Fellow members of Generation-Z, can you believe its nearly 2060? What a long, strange AF trip it’s been.

As we look back on another trill decade, I am so proud that the battles that united us in our youth resulted in actual change. Thanks in large part to Swedish Prime Minister Thunberg and Nobel Laureate Machine Gun Kelly’s efforts, we have reversed so much of the damage caused to the environment by our grandparents’ generation that we now have to pump carbon back into the atmosphere to combat climate stasis. Luckily, we can now purchase carbon on-sets for only a satoshi of a bitcoin. But perhaps the greatest win for our generation is that we eliminated the gun violence epidemic that plagued us in our youth which was solved when Congressional Republicans finally came around and passed gun regulations in 2030 shortly after the NRA’s bankruptcy.

But for all the progress we have made, I still stan the simple days of our youth. The days when there were only 4 streaming services and people actually took the time to text each other. Now, everyone is so distracted by their cerebral-communication implant that there isn’t a day that goes by when my self-driving car isn’t forced to swerve out of the way of some neural-texting teenager.

I don’t know about you, but I find Generation Gamma (born between 2035 and 2050) thirsty and entitled. Back in the 2010s, if we wanted something we actually had to tell Alexa to order it and wait sometimes a day for it to arrive at our house. Today’s kids just have to think about what they want into their Amazon Brain-Stem and it is 3D printed right in front of them. They have it too easy. With all of this instant-gratification is it any wonder why young people have no attention span and can’t even get through a single Tik-Tok without being distracted?

My biggest issue with today’s youth is their lack of respect. I resent when they say “OK Gen- Zer” to me whenever I go out of my way to criticize them for the things they like or when they spend money on toast. Young people should respect their elders like we did when we were young. That’s why I find their criticisms of President Buttigieg so problematic. President Pete has the age and experience we need to get us out of the mess caused by President Kanye West and Vice President Logan Paul. Insulting him for being in his late 70’s is ageist IMHO.

But TBH, I’m not completely salty at today’s young people and would lowkey admit that a lot of what they do is 🔥. It was Gucci that they were able to remove most of the Trump monuments he had installed during his third and fourth terms and sic that they were able to push through the 28th Amendment, which bolded and italicized existing portions of the Constitution so future generations got that they are not optional.

Still, their music annoys me. Call me old fashioned, but it doesn’t have enough electronic sounds. It’s all woodwinds and string instruments—that just isn’t music. But I guess that’s how it goes. Time moves on and at some point every generation has to accept that the next generation is going to do things their way. That’s where us Gen-Zers are now. But at least some of our heroes still have a voice and we can still enjoy good, old-fashion entertainment that harkens back to a simpler time. My BAE and I are going to see Billie Eilish on her co-headlining farewell tour next summer. She is playing alongside a holograph of Post Malone. It’s going to be lit.

“The Page Museum looks like it was designed in the Jurassic period!” said architect Victor Lewis, holding for laughs, as he presented his vision for the museum that surrounds the La Brea Tar Pits.

“The museum was built in the 1970s and its architecture is very clearly contemporary with that time period,” interrupted collections manager Gary Takeuchi, an actual person with no idea why his name ended up in this article.

“I’m sorry?” said Victor Lewis.

“You said that the museum looks like it’s from the Jurassic period, but given its design aesthetics and materials it is obviously mid-century modern.”

“Oh, it was just a joke. Because the Tar Pits are so old and the museum is outdated it feels like the museum itself is from the Jurassic period,” explained the architect.

“Ah, I get it,” said Gary.

“Great, so as I was saying–”

“But the Tar Pits are from the last Glacial Period, not the Jurassic Period.”

“Can we just move on,” said Lori Bettison-Varga, who oversees the National History Museums of Los Angeles County, the entity that manages the tar pits.

This excruciating presentation was one of many by architectural firms across the country vying to redesign the museum surrounding the La Brea Tar Pits, one of several museums in the Fairfax District going through what many in the area describe as an “unnecessarily gaudy redesign.”

“It wasn’t too long ago that the Miracle Mile area presented a reasonable aesthetic where one could enjoy a museum or watch the children of orthodox Jews sneak off to smoke cigarettes before Shabbas,” said nearby resident Velvel Solomon. “I’m just afraid all of these museum are becoming so outlandish that the neighborhood is losing its otherwise grungy charm.”

