Disclaimer: The tale before you is “Faction,” a curious blend of fact and fiction, reminiscent of your toilet’s unpredictable aftermath following a rather daring taco night. Some elements may be rooted in reality, while others have been exaggerated, dramatized, or completely pulled out of the u-bend of imagination. Any resemblance to real persons or events is as coincidental as finding a clean public bathroom when you need one. The views and opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be flushed onto the writer or publisher. Reader “discretion” is advised, and by that, we mean you may want to keep an air freshener handy.
By Winston Velvet
In the world of crime TV, where plots are as recycled as toilet paper rolls, one man thought he could flush away the rules.
Though Christopher Ambrose bounced around like a rogue roll of TP, taking a dip in the “Law and Order” bowl and plopping into “NCIS New Orleans,” he hit a clog in the drain of employment when he plunged his hand deep into an old “Bones” episode and fished out the plot for the TV show “Instinct.”
Deceit was his Febreze. He sprinkled lies like those fancy bathroom fresheners, borrowing lines from “Bones” like it was a communal roll of toilet paper at a music festival.
Of his theft of “Bones” from “Instinct,” Chris thought he’d pass a stealthy scent. But fans and the press caught a whiff of his act.
He thought it would pass like a quiet, shy fart, but the bidet of truth was ready to spray, to wash away secrets and lies he might try to wipe clean.
The evidence lingered and refused to go away like toilet paper stuck to a shoe. His deception loomed as a clogged toilet in a one-bathroom home.
Hollywood agents flushed him from their client list. His IMDb credits dried up like a public bathroom out of hand sanitizer. Ambrose found himself circling the drain.
His excuses about his sewer-level blunder were as believable as toilets flushing upwards.
And, as if he had the runs, Ambrose sped to Connecticut, plunged into divorce proceedings, drained his wife’s inheritance, and crapped all over his kids’ happiness by taking them from their mother and out of their happy house.
To his children and their mother, he became the turd that won’t flush, the overflowing disaster you can’t mop up, a man whose presence smells worse than a porta-potty at a chili cook-off.
Yes, so, mothers, tell your children not to do what Chris has done, clogging his pipes with plagiarism and deceit in the septic tank of life.
Please kids, don’t be like him. Keep your record cleaner than a freshly sanitized toilet bowl.
No, don’t be like Chris, the stinker that makes everyone want to evacuate the room, except in Family Court, where somehow his smell is the judge’s favorite cologne. In fact, Judge O’Neill calls it “Ambrosial.”
What Judge O’Neill feels when he sees the affluent father Chris Ambrose:
What everyone else feels, smells and sees:
