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Project Main Details

NEUROTIC BUBBLEGUM POP is a hyperbolic retelling of various erotic adventures from West Hollywood. 2007. The Year of the Pig. The Year of the Writer's Strike. It's a collection of short stories, neurotic ramblings, and coming-of-age, micro epiphanies, told by an emaciated, unreliable narrator, a low level production assistant, an immigrant from Indiana with a caffeine addiction and a mythical quest.

For this recording, the applicant should try and channel the energy and spirit of this "Narrator" Character. The script is a satire with some extreme and absurd language. Applicant's should be comfortable with "for adults only" content.

We are an independent, collective of gypsy weirdos, producing this short novella as an audiobook on a small scale and micro budget, for distribution online (and offline, as a limited release hard copy). "Pay, Copy, and Credit" are guaranteed, but will be negotiated during the Audition Process. 
2015-07-07 21:51:38 GMT
2015-08-13 17:00:00 (GMT -08:00) Pacific Time (US & Canada) 
Yes (click here to learn more about Voice123's SmartCast)
0 direct invitation(s) have been sent by the voice seeker resulting in 0 audition(s) and/or proposal(s) so far.
Voice123 SmartCast is seeking 60 auditions and/or proposals for this project (approx.) Invitations sent by SmartCast have resulted in 5 audition(s) and/or proposal(s) so far.

Project Parameters

The Voice Actor should be located in:
To be defined
English - USA and Canada
Imagine Tom Waits, soaked in coffee and smoke, sipping on some cheap swill that coats his throat with fire. It's guttural and it's desperate. Hypnotic. Natural.
Middle Age Male OR Senior Male
• Audio files must be delivered via email OR
• Audio files must be delivered via FTP/Dropbox/Google Drive/cloud
• Deliver edited and finished voice tracks
Not defined
The voice seeker is willing to hire either union or non-union talents for this project

Script Details

custom demo required 
"It was the sexiest sex I’ve ever had. And I was it’s Composer. It’s Creator. Enacting and cultivating un-tasted erotic symphonies. Exploring a delectable range of carnal proclivities. Informed. Distorted. And captivated by the ubiquity of beauty (with pornography as my primary sexual education). Chemically deprived of oxytocin. Los Angeles. Sweaty and salty. I had arrived with promises and purple ribbons and a hundred dollars from Grandma and Grandpa. What I quickly found was an insatiable Quest for Survival made bearable by an insatiable Quest to be Fucked."

"Little Armenia is one of many international micro districts fermenting inside the sticky cracks of Los Angeles, coalescing across decades and generations. It receives no glory and goes relatively unnoticed, with no hot spotlights or hip food trucks or ostentatious artifacts blared across the Media Machine's Sonic Technicolor Airwaves, celebrating its legends and brainwashing the masses with repetition. To know it, you must penetrate it, directly, accidentally, likely. And fondle its guts with your spread open digits.

The Little Armenia aesthetic secretes charm in unavoidable, spontaneous squirts. It is it’s own Interdependent Symbiotic Colony of self- multiplying immigrants and redundant architecture growing ignorantly in bliss and contrast, within and against, the glamorous cancerous blob of the Western American Megalopolis."

"“Everyone should be riding bicycles here. Imagine bicycle pulled chariots gliding down the Santa Monica freeway, crossing Sepulveda and Fountain, driven by our homeless legion of starving schizophrenics, drop-outs, and anarchists. They could pedal for food and change and beer. The city would open up. The sky would turn a Majestic Blue. Why isn’t everyone riding the subway? We have one. It’s there. Running every day. Imagine elephants pulling our trains with plentiful baskets, knitted from hemp, harvested by traveling gypsies, grown on Pot Farms, dangling from their thick necks, plush with peanuts grown in the desert, right outside Joshua Tree.”

I needed to deafen the Resistance. I could still taste this babe’s tongue slow motion swimming inside my mouth. I remembered her saying air pollution was becoming carcinogenic so I was charming her with some impromptu, casual, backseat "Environmentalism." Because I wanted more. I wanted to taste her belly button. I wanted to see what her tits looked like. I wanted to analyze their texture. Put them in my mouth. Examine their flavor."

"She’s slipping all over my hand when she begins to spasm and blow wet marshmallow dust clouds. And it could end in that breath, before swallowing, but we ride the wave further. Together. How far can we take this trip? Her knees buckle and quiver while I keep rowing my fingers up her canal like a wolf spider running up a water slide, hopped up on goat weed. She’s squeezing my hand into a diamond, smashing my bones with her quads, raised in the air like she’s straddling a teeter totter, licking and biting my traps.

And there we float. Sealed inside a climax, with her foam cannon blowing more and more white fluff down my wrist and across her thighs, flopping onto the floor tiles, slowly flooding our rented spaceship. And I free my arm, like popping a cork, before slapping her lips, rubbing what I think is her clit, with the fury of the Last Dragon, possessed by the power of the glow.

We fall to the ground." 
Please note that you should only use the script or your recording of it for auditioning purposes. The script is property, unless otherwise specified, of the voice seeker and it is protected by international copyright laws.

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