Get Thee To Burger King

All morning, I rehearsed how I'd deliver my one line in the eldest's latest short, currently filming in various Sherman Oaks locales, including freeway underpasses and dumpsters.  My one line could be interpreted so many ways.  A la Brando:  "I coulda been somebody.  I coulda gone to Burger King."  A la Hamlet: "Get thee to Burger King!" A la Hemingway:  "Oh, Jake,we could have had such a damned good time at Burger King. Isn't it pretty to think so?"  After much rehearsal in front of the mirror, I decided to deliver my one line as written (by me) in the voice I know best, that of a whining, agitated worry wart:  "Why couldn't you just go to Burger King?"  Next stop:  wardrobe.  So many options.  Go with my daily schlep-wear, or sex it up for the camera?  I'd just covered the bed with costume choices, sweatpants, tank tops and cocktail dresses, when the call came from Billy.  "We've been filming five hours.  We're not going to do your scene today."  I tried not to weep.  I was so ready to do this, so amped.  I'd found my motivation and everything.  "So you're cutting me from the movie?" "No."  "Just tell me, I can take it."  "We're not cutting you.  We'll film it next week."  "Oh, thank God."  I realized, this might be a good thing.  The delay gives me more time to rehearse, to channel my maternal angst, to do a little rewriting, turn my one line into a poignant soliloquy:  "How many times did I beg you to go to Burger King?  How many times?  I've lost count. God forbid you should listen to me.  Your mother.  The woman who gave birth to you, who spent 46 agonizing hours in labor.  But no, you had to do things your way.  You had to go to In-N-Out.  And now, look what's happened to you.  Look what's become of you, my son.  Take a good, hard look."  Better, right?