"The pen is mightier than the sword." That's what they penned, and they wouldn't lie. They wrote it, it must be true. Looks like we'll find out too. The writers are on strike. They're putting their pen where their money is, and praying that they get more than a dark inky nerd blot in return.
Pen and sword clang and clatter. Writers vs. suit. Talent won't decide this battle, they're sitting it out; nobody's put words in their mouth, and this isn't an election. "What's my motivation?" No, the winner will be the least desperate combatant. "Whoever loves the least controls the relationship."
Don't look at me, I'm not touching that last line. It's too easy.
I'm also not involved in this big strike. I wasn't invited. Granted, I don't pay union dues, and I don't write for the screen, but still, it would have been nice to be asked.
Dear Mr. Blogwriter, You are cordially invited to a strike. Write a pithy slogan, slap it on a sign, and join us..
Nope, just like Jenny Clover's birthday pillow party. I'm uninvited.
And who wrote the invites if they were on strike? Were they pre-ordered? Does that mean they wrote it on the company dime? That's not fair. That would be like MyUnwife buying all the things she wanted on our money, then telling me she wanted a divo—HEY!
It does explain why she wanted the second refrigerator. "Only for Klondike bars" my butt!
That's just not fair. I'm not sure if I'm more offended by the fact that she did it, or that it makes her the underdog and me the establishment. I've seen how writers propagandize these battles, it never works out well for the big guy. And they wouldn't lie.
That makes her the Karate Kid and me Johnny. Her cancer wheeze to my big tobacco. Her man, my damn dirty ape. Her Gilligan, me Teen Fun Skipper. Ok. I can live with that