It was a standard, ugly floral-patterned sofa from 1987, set under a single buzzing fluorescent light. In front of it sat a folding table with a half-eaten meatball sub, a spreadsheet, and a hamster in a plastic ball. Behind the couch stood three people: a bored woman in a bathrobe holding a clipboard, a nun (I think? She had a tattoo of a snake on her neck), and a man dressed as a giant avocado.
But not the one from the cautionary tales. This one was wrong .
Gerald the Avocado rolled closer. “Okay, Marcus. Here’s the deal. This isn’t a porno. It’s not a thriller. It’s a new immersive art installation called ‘The Couch of Truth.’ We need someone who can improvise the Seven Stages of Existential Dread while a live hamster observes.”
I didn’t get the part. They went with a mime who had a more “authentic breakdown.”
I sat. The cushion immediately let out a long, wet fart sound. The woman in the bathrobe made a checkmark on her clipboard.
The nun cackled. “Oh, honey. We wish it was that simple. Just sit.”
I sat back down. Not because I wanted to. Because my body had entered a state of shock.
I took a deep breath. “What’s stage five?”
The nun squinted at me. “His aura says ‘desperate but hygienic.’ I’ll allow it.”
“He’s already moving to Stage two: Anger,” she noted.
She pulled her wimple aside to reveal a Bluetooth earpiece. “I’m a life coach. The habit is for ‘thematic consistency.’”
It was a standard, ugly floral-patterned sofa from 1987, set under a single buzzing fluorescent light. In front of it sat a folding table with a half-eaten meatball sub, a spreadsheet, and a hamster in a plastic ball. Behind the couch stood three people: a bored woman in a bathrobe holding a clipboard, a nun (I think? She had a tattoo of a snake on her neck), and a man dressed as a giant avocado.
But not the one from the cautionary tales. This one was wrong .
Gerald the Avocado rolled closer. “Okay, Marcus. Here’s the deal. This isn’t a porno. It’s not a thriller. It’s a new immersive art installation called ‘The Couch of Truth.’ We need someone who can improvise the Seven Stages of Existential Dread while a live hamster observes.” weirdest-audition-ever-backroom-casting-couch
I didn’t get the part. They went with a mime who had a more “authentic breakdown.”
I sat. The cushion immediately let out a long, wet fart sound. The woman in the bathrobe made a checkmark on her clipboard. It was a standard, ugly floral-patterned sofa from
The nun cackled. “Oh, honey. We wish it was that simple. Just sit.”
I sat back down. Not because I wanted to. Because my body had entered a state of shock. She had a tattoo of a snake on
I took a deep breath. “What’s stage five?”
The nun squinted at me. “His aura says ‘desperate but hygienic.’ I’ll allow it.”
“He’s already moving to Stage two: Anger,” she noted.
She pulled her wimple aside to reveal a Bluetooth earpiece. “I’m a life coach. The habit is for ‘thematic consistency.’”