“With all due respect, fuck that guy,” said architect Victor Lewis, who unveiled a design that he promised would “knock the dicks off those suckers at LACMA.” Mr. Lewis’s design will feature over 60,000 square feet of event space available for private events and “probably a few T-Rex skeletons or something, we’ll let the nerds figure that out.”

“A T-Rex really would be quite anacronistic for this museum” began Gary, before being shut down by Ms. Bettison-Varga again.

While Mr. Lewis’s firm is one of several competing to redesign the museum, he told the Avocado that he is very confident his plan will be selected.

“They absolutely loved my idea for an onsite bakery called “Jurassic Snack” that he says will serve pies with the “Best Crustaceous, Period,” an idea widely seen as innovative and adorable by everyone in the room except Gary, who didn’t care for the pun.

Paid Partnership with Auntie Anne’s Pretzels

Harvey Weinstein sits poolside in a private cabana at the Beverly Hilton sipping a daiquiri chased with Splenda. For most of his professional life he used this location as a meeting place to hold court with a who’s who of Hollywood’s elite. Quentin Tarantino is rumored to have pitched him Pulp Fiction from the chair which I now occupy. But those days are gone. Two years removed from revelations that he used his position as one of Hollywood’s top producers to exert influence and commit sexual assaults against hundreds of women over the course of his career, he now mostly sunbathes by himself. “Being alone gives me time to plan my comeback,” he says with a smile. But Harvey Weinstein is not joking. Getting back into the good graces of the town he once ran has become the singular obsession for a man that cultivated a reputation for getting what he wants at any cost.

When I first received a call from Harvey Weinstein’s publicist, Norman Daniels, about doing a profile on the disgraced producer I was suspicious. The Avocado is not a “real” magazine I warned him, but he didn’t care. “Do you think any of those magazines we had on payroll to profile our Best Actress nominees were any more legitimate than your outlet? At least you let people know up front you make things up.” I found out later that those other magazines had been contacted before us and turned down the story. I also found out that Norman Daniels was really just Harvey Weinstein putting on an Australian accent, a discovery made when my assistant put him on a brief telephone hold. When she returned she asked “Mr. Daniels, are you still there?” to which Weinstein responded “Daniels? Who’s Daniels? Do you know who I am you little bitch? I’m Harvey Weinst—oh god dammit, I fucked this up.” Old habits die hard, I guess.

After uncovering Weinstein’s ruse, I let him know I was not interested in doing the piece and that I found the idea of profiling him unconscionable. He then reminded me that he was still impossibly rich and, after agreeing to pay off $84,500.00 in student debt I owed, I told him I would meet him at his cabana the next day for an interview. I had been pressured into doing something I didn’t want to do with Harvey Weinstein for money and the irony was not lost on me. I tried to justify the assignment by telling myself that everyone has a story to tell and that there must be some humanity to him that the world is not aware of that somehow explains how his awful acts could go unchecked for so many years. But really, I did what he wanted for the money, which perhaps more fundamentally explains how he was able to get away with it all for as long as he did. As I pulled up to the opulent Beverly Hilton I felt both shame and the overwhelming belief that I could have gotten more money out of him if I had played this better. He didn’t even try to negotiate with me.

Hollywood is an industry that seems to have its own set of rules. More accurately, that perception is one that has been propagated by the rich and powerful men who have refused to follow the rules that very much exist. When I first met Harvey Weinstein in person he had a half-eaten jumbo pretzel from Auntie Anne’s sunbaked into the side of his belly. The closest Auntie Anne’s was six-miles away from his hotel and had been purchased by his personal assistant Marissa, a woman whom Weinstein told me without prompt that they “never did nothing sexual” and that she “was really not my type.” It was evident that in Marissa Weinstein believed he found not only someone to bring him an outlandish number of pretzels every day, but also a sort-of walking alibi to his professed newfound chastity. In conversations with Marissa she assured me that Weinstein’s statements didn’t bother her or make her feel uncomfortable. “I’m a big girl,” she said in a thick Israeli accent equal parts Golda Meir and Gal Gadot. She also agreed to pick me up a pretzel on her next trip to Auntie Anne’s. 

