Hollywood has been in the vice grip of the penny-pinching Writers Guild for nearly three months now. All of your favorite shows now have been put on hold and probably won't be finishing this season, or beginning the next. There weren't any Golden Globes festivities and there may not be an Oscars ceremony. Our awards shows, people! This is serious!
And for what? Fair pay and residuals from the moneyless wasteland of the internet? Why not ask the networks to wring water from a stone, writers? Hmm?
What is the average Joe to do with two extra hours of prime time each night? Nothing cool, that's what. That's why I'm going to get you your TV back.
Step 1:
Fly to Los Angeles, where most of the greedy, striking writers reside, keeping in mind that packing toothpaste is now labeled as terrorist activity. (It'd be a pity to see this plan foiled by the two most ineffective organizations in the modern world: Homeland Security and the Cavity Creeps.)
Step 2:
Upon arrival at Writers Guild Worldwide Headquarters, kill every protester in sight, possibly with their own picket signs, while speaking in clever quips such as, "This spec script is rejected," or "Looks like this is your final draft." This will prove that I'm a better writer than they could have ever hoped to be, and make their deaths extra painful.
Step 3:
Using my goddamn bare hands, pile up the corpses to create a flesh escalator (or what I like to call a Fleshcalator (TM)) to the top of the building. Now I'm thinking with mortals!
Step 4:
This is where it gets tricky, because I have no idea what the floor plan of the Guild Headquarters looks like or if it even exists. But that's cool, because if it does exist, it was designed by Hollywood writers, which means that as long as I hug each wall I come to with a flashlight and a pistol, I'll probably come to the head office within a few minutes of montage, and kill the Queen Writer. If it doesn't exist, I'll build a giant coffee shop to attract the Writer Bosses and fill it with poison, like some kind of roach hotel for hacks.
Step 5:
Take a break. I deserve it.
Step 6:
Buy exactly one million typewriters. I may want to pick up some extra ribbons, too.
Step 7:
Come into possession of 1,500,000 monkeys. Sound a bit unbalanced? It is. The smarter monkeys will outplay, outwit, and outlast the others, making them better writers. (Also, this could make a profitable and long-running reality show.) It's capitalism at its finest, with lots of shit flinging. (Note: Monkeys hate computers. They will only write on typewriters.)
Optional sub-step:
If hurting for cash after buying all those monkeys and typewriters, use the dead bodies of the monkeys that lost the kerfuffle to build a bridge to the Hollywood Bowl. Use the best fighter monkeys to take over the complex. This little tourist trap should help bring in some additional revenue.
Step 8:
Assign remaining monkeys each to a typewriter and monitor carefully. Keep an eye out for something that looks like a decent script of one of TV's best shows, like "Bones" or "The Ghost Whisperer." It shouln't take too long. If it would take 1,000 monkeys 1,000 years to write Shakespeare, then this should take a dozen about 45 minutes, tops.
Step 9:
Start producing the programs, and get TV back on track. I could have some problems with this step, as many industry employees are also refusing to cross the picket lines. As a result, I may have to resort to continued use of my monkey army as actors, grips, and caterers. It is imperative, however, that I do not allow the monkeys to unionize. Otherwise, I'll be forced to use Poser to recreate 3-D model of actors to recreate the scenes.
Little known fact: That's how they've been getting performances out of Charlie Sheen since the late '90s.
