Undisputed_ How to Become the World Champion in 1,372 Easy Steps - Chris Jericho [151]
The producer explained, “We’ve seen your work and we know what you can do. You have great improv skills. If Joan wants to banter with you, just do your thing.”
Fair enough; I wasn’t afraid of Joan Rivers, and I had even prepared a few jokes to throw at her if she got a little smart.
I was positioned on the edge of the carpet and was told by a gargantuan bouncer that under no circumstances was I allowed to put my foot on the carpet in any way. The show began and I waited for my cue armed with earpiece and microphone.
Ten minutes went by and Joan didn’t pitch to me.
Twenty minutes went by and Joan didn’t pitch to me.
I asked the producer when she was going to throw to me and he said, “Real soon.”
Forty-five minutes went by and she still didn’t pitch to me.
I started to think that the fix was in—she hadn’t pitched to me because she wasn’t going to.
I was furious. I’d left my friends in Tampa and rushed out to L.A. to stand on the edge of the carpet (in camera range so everyone could see me standing there with my Emmy in my hand) and be completely ignored by a frozen-faced septuagenarian.
What made even less sense was that TV Guide had shelled out some decent cash to get me there: first-class air, five-star hotel, and an impressive payoff to do the show. Why had they bothered if they were just going to ignore me?
I was about to lose it when Ricky Gervais waddled past, flashed his shark smile, and said, “Cheer up, mate!” He made me laugh in spite of myself and I decided I might as well enjoy myself since there was nothing I could do at this point anyway. Besides, who knows, maybe I was wrong and Joan was still going to pitch to me at some point. (She didn’t.)
A few minutes later my old Superskate sparring partner Denis Leary walked by and I clapped him on the back, happy to see him. He gave me a puzzled smile and continued on his way. Soon after, another Superskate alum, David Boreanaz, strolled by. He’d given me his cell number at the Skate, so I figured he would remember me.
“David! Chris Jericho. How’s it going?”
“Good, good. Wow, good to see you … well, gotta go inside.”
I got revenge and deleted his number from my phone.
I spent the next twenty minutes with my foot directly on the red carpet (the bouncer would’ve been so pissed, heehee) until the debacle finally ended. I stormed backstage to ask the producer why they had bothered to hire me just so I could stand on the red carpet like a buffoon. He apologized profusely and explained, “Joan wouldn’t pitch to you. We kept telling her to but she wouldn’t. I have no idea why.”
Right then Rivers toddled backstage and gave me one of the fakest smiles I’ve ever seen in my life, both physically and metaphorically. “There you ah! I saw you on the carpet and you ah so handsome. I wanted to pitch to you but I was never given the cue!”
I punched her right in her plastic face, collapsing it like a house of collagen cards.
I popped back into reality and fake smiled right back. “Oh, it’s okay, Joan. Things happen and I had a great time anyway.”
“Are you a wrestlah? Is that what you do?”
“Yes … among other things.”
Her eyes lit up and she seized her chance. “Well, let me know if you ever want me to appear on your wrestling show. I would be happy to come on and help you out. Now, here’s my card—send me a self-addressed, stamped envelope and I’ll send you an autographed picture, dahling.”
This time I caved in her fabricated fuckface for real.
When I got back to Tampa, everybody was feeling sorry for me.
“You were just standing there and I felt so bad for you,” Chad said. “I kept waiting for you to do something, but alas it never happened,” he continued wisely.
I’d been embarrassed in front of my cousin again. The last time he was involved in one of my endeavours there were more security guards than fans at my signing in Ottawa. Now he had watched me for two hours standing with my