Meeting Harvey Weinstein is exactly what you’d think it would be like. He is large, loud, and covered in mustard. Yellow mustard, mostly from the dozen Auntie Anne’s he eats every day, but also Dijon from the French Ham Club prepared and served poolside to him by the staff of the Beverly Hilton. “He puts mustard on everything,” a busboy told me on the condition of anonymity because I forgot to ask him his name. “I fucking love mustard,” Weinstein admitted as he scooped a fingertip of spicy brown into his mouth that had fallen into his belly button during his mid-morning hot dog.

In between brisket lunches and lines of Splenda, Weinstein recounted the trajectory of his career from his days as an up-and-coming sex offender in the 1970s, through his rise as one of Hollywood’s most powerful rapists in the 1990s and 2000s. “I’ve had a pretty amazing life,” he waxed nostalgically as he pulled up the IMDB pages of some of the women he threatened into having sex with him over the years. “You see why I said that Marissa is not my type,” he said loud enough for Marissa, who had just delivered him a pretzel, to hear. She had forgotten mine, but I was not upset by the oversight and the more I got to know Marissa the more I realized how amazing she was as a person, both for her ability to ignore Weinstein’s near constant remarks about her appearance and also the way she always seemed to deliver his pretzel warm even though the closest Auntie Anne’s was, at best, 25 minutes away from the Hilton. I assumed she had some type of warming device in her car, but she insisted she didn’t.

Weinstein views himself as the victim of bad circumstance and as unfairly demonized by a culture that has changed around him. “I wasn’t doing anything that wasn’t already happening in Hollywood,” he told me. “I mean, I didn’t invent the fucking casting couch!” He gets pretty worked up when he talks about his recent career struggles and has become paranoid at what he sees as a conspiracy to destroy his life. It is from this perspective that Weinstein views a comeback as not only necessary to save his career, but also his life. “If I don’t do something to rehabilitate my image, they’re going to fucking kill me. But once I’m back on top and I have another hit movie, then everything will go back to normal. That’s why you’re so important, this profile is going to rehabilitate my image and show the world I’m just a normal guy,” Weinstein told me before berating a cabana boy for putting the wrong type of mustard in his daiquiri then throwing $4200 at him in exchange for his signature on a standard-form NDA he carries around.

Weinstein knows the road to redemption won’t be easy, and has enlisted a team of high-priced consultants that are working with him to get in front of all of the bad press he has received on account of all of the rapes, including former A-Listers like Mel Gibson who himself has somehow rehabilitated his image of a drunken anti-Semite. In fact, it was Gibson who suggested Weinstein arrange for a magazine to profile him, a strategy he used to great effect following his anti-Semitic rantings. When asked about whether he thought Weinstein could rehabilitate his career as successfully as he had, Gibson responded “fuck off, you fucking Jewish kike piece of shit” and then hung up the phone. He is currently starring in the film The Professor and The Madman alongside Sean Penn, who beat up Madonna.

It’s difficult to know whether Harvey Weinstein truly believes he can rise to the top of Hollywood again or whether his own comeback is just the latest production goal he must oversee, no matter how unlikely. But Weinstein has made a career on making the unlikely happen through sheer force. See Shakespeare in Love winning Best Picture and also him being a known sexual predator for years and getting away with it. Whether it is likely or not, however, the people that still surround Weinstein, all of whom are on the payroll in one way or another, seem convinced it’s only a matter of time. “You can’t have that much money without making some friends who will be able to help you out of a jam,” said his lawyer [Redacted Following Cease and Desist Letter] who has been paid millions of dollars to help Weinstein out of jams and hiding evidence of his crimes. And that, it turns out, is what is most concerning to those who want to make sure the Harvey Weinstein story is not rebooted, including many former associates and one current one.

Marissa Oukine struck me as an odd choice for a disgraced producer’s doting assistant. The 28-year-old is a former captain in the Israeli military and holds a Masters in biological chemistry from Stanford University. She has no connection to, or aspiration in, Hollywood and is immensely overqualified for her role as Harvey Weinstein’s pretzel jockey. During our conversations, I asked her why she took the job, which, no offense to her, was so obviously beneath her. She laughed and told me that she felt burnt out after the military and graduate school and wanted to be less serious for a while. “I just want to be lazy, so I get him pretzels.” But Marissa Oukine is not a lazy woman, a fact evident by the detailed logs she keeps in Hebrew of Weinstein’s pretzel intake or the way she stands at attention outside of Harvey Weinstein’s cabana waiting to fulfill his requests for more pretzels.

