Guest blogger Aaron Ginsburg is a longtime member of the Kitchen Dog Theater Company who lives and writes in Los Angeles.  Follow him on Twitter.

I don’t live in Dallas.

Not anymore, at least.  Years ago, I bid a bittersweet farewell to the ridiculously tasty (and plentiful) Tex-Mex joints and the ridiculously dangerous (and perpetually under construction) highways to relocate to sunny Los Angeles.  The City of Dreams.

My plan was simple: Sell Out.

Now, not everyone in Hollywood actively strives to sell out, to deliberately cast aside their moral compasses simply to get their hands on fast cash, faster women and fleeting fame.  Some artists actually try to hold onto their integrity… as long as they can.

Such is the dilemma in playwright Yussef El Guindi’s scathing new comedy, Jihad Jones and The Kalashnikov Babes, opening next week at Kitchen Dog Theater.

When rehearsals started, Co-Artistic Director Tina Parker realized she needed an actual sellout to give the production authenticity.  Naturally, I ignored her e-mails for weeks — until KDT finally matched my massive pay quote.  Then I hopped on my personal jet to Love Field.  It had been more than a year since I directed Mr. Marmalade at Kitchen Dog, and after reading Jihad Jones, I knew why Tina had reached out to me once again.

For a week, I worked carefully with the amazing cast.  I spent hours educating them on the tenets of selling out.  Under my guidance, they abandoned their principles.  They embraced a shallow, narcissistic outlook on life.  At last, they renounced the very artistic virtues they once held dear.  My job was complete.

And in the capable hands of this brilliant cast of actors, the result is truly hilarious.

Razor-sharp one-liners, rapid-fire physical comedy, a juicy moral quandary (Hollywood style) that threatens to bankrupt one’s very soul …   Don’t miss this one, people.  You’ll regret it.

And as I sipped a chilled flute of 1998 Dom Pérignon from my first class seat on the jet, I realized that perhaps I should return to Dallas more often.

Until that happens, I’ll just write an uplifting screenplay about the incomparable power of live theater …  as seen through the eyes of a talking dog.