By now, I’m sure you’ve heard all about the seemingly inevitable strike. The Writers Guild Of America and its twelve-thousand members are sick of being pushed around. They’re not going to take it anymore. They want a revised contract. The current deal just isn’t working. Yada Yada Yada. Solidarity! I feel horrible for them, but more importantly, does this mean you’re hiring Hollywood? Because I have no problem being a scab.
I’m not in the union, and like previously cast aside football players in 1987, I will plug the hole and fill the need. Compensation? I just want to be famous. I guarantee I’ve worked for less than you’re currently paying. Hell, I read The Jungle, and it didn’t even scare me. I could have churned out a screenplay a month in those amputation friendly conditions. If you pay me enough for tobacco and a shitty one room apartment, I’ll give you an Academy Award winner every two weeks. You need a constant flow of screenplays, and if the proven group of authors are unwilling to pen them, I’ll step up and take their place.
Pipe down, screenwriters! I’m not a traitor to the cause. I’m sure you all did some unseemly things to get your break, sold your soul to Satan or something equally immoral. I previously tried fucking my way to the top, but for some reason, horny executives weren’t receptive to my hairy, sweaty come-ons. You can’t always account for bad taste.
Thanks to you idiot writers penning endless stories about your mediocre rise to the top, I already know how to play the game. I take a meeting, then come up with an idea, shop around the notion, and finally make a pitch. Compensation follows. Seems like a simple process to me. I already cooked up a gang of future best sellers in the mean time too. Want to hear them? I knew you would.
What about a guy who gets a civil union invitation in the mail but accidently burns the letter. He can only make out the address; so, he drives across country with a few of his equally outlandish friends, speculating on which one of his college buddies ended up marrying a dude? We could call it Flammer Hunt. Not interested? Fine. What about a chuckle-fest where the mad scientist protagonist accidentally enlarges and gives life to a team of previously inanimate foosball players? Of course, they enjoy their new found free-will, but problems arise when they can’t figure out how to remove the metal pole attaching them. That sounds wacky enough, right? I’d name it Foose Your Daddy?. Yeah, the title needs work.
I think you have all the information you need, Hollywood. My email address is MackRawden (at) cinemablend.com. I’ll be eagerly awaiting your inevitable contact.
http://www.cinemablend.com/new/Rant-Hire-Me-Hollywood-I-Will-Betray-Other-Screen-Writers-6705.html
