It's
Like, You Suck...It's
Like, You Suck...
By John Saleeby
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So I went to LA to meet with some moron TV producers, right? They wanted to hire me because I write for The American Jerk and am therefore worshipped as a God by comedy professionals all over the English speaking world, as well as by a small tribe of Pygmies living in the Sudan.
Let me make it clear from the beginning that I had absolutely no intention of taking a job in that place. I come from a decent Christian family and I couldn't write for network television anymore than I could sell drugs to schoolchildren. Oh sure, I've bought drugs from schoolchildren, but I'd never sell to them; oh no, that would be wrong. They don't have enough cash to buy bulk so you have to deal with too many customers before you turn a profit… it's wrong, I tell you, wrong!
But I was bored with turning down big-money comedy writing jobs over the phone every day; I wanted to see with my own eyes what those guys looked like when they broke down crying and begged me to save their miserable careers. And I'd done the "Slamming The Phone Down" thing about as well as I was ever going to do it, so the time had come when I was either going to go stale or move on to the next logical step - The "Pantomime Wiping Your Butt With Their Contract And Stomp Out Of Their Office With Your Head Held High With Exaggerated, Elephant-Man-I-Am-Not-An-Animal Misplaced Dignity" thing. Yes, the time had come. They were so hot to get me out there I couldn't do anything to bum ‘em out. It really gave me the creeps.
"We'll send a private car to meet you at the airport," they said.
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"Before I agree to any of this I want certified authentic videotape of Tim Allen's legs getting bitten off by a great white shark." |
"Wrong! You'll send a private PLANE to meet me at MY airport. And before that you'll send a private car to my house to get me to the airport. My airport, I mean. By the way, I'm at work right now and you're gonna send a private car here to take me home. And when I get home that Chinese girl on Ally McBeal is going to be there in a French Maid outfit. And she's going to pull me from my front door to my bedroom in a rickshaw. And I want all this to be filmed by the same crew that shot Eyes Wide Shut. And then I'm going to take a shower with those twins from Sister Sister and fly to LA in one of the computer-animated spaceships from The Phantom Menace. Oh, and one more thing -"
"Yes?" they asked.
"Before I agree to any of this I want certified authentic videotape of Tim Allen's legs getting bitten off by a great white shark."
"You got it."
"And send the legs with the videotape. I've got my own great white shark that needs to be fed out here, you know."
Once I got out there they were even more desperate to kiss my ass. I've already OD'd on everything I ever wanted a long time ago. All I wanted was a good excuse to pitch a fit and hit the bricks . . .
"And if you take the job," the producers said, "we'll arrange for you to marry one of the really hot chicks Jerry dated on Seinfeld."
"Fine," I said, "I'll take Melora Walters."
"My God! You are the very first guy who has ever been able to identify any of the really hot chicks Jerry dated by name!"
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"That's right, retards. Even though you have seen her on the screen countless times, even though you all want her, I am the only man in the world who knows Melora Walters by name. That is why it has always been inevitable that she will be mine."
"Which one of the really hot chicks on Seinfeld was she?"
"Ah, yes, I could tell you which really hot chick on which particular episode of Seinfeld Melora Walters was, but then you'd go 'Oh, yeah! Her!' as if you knew her. But you don't know her. Not like I, John Saleeby, know her and that is why it has always been inevitable that she will be mine!"
"Well, alright! She'll be waiting for you in your hotel room this afternoon. Please stop drooling."
And that was when I caught on to what is wrong with Hollywood. It might be okay for us to live in an atmosphere where we could satisfy our every whim if we were moral beings, but we're not - We're a herd of selfish, violent Backstreet Boys album-buying pigs. No wonder John Belushi coked himself to death, O.J. Simpson chopped up those people, and some sick bastard produced Here’s Pat. The only way to lead a decent life is to slave away at some dead-end job in a horrible little town until you are so consumed with anger, boredom, and frustration all you can do at the end of the day is drink some booze, watch a little TV, and write some comedy to help all you miserable losers out there forget how pathetic you all are.
Oh, I'm sorry. I mean, drink some booze, watch a little TV, and read the latest issue of The American Jerk. That's what I meant.
Main Archive Table of Contents
October, 1999 Issue Table of Contents
It's
Sick... How to Write a
Humor Column... It's Like, You Suck...
Month in Pictures Kiddie Korner
Are You Presidential Material? White Trash NASDAQ Rate The Candidates
The American Jerk™ and all contents © 1999 - 2005 by Rob Reuter and Paul St. Fakename, Esq., © 2006 by Rob Reuter.