For all of my suspicions about Marissa’s motivations, Weinstein had none. “Women have been throwing themselves at me my whole career,” he said as he stuffed his mouth full of corned beef. “Better looking one’s than her, that’s for sure!” Weinstein was angry because Marissa had forgotten to bring me a pretzel again. “I don’t know what’s wrong with this bitch, he said loudly, “she usually is on top of things.” I told Weinstein not to worry about it and took notes on a story he told me about a road trip he took with Brett Ratner and R. Kelly to Neverland Ranch to meet Bill Cosby that turned out very different than I had expected. “Those guys were the best,” he sighed. “The world isn’t fair.”

I spent the rest of the afternoon listening to Weinstein masticate in between stories of the women he had sex with and movies he made. “Power is an aphrodisiac, so someone as powerful as I was literally couldn’t rape someone. It’s impossible.” Weinstein’s personality takes on the characters from the movies he produced. He is as cocky as Will Hunting, as righteous as Jules Winnfield, as vengeful as The Bride, and as covered in mustard as Paddington. He is exactly who you would expect him to be, and my day’s efforts to discover something deeper came up empty.

By the time I said goodbye to Harvey Weinstein I had watched him eat seven feet of hotdog, four Reubens, a Rachel on account as he had eaten all of the Hilton’s corned beef, several French Ham Club sandwiches, a crockpot full of brisket, and eight pretzels, each brought to him piping hot by Marissa. Every item he ate was covered in mustard, which I assumed was the cause of the jaundiced glow he emitted. I had not eaten the entire day. As I left the pool Weinstein got up and pressed his sundrenched torso into me for a great hug that caused my shirt and chin to become covered in mustard and other food particles. He evidentially snuck some salami when I went to the bathroom. “This article is going to be so great for you, you’re welcome!” he thanked me for my time.

As I waited for the valet to bring around my Sebring, I saw Marissa leaning onto her jeep smoking a cigarette. “I didn’t think anyone still smoked in L.A.,” I told her. She smiled.

“It’s a tradition from when I was in the military,” she exhaled.


 “There is an old saying we had, it dates back to the Maccabees, that when a warrior kills, even an enemy, they must themselves step closer to death. It’s about honoring god, Hashem, and the life of his that they took.”

“Sounds like a way to justify a bad habit,” I replied.

“Perhaps you’re right,” she said as she took another drag.

“Aren’t you supposed to be getting Harvey another pretzel?” She smiled and motioned to a jumbo pretzel heating up by the sun on the roof of her jeep. “I told you I was lazy,” she winked. As she said this she opened her car’s door to reveal a large box filled with Auntie Anne’s pretzels. A syringe and several vials sat beside the box that I guess at the moment I assumed was insulin or some hormone therapy medication that she took for herself. I realized later it was the poison she had been using to kill Harvey Weinstein. As I walked back to the valet where my car had arrived I turned to her again.

            “If you had the pretzels in your car the whole time, why didn’t you give me one?”

            “I didn’t want to give you a bad one by mistake,” she said as she took a final drag of her smoke and flicked the butt.

I stood at my driver side door, contemplating her response, when I heard a scream from inside the hotel. My instinct to investigate was delayed by Marissa, who had walked back over to me holding a pretzel. “Here, you can have this one,” she said. I took the pretzel and thanked her. It was cold. “This isn’t the one that was heating on your car’s roof?”

“No, that one is bad for you,” she said. “This one isn’t.” I could hear an ambulance in the distance. I told her I didn’t understand.

            “There is nothing to understand,” she told me. “Harvey was an awful man, you must have seen that today. There is no deeper meaning. There is no hidden story. There is no redemptive arc. Especially now.”

As the ambulance came into view I started to understand. I began to frantically beg Marissa for details and motivations. Had she, or perhaps someone close to her been one of Weinstein’s victims? Was she working on behalf of someone? Why her? Why now? Why pretzels?

“You’re overthinking things,” was her only response. “Now go and eat your pretzel. It’s safe, I promise.”

Auntie Anne's Doesn't Really Approve This Message

Madison Alquarashi wants you to know she is not your typical mom. “I am not your typical mom,” said the Santa Monica-based 33-year-old part-time yoga instructor.

