four-year coma to find that she had cancer and that Stephen was fathering illegitimate children with Terry, Brooke, Julia and Mariah, who had just broken up with Brad to have illegitimate children with Stephen.

I figured soap opera acting was my niche, so I made the decision to go to this open casting call, even though I had no idea what an open casting call was. Like Eminem says, “You only get one shot. Do not miss your chance to blow.” I decided I was going to blow like no blower had ever blown before.

I would have to choose between going to the casting call or attending my optional calculus recitation. I decided to split the difference and slept in until noon, thereby missing the recitation and making the casting call with minimal time to spare.

Now, I should explain that there really wasn’t any specification as to what type of person they wanted, so I figured some head in the casting department was saying, “This show needs a pasty, lanky, awkward, pock-marked white kid,” and I would be there to deliver.

Upon arriving at the lounge, I took my application and set my pen ablaze as I furiously began to establish myself in the acting business. Then I messed up on the date, so I had to get another application. The second time around, I began to realize the main body of the application was more about appearance than experience.

“Height: 9ft. 2in.” I exaggerated a little. Show business people do that.

“Weight: 2,700lbs of pure man.”

“Eye Color: Sexy.”

“Hair Color: Black – like that two-timing Mariah’s heart.”

With an impressive resume like that, I figured there was no way the soap opera industry could reject me.

The next step of the casting process was to meet some guy sitting at a table, who claimed his name was Ralph. Personally, I didn’t buy it. A much more flamboyant name, like Sergio, Armando or Leslie, would have fit him like a hot pink, one-size-too-small Speedo.

Since I didn’t have an 8-by-10 glossy like the professionals – or at least the people who took this thing seriously – Sergio said he would take a photo to stick with the application. He said, “Just look this way,” and then, wham. Faster than I could get myself composed, faster than I could turn around, faster than a particle moving at the speed of light could travel one nanometer, my goofy countenance was forever imprinted on Polaroid film.

Armando lobbed me a few softball questions, and he very unconvincingly pretended to give a crap as I answered. He concluded by telling me that, basically, the company was just saying “Hi” to people, and they would call me if interested.

I’ve been in show business long enough to know that I had just been rejected.

So I haven’t reached my mega-success yet, but whenever I happen to catch a small piece of a soap opera featuring a big, dumb, beefy guy saying something profound like, “Stephanie, I came here to do what I came here for – to get you out of that coma,” I’ll always think, “That should be me.”