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In this week's issue of Hollywood Momentum, an aspiring Ladies' Home Journal for the industry's assistant set, a harried call-roller has an epiphany induced by his boss's vagina:

One of my former producer bosses insisted on making me set up personal appointments for various aspects of her life. At first I didn't mind scheduling the occasional Scientology meeting or divorce counseling session. But the first major sign of impending doom came when I was asked to set appointments for her gynecologist, and then was forced to be the "messenger boy" between her and her doctor with the various consultation questions or test results that she was too busy to ask of him herself. But the final straw for me was having to set a waxing appointment at Pink Cheeks salon. Having the esthetician ask me if she wanted to go get "The Playboy" or instead go bald this week was too much for me to take. I don't mind working for a cu*t, but directly dealing with the one belonging to my boss is where I draw the line.

Sadly, the poor guy might not be cut out for a life in Hollywood. Everyone knows that when your boss tells you to wax, you ask, "Hitler moustache or smooth like a baby?"