“I take an active role in my children’s upbringing and, as a result, have developed a truly unique parenting philosophy,” said Madison, the widowed heir to the Alquarashi oil fortune while promoting her new parenting book “Mrs. Alquarashi’s Flirty Sexy Mommy’s Guide To Raising Woke Children Who Are Strong, Intersectional, and Woke” (self-published). [Editor’s Note: Madison Alquarashi paid us $260.00 to write this article]

Madison Alquarashi says that she wrote her book as a tribute to her recently deceased husband, Rabbi Walter Wattenbaum, who passed away following an unexpected bout with measles. “Everything I do is a tribute to him,” she said as she outlined her plans to expand the Flirty Sexy Mommy brand to include online content, a reality TV series, and her own line of scented oil or some bullshit.

When asked to distill her parenting philosophy, Madison said it was impossible because she takes a holistic approach to her “gift” of being a parent. I then reminded her that she only paid me $260 and that she better pick three bullet points so I can get on the 405 back to Northridge before rush hour. After several moments in deep thought and then a quick call to her ghostwriter, Pam, Madison laid out her three top parenting tips:

First, Madison employs a strict “no screen time” rule for her four children, Bryce Nova (11), Aiden Harper (9), and twins Topher Sadie and Assadula Al-Mohammad (7). “One time Aiden had a playdate with a boy whose mother showed him an episode of Daniel The Tiger. He hasn’t been the same since,” said Madison. “I was so furious at her, but that’s what I get for letting him make friends with someone from The Valley.”

Second, she insists her children only eat organic, halal vegan meals, which she prepares herself. “Our children are the womanifestation of what they are exposed to,” adding “You see what I did just then? I said ‘womanifestation’ instead of ‘manifestation’ because I don’t think our language should be gendered, and if it is gendered, then why not gendered for women?”

Finally, Madison said she was adamant that organizations like the American Medical Association should not be telling parents like her to inject vaccines and other toxins into the bodies of children. “The doctors want me to vaccinate my children for measles, but those same doctors weren’t able to save my husband’s life when he caught measles from my children. So why should I trust that they know anything about stopping measles?” said Madison before she excused herself to rub some essential oils on little Assadula Al-Mohammad’s head as he had recently contracted measles. “Doctor’s are only in it for the money,” she added before offering to sell me some Flirty Sexy Mommy branded CBD peppermints.

When asked what made her qualified to offer such controversial parenting advice, Madison explained that she had watched hundreds of hours of Youtube videos and also had taken several doses of ayahuasca in a Palm Desert trailer from a shaman she found in the back of the LA Weekly. “During my hallucination, I witnessed my own conception and birth and saw that I was a product of love. I puked my fucking brains out. It was a really enlightening and detoxifying experience and convinced me that vaccines are evil,” she explained before excusing herself to attend to Assadula who was upstairs vomiting. “Don’t worry about him, I gave him some oils, he’ll be fine.”

This article is dedicated to the memory of Assadula Al-Mohammad Alquarashi and Rabbi Walter Wattenbaum.

Madison Alquarashi’s book Mrs. Alquarashi’s Flirty Sexy Mommy’s Guide To Raising Woke Children Who Are Strong, Intersectional, and Woke can be purchased by sending her a message directly on Facebook.

Can a movie really be the “Best Picture” if it is longer than two hours? Certain members of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Science don’t think so and are proposing a sub-two-hour runtime limit for films to be eligible for Oscar’s top prize.

The proposal was instigated by a messy incident that occurred during an Academy screening of Quentin Tarantino’s new film Once Upon a Time in Hollywood in which an unnamed Academy member named Gerard Depardieu reportedly “pissed all over himself.”

Clocking in at two hours and forty-five minutes, Once Upon a Time…in Hollywood features exquisitely acted and masterfully shot scenes that flow together without ant intermediate climax to alert you when to go and pee. The runtime was reportedly especially taxing on the Academy’s older voters, some of whom complained of having to leave the theater upwards of five times. “At some point, you have to ask yourself, ‘why are movies so long?” said a retired producer who hasn’t made anything in 22-years but still gets a vote for some reason.

