#Screenwriting #Satire

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.

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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.

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