Porsche Man: The English Premiere West Ham

Porsche Man made cuts claiming not having any goals, saving pounds and energy. Using take-out delivery plastic spoons, enjoying a magical brew featuring macaroni letters spelling out, the word men, Porsche Man played with her clicker, turning the tele onto the special presentation, Friday Night Fright Fest. With the heater replacing the bubble machine lifestyle, the American theatrical tease lost herself in the gothic fantasy turned nightmare, whose plotting message sent a reality check from the social bank.

As the hours went tick tock, Saturday finally arrived and the hammer girl headed out, mission granted ‘confront the tricky trees’. Dressed appropriately wearing an innocent white hiking ensemble, the talented cover model ventured down the routine successful path thinking this was going to be a nice walk in the park.

With skies turning hauntingly dark, Porsche Man ignored the warnings, keeping a course which she thought had fun filled romantic exits. Almost halfway through the journey Porsche Man peered around noticing a tasty tomato seasoned lake, “I know I still have no goals but a day like this I may want to settle for being level,” her stomach hunger wanted a break.

Reality then swung its ugly branch knocking Porsche Man, throwing the actress into the lake filled with Alphabet Soup.

From Mother earth a voice rendered, “Porsche Man, you are in the Alphabet Soup Lake, with many letters that spell more than the word men.”

“What do they spell?” Porsche Man inquired treading water.

“BA, BS, maybe BSN for starts,”

“Is there buzz with all these bees?” Porsche Man felt the tomato paste tempting her lips.

“No there are goals, Porsche Man, G-O-A-L-S, Goals,” Mother Earth stated, “goals helping others.”

“Once I find my ground and take control, I will get out of this afternoon delight predicament and find goals,” Porsche Man retaliated wading out the second half.

Suddenly there was a pulling sensation overpowering the star-spangled banner, disappearing her from the surface sight, drowning the twenty first century colonist in hot water.

Birds accompanied a lurking sunlight peering out, the feathered wings performed a courtyard early riser concert acting like an alarm clock, startling a comfortably chair resting Porsche Man, “Oh my gosh, my meeting with the tricky trees!” She exclaimed shocked reading the flashing television calendar message alerting the viewer it was ‘Sunday’, “I missed it.”

“Now I know why I have no goals,” Porsche Man began shaking.

“You were visited by the ghost of Panera Campbell, and he cast, the Alphabet Soup spell,” the house voice explained.

“Panera Campbell?”

“Yeah, he was the last spring’s class valedictorian at the Soupy Sales And Management annual conference.”

Taking the comment in stride Porsche Man pulled things together hoping to find answers, doing kitchen business. Opening the microwave, placing a mug filled with tap liquid, she pressed a few buttons, heating up the beverage.

When finished, a tea bag bathed, and Porsche Man, pulled a cell phone from her pocket, then dialed a number, “I know its Sunday but is Brent Ford in?”

“Brent Ford, at your service,” the other side introduced.

“It’s Porsche Man,” she acknowledged, “and I have not gotten any goals in a while.”

“Yeah,”

“But I also, have not dropped off the top ten radar,”

“What about the top five?”

“That Brent is another story.”

“And Brent Ford loves a good spinning tale,”

“We need to meet,” Porsche Man lowered her voice.

“I can come over now, get some popcorn, watch a Sunday movie, talk things out.”

“Next week I am calling to confirm our appointment at my place next week.”

“Oh yeah, I will be there,” Brent Ford agreed, and both hung up at the same time.

Proceeding over to the sink Porsche Man cleaned the glassware hearing, “good move Porsche Man, now stay home and turn on the bubble machine, the buzz will be coming soon.”