The proposal to impose a runtime requirement for Best Picture nominees has been met with contempt from filmmakers who argue doing so would cause past Best Picture winners like Gone With The Wind (3 hr 58 min), Lawrence of Arabia (3 hr 48 min), and Ben Hur (3 hr 44 min) to not even be nominated. In a statement, Academy president John Bailey said he understood the criticism, but argued that three hours today is a lot longer than three hours in the 1950s and that anything longer than two-hours should really just be viewed as a limited series and be under the Emmy’s jurisdiction. “I had 57 emails waiting for me when the movie let out, that’s unacceptable,” he added.

When asked to respond to the Academy’s view that movies are too long, Quentin Tarantino told us that he “rejected our hypothesis” before announcing he had directed a two-hour short film that will play immediately before future Once Upon A Time…in Hollywood showings at his New Beverly Cinema.

We at the Avocado are often asked for advice on how to be a “Good Angelino.” In this series, we provide all the help you’ll need to look like you actually belong in Hollywood and aren’t just an out of your league poser from Cherry Hill, New Jersey or worse, Arizona.

We’ve all been there: You’re out with friends seeing a potential future Best Picture nominee staring Rachel Weisz (or is that Jennifer Connelly?), when the credits finally begin. The movie was three hours long and you really need to pee and check your notifications, so you stand up to leave. Suddenly, the entire theater looks at you like you put on a MAGA hat. Congratulations, you piece of shit, now all of your new friends from acting class think you are an unsophisticated rube who has no respect for the fine men and women people who worked so hard to make that boring movie you hated.

It’s time you learned that going to the movies in Los Angeles isn’t like going to the movies in Oklahoma or wherever you and Bill Hader are from. Well, I’ll tell you what I told Bill when he and I started Hebrew school at Camp Rama: we all need to pee, Bill, but now that you are in Hollywood you need to hold it in while everyone pretends to care about the name of Adam Driver’s wardrobe assistant’s assistant.

The theatrics (sorry) of sitting through the credits of a movie may cause you to wonder why you can’t instead just pull up IMDB and feign recognition of John Wick’s 2nd A.D. from your phone as you exit the theater or why it is counterintuitively a sign of sociopathy to watch the credits on Netflix. Well, the answer to those questions is: “Shut Up.” Going to the movies still means something and is special in Los Angeles, and will always be special for another 2-4 years until all new content will be available to stream and all of the movie theaters will be converted to condos or mattress stores.

So hold it in, pretend to be interested in the visual effects team, and for God’s sake make sure to clap throughout the entire credits sequence even if you feel like an idiot doing so because clapping at the end of a movie is an objectively idiotic thing to do. If you’re gonna make it this business, you’re gonna need to do a lot of stupid things. You might as well start now.

Next week we’ll discuss the proper way to drive past the 400 cars waiting patiently to merge onto the 405 so you can get where you’re going because you are more important than them and what to do if you run into Lenny Kravitz in Echo Park (just a tip: don’t mention his penis).

“I’m running this campaign for everyone in the United States, not just the white people,” Mayor Pete Buttigieg told an all-white crowd in Los Angeles last night. His renewed commitment to diversity comes amid concerns from supporters that the Southbend, Indiana Mayor has been unable to attract significant support from African Americans.

But Buttigieg thinks his reputation among African Americans as “who?” is about to change now that he’s picked up this new Wu-Tang Clan shirt.

Mayor Pete purchased the extra small Tee from the Hot Topic at the Topanga Canyon Mall during a fundraising trip to Southern California last week. “As I was headed to the airport to go back to Iowa I told my campaign manager that I couldn’t leave California without having some authentic Mexican cuisine. We saw that there was a Taco Bell at a nearby Westfield shopping center and, as luck would have it, the Wu-Tang shirt was in the window of the Hot Topic next door.”

When asked why he chose a Wu-Tang Clan shirt, Mayor Pete said he believed Wu-Tang’s longevity and reliance on China were emblematic of the true American experience. The 37-year-old Rhodes Scholar admitted that he was unfamiliar with the group’s music, but said he was a fan of Method Man’s performance in the 2004 Zach Braff movie Garden State. “That movie meant a lot to me when I was younger,” said Mayor Pete before asking a Hot Topic employee whether they had any Shins shirts in stock. They did not.

The Avocado asked Mayor Pete whether he had any similar plans to improve waning Hispanic support for his campaign, to which the boyish Mayor pulled out a Morrisey shirt purchased as part of a 2 for 1 deal at the Hot Topic and a half-eaten burrito supreme drenched in mild sauce.

