(Some explaining is in order. Writers are sometimes at a loss for meaning. There may be no way of coming terms with the times in which we live. There may be answers,hopes or methods, but the laziest way of dealing with the problem is to take banal BS and fabricate it into a story that the writer hopes will amuse you, and thus justify his/her lousy little existence.)
Monopoly on Ventnor Ave.
Christopher Lee and Vincent Price stopped by, and we wound up looking at each other in my bungalow, like we didn't really belong together. I'd heard they acted the same way at Charles Nelson Reilly's place. Really. This was before I became a regular on Hollywood Squares. I still had my place on Ventnor Ave. People were giving me short shrift.
I was in no position to make them leave. Every time one of them would roll the dice, he'd pull the old hurry up and wait, rattling and stopping, knowing how I am with anticipation. Christopher is the worse of the two when it comes to probing for weak points. Always saying that people from New Jersy are common. He would have to rethink that. I know he did. I was a regular on Hollywood Squares for four straight months.
But I was still on Ventnor at the time. Still playing board games with the B-List. It's no different than being on the A-list. I don't think it is.
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