Unknown Screenwriters Gather in Prayer to Ask God for Contacts
by Hairy Krishmas
Good Lord, what a gathering. Screenwriters, from all around the World, migrate to the Mecca of Sleaze to attend the biggest Screenwriter’s Conference of the year. Their cup runneth over with with hopes of positive, life-changing events. Dumbasses.
Did you really think that anything would come of this conference? Positive thinking is only endearing when you’re on a death-bed. Good job though, spending all that hard-earned cash to meet with a bunch of other unknown writers who can’t do shit for you. You get to sit in front of a panel that tells you how impossible it is to be successful in the business. They may give you a few vague tips, but the take-away is “you need to make contacts.” Great. Thanks, asshole. That was definitely worth the price of admission.
Meanwhile, a screenwriter in the nose-bleed seats starts hyperventilating. Then passes out. When asked if he was okay, he said, “I got so nervous just thinking of how bad I’d mess up my pitch, I felt like I was gonna yak. My legs felt like Ramen noodles. I hate Ramen noodles” To think he’d even get a chance to pitch his story to one of the panel members is pure delusion. Personal attention? This isn’t private school, scribey. This is ten times worse than ghetto-public-school-forty-to-one-student-to-teacher-ratio. You’d be lucky to get close enough to smell the pity pouring off of the panel members.
And please refrain from telling me that conferences are a great place to meet collaborators. Great, speed-dating for screenwriters. I guess the desperation thresholds are about the same as real speed-dating sessions. What genres am I into? That’s personal, Jack. And no I don’t want to collaborate with you on your awesome romantic-comedy-told-from-a-guys’-perspective-idea. But he won’t leave me alone. I’m a nobody. He’s a nobody. Yet he looks up to me like I’m fucking Joseph Campbell himself. And to get rid of him I have to tell him I’m into comedies, like Schindler’s List.
Oh, you went to a conference that also held pitch sessions with reps and producers? Talk about speed-dating for screenwriters. You have five minutes to whore out your story. Go. Done. Next. After it’s finished, you feel dirtier than a hand towel on the side of Snooki’s serta. It was worth it though. You heard “we’ll let you know” three times. Still waiting for that call? Keep praying.
Hairy Krishmas’ mother, on her death-bed, told him that his birth was an accident, and that she should have aborted him. Then she chuckled. Then she died. Hairy wasn’t sure if she was joking.