“Yo soy Pete Buttigieg, y apruebo este mensaje,” laughed the Mayor. As he held up the Morrisey shirt, I felt sort of compelled to tell him about Morrisey’s right-wing, anti-immigrant political beliefs.

“So, wearing a Morrisey shirt won’t help me attract Hispanic voters?” he asked, relieved when I told him that Mexicans largely don’t care that Morrisey is horrible.

“He’s like their Louis C.K.,” I explained. “Oh, I get it. Thanks.”

Making it in Hollywood is tough. But eternal damnation and spiritual unrest are harder. Could joining Scientology be the quick fix you need to find the professional and spiritual satisfaction you so desperately think you deserve? The answer is a resounding: Sure! 

Here is our step-by-step (day-by-day, day-by-day) guide to using Scientology to further your Hollywood dreams.

Step 1: Reconsider. Are you sure you want to do join Scientology? I mean, you’ve seen that Leah Remini show and know how dicey things can get when she and Kevin James are on TV together. Scientology is accused of all types of scary things, including forcing its members to disconnect with their family. Oh, your family has already stopped talking to you? Okay, well you know that Scientology requires some of its members to sign BILLION YEAR contracts, doesn’t that concern you? Oh, you already took out $140,000 in student loans at an 8.5% interest rate to get a degree in sociology from USC? Okay, but you know that they believe that human suffering was created when a galactic overlord named XENU brought the anxiety-riddled souls of aliens to earth. Oh, you were raised Christian and were told that God had a son who could walk on water or Jewish and told that God cries when you eat bacon? Okay, so as long as you’re comfortable with the risks… 

Step 2: Find a Scientologist. There are lots of options for finding a Scientologist in Los Angeles. You could go to their museum that is actually called “Psychiatry: An Industry of Death,” but we wouldn’t recommend it because it is usually crowded with children’s birthday parties. Instead, try heading down to the Scientology Celebrity Center on Franklin. You probably won’t see a celebrity there, but you can learn more about Scientology and then head across the street to the Upright Citizen’s Brigade Theater to see an improvised comedy show. Just be careful, UCB is a well-known cult and will try to recruit you. 

Step 3: Begin Taking Classes And Spend Like 30k. “You gotta spend money to make money” is a phrase an Iranian multi-level marketer screamed at you after you complained about the number of smoothies you had to buy to start an Herbalife business. But his philosophy is just as applicable and worthwhile here. When you start with Scientology, they are going to ask you to sign up for classes that will teach you life skills and help you identify all of the things holding you back in your life like drugs and googling Scientology. The classes get more expensive as you progress, but you enjoy some of what they have to teach you and meeting new people. “Don’t worry, stick with it,” you remember the Iranian multi-level marketer yelling at you when you asked why no one wanted to buy the garage full of smoothies you had accumulated. Maybe he had a point.

Step 4: Find An Agent. Now that you have effectively re-enrolled in school and given the Church your hard-earned money, it’s time to reap the rewards. Scientology boasts lots of celebrities like John Travolta, Tom Cruise, and Dharma from Dharma and Greg, and each of them has agents, although Travolta’s is considering dropping him..off at Fred Durst’s house to discuss their latest project together

To get an agent, simply head down to the Celebrity Center and tell the lady with the epaulets at the front desk that you have purchased $30,000 in books and classes and still don’t have an agent. She will take you to a back room where you will be forced to give her an on-the-record account of every horrible thing you have done in your life, and then, after getting you to agree to purchase some additional course packages, will introduce you to an agent who will be more than happy to represent you. 

Step 5: Start Auditioning. Now that you have representation, it’s time to start going on auditions. Unfortunately, all of the auditions you will be going on will be for Scientology-produced marketing materials where, because of your age and ethnicity, you will be forced to play a middle-aged doctor who turns to Scientology for help dealing with the pressures of her cardiothoracic surgery practice. Aha, you didn’t expect the protagonist of this step-by-step guide to be a middle-aged woman of Southeast Asian descent, did you, you racist? Anyway, Namrata, don’t get too upset that you are only getting cast in Scientology produced roles. Scientology has its own Television Network and is seriously as legitimate of a content creator as Crackle or Epix. 

