So a guy fancies himself as a "scholar" (oops, sorry... "historian") of the porn industry. He only watched for the credits, honest! He dangles his own self-obsession out there like a fetish, gives himself hokey names like "Johnny White Moccassins" or "Suite Judy Blue Eyes" or whatever. He becomes the only artiste in the porn business, treating 55 minutes of pointing a camera at gyrating hips with all of the reverence of Picasso.
He lives in some anonymous hovel, not even his life-long friends know where he lives. He balloons up to 300 pounds and phones everyone in his mental rolodex to describe his hallucinations and announce that he's cut a hole in the back of his sweat pants to make that whole defecation thing a whole lot simpler.
Then one day he dies, and people who don't know who the fuck he is pretend to be sad and somber. It's fucking absurd is what it is.
You could make some warped fucking independent movie about this Hollywood creature and no one would believe it.
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