Maureen Dowd, "Tines That Try Men’s Souls": Bill de Blasio out of the Running in 2016!

Four years ago, I received a momentous phone call: "A talent scout likes your face and wants you for a pizza commercial. If you're selected, can you come to wardrobe on Wednesday?" My first thought was that one of my friends was playing games with me, but after a few pointed questions which annoyed the agent, I realized this was the real thing: God was smiling upon me!

"Yes, sure, I'll come to wardrobe on Wednesday." I was certain that this was going to be a piece of cake, or at least a slice of pizza, which I like almost as much as ice cream.

And wardrobe was great. "Try this on." "Or perhaps you look better in this?" "We don't want to make you look too old." So much flattery and attention.

But then came Thursday. I arrived a few minutes late and was hurried downstairs to be dressed. I met the three accomplished actors who would be working with me. I admitted to everyone that I had never before acted. "That's okay. You've got no lines. You're being paid to eat."

Time to shoot the commercial. I was hungry. They positioned me at the head of the table and told me, "Jeffrey, no need to do anything. Just keep eating." It was 5 p.m. when they handed me that first plate of piping hot pepperoni pizza, and the camera started to roll. The pizza was delicious, and I wolfed it down. I couldn't understand why the veteran actors, positioned on my left and right at the table, barely took more than a bite.

"Jeffrey finished his pizza. Give him another." And that second slice was just as fine as the first. The scene was shot again and again, each time with a slight variation, sometimes at a different angle. "Jeffrey, keep eating."

Occasionally, I would sneak a glance at my watch: it was 6 p.m. and soon 7 p.m. I had lost track of how many slices of pizza I had eaten. I was certainly into my second or third pie when they said they would need to take close-ups. This was when the hard work began:

"Take a big bite and smile."

"Excuse me, how do I smile with a mouthful of pizza?"

It was getting close to 9 p.m., and I had lost count of the number of pies that I had eaten. Some joker positioned an empty bucket under the table beside my legs, into which I could spit the pizza. Obviously, this film crew had no idea how tough I am. Thirty years ago I used to take bets on how much ice cream I could eat in the space of 10 minutes, and I just continued to swallow.

But what really had me pissed off was the fact that they had me eating pizza with a knife and fork. Me? A knife and fork? I was going to be seen on television eating pizza in upper-crust fashion? On the other hand, who was I to object? After all, I was being paid for this gluttony.

In her latest New York Times op-ed entitled "Tines That Try Men’s Souls" (http://www.nytimes.com/2014/01/15/opinion/dowd-tines-that-try-mens-souls.html?ref=maureendowd), Maureen Dowd begins:

"Far be it from me to defend what Jon Stewart has demolished.

But I would like to speak up on behalf of the fledgling New York mayor’s de Blasphemy, now universally deemed his first mistake and possibly grounds for impeachment: daintily carving up his smoked-mozzarella-and-sausage pizza at Goodfellas in Staten Island with a knife and fork.

I’m not saying it’s right. I know it’s wrong. I’m just saying I do it, too. I eat pizza with a knife and fork because I want only the gooey stuff on top, not the crust."

Bill de Blasio of Brooklyn ate pizza with a knife and fork? I might expect as much from Maureen, but Bill? For shame! Chris Christie's Fort Lee traffic fiasco pales beside this faux pas. That's it! He's finished! This prig will also never make it to the Oval Office!

So You Want to Be in the Movies?

So you want to be in the movies? Or on a television show? Or at least in a commercial? How many times, while watching TV, have you said to yourself: "Hey, I can do that! How much is that clown getting paid to do nothing?"

Well, that's exactly what I thought, and although I've appeared on the news often enough in disparate places throughout Europe, I had never before been paid to act. At least not until Thursday.

The first phone call came on Tuesday: "A talent scout likes your face and wants you for a pizza commercial. If you're selected, can you come to wardrobe on Wednesday?" My first thought was that one of my friends was playing games with me, but after a few pointed questions which annoyed the agent, I realized this was the real thing: God was finally smiling on me!

"Yes, sure, I'll come to wardrobe on Wednesday."

I was certain that this was going to be a piece of cake, or at least a slice of pizza. I like pizza (almost as much as I like ice cream), and here someone would tell me what to do. No need to joust with nasty reporters. No need to come up with the right answer in seconds. No need to look constantly into the camera. And if you get it wrong, the scene can always be shot again. Surely I had arrived in heaven.

Wardrobe on Wednesday afternoon was great. "Try this on." "Or perhaps you look better in this?" "We don't want to make you look too old." So much flattery and attention.

And then came Thursday. I arrived a few minutes late and was hurried downstairs to be dressed. I met the three accomplished actors who would be working with me. I admitted to everyone that I had never before acted. "That's okay. You've got no lines. You're being paid to eat."

Next, I was sent to make-up. My interviews on television have always been in battle zones, and no one ever thought to dab powder on my sweaty face. I sank into the comfortable chair and allowed the charming young woman to work over my wrinkles and said to myself: "I can get used to this."

Time to shoot the commercial. I was hungry. They positioned me at the head of the table and told me, "Jeffrey, no need to do anything. Just keep eating." It was 5 p.m. when they handed me that first plate of piping hot pizza, and the camera started to roll. The pizza was delicious, and I wolfed it down. I couldn't understand why the veteran actors positioned on my left and right at the table, barely took more than a bite.

"Jeffrey finished his pizza. Give him another." And that second slice was just as fine as the first. The scene was shot again and again, each time with a slight variation, sometimes at a different angle. "Jeffrey, keep eating."

Occasionally, I would sneak a glance at my watch: it was 6 p.m. and soon 7 p.m. I had lost track of how many slices of pizza I had eaten. I was certainly into my second or third pie when they said they would need to take close-ups. This is when the hard work began:

"Take a big bite and smile."

"Excuse me, how do I smile with a mouthful of pizza?"

Silence. I suppose they figured they were paying me, and I would have to come up with my own answer, and so I did: I swallowed and grinned.

It was getting close to 9 p.m., and I had lost count of the number of pies that I had eaten. Some joker positioned an empty bucket under the table beside my legs. Obviously, this film crew had no idea how tough I am. Thirty years ago I used to take bets on how much ice cream I could eat in the space of 10 minutes.

The filming ended. Hugs, kisses. My acting career? I can put a check mark in that box and am now waiting to see my face wedged between scenes of a reality show. Will someone recognize me? I've already instructed my children to inform anyone who asks that it's not me . . . just some unfortunate look alike.

[One of my kind readers asked that I write something less depressing than my usual Iranian/WMD/Hamas/Hezbollah fare. Hope you enjoy. Next time we meet, it's not going to be over pizza.]