Step 6: Leave Scientology. After several years with the Church, you will find yourself less focused on acting and more focused on recruiting new Scientologists. About two years ago, you started interning at Scientology’s production house in the desert and are wondering whether you will ever really be able to break out as an actress and also why all of your housemates keep escaping through the window in the middle of the night. Maybe Scientology wasn’t the answer to all of your problems?

Late one night, you tell your bunkmate, Amanda, that you want to leave. You and Amanda have been really close since moving into the compound 18 months ago, so you are surprised when Amanda seems not only unsupportive of your desire to leave, but outright antagonistic. 

“What do you mean you want to leave? You sound like an S.P., Namrata,” she tells you. “I, uh, have to go to the bathroom. Stay here,” she says and she gets up and runs down the hall. 

“That bitch,” you think. You know Amanda is going to tell Henry you were thinking about leaving and decide to make a run for it. You run toward the front door of the compound but find it locked. As you hear Henry and Amanda head toward you, you run into the bathroom and, with all your might, use your elbow to break open the small window. As you crawl through it, glass shards tear your nightshirt and cause lacerations in your thighs, but just as Henry and Amanda break down the door, you manage to finally slip through the window. 

For the next several hours, you find yourself running shoeless through the desert until you finally stumble onto a highway road. Being so exposed scares you because you know they are searching for you, but you persist, not knowing what other options you have. Finally, you hear a semi truck and wave it down. You’re safe, Namrata. You’re finally safe. 

Step 7: Congratulations on Your New Hollywood Career. It’s going to take a few more years for you to get back on your feet. All of your old friends will no longer talk to you and you have the persistent, ever-present feeling that someone is following you. You spend a lot of time in therapy working on yourself, you reestablish a relationship with your real family, and you start thinking about acting again. Acting had always been an outlet for your pain. Maybe it’s what you need to get through this dark period.

So you finally enroll at the UCB center down the street from the Scientology Center and begin taking classes. They get more expensive as they progress, but you enjoy some of what they have to teach you and meeting new people. You meet a woman in your level 2 class named Kathryn who is a production assistant at A&E and who after learning about your story asks you to tell it to Leah Remini on her show. You are thrilled and can’t wait to show off your newly developed comedic skills in front of Leah Remini and Kevin James. This is finally your time to shine.

A few weeks later, you show up on set and learn that Kevin James has nothing to do with this show and that all of your friends from Scientology have written notarized letters in which they call you a liar. It’s all overwhelming, but as the camera begins to roll, all of the negativity and controversy fades into the background. You are going to be on television, Namrata Ahluwalia. You made it. All thanks to Scientology. 

A planned boycott of the  December 19th debate by seven Democratic presidential candidates led to Loyola Marymount University contractor Sodexo and UNITE-HERE Local 11 cafeteria workers to settle a labor dispute. The move was met with strong support from Los Angeles shoppers at Whole Foods.
“I love it! Stand with workers,” said yoga instructor Ella Brisbane, unaware of Whole Foods’ anti-union track record.
This is a strong move from the Democrats, who had previously moved the debate from UCLA due to an ongoing dispute with AFSCME union workers. This election season has seen many candidates showing up on picket lines to declare support for organized labor, to the delight of many Whole Foods shoppers.

“As a union craft services member, I support my fellow food workers,” said Len Dubuque, member of IATSE, who was shopping for fresh produce for an upcoming gig.

Dubuque gave an impassioned explanation of the benefits of unions and the importance of solidarity, despite the Riverside Drive and Coldwater Canyon Ave. Whole Foods he was at being non-union, and only blocks away from a UFCW represented Ralph’s.

“Every little bit you can do to help fellow union members will come back to you,” Dubuque said, loading up his cart with crudité platters that were harvested with non-union farm labor.

Political experts say the solidarity displayed by the Democratic candidates and thr successful outcome signals a stronger bond between organized labor and the party, a potential boon as public opinion in favor of unions reaches a 50-year high.

However, others were skeptical if Democrats would have offered the same consideration to other groups.

“Loyola Marymount is a Catholic school, and the church isn’t accepting of gay people, so would they have boycotted the debate if gay people spoke up?” asked Charles O’Dell, a self-described cis-male ally, while eating at Chik-Fil-A.

When informed that Loyola Marymount has university-sanctioned LGBT services, he shrugged.

“I guess that’s okay then,” he said, before returning to the counter to buy Chik-Fil-A gift cards to give out at his officemates for the holidays.

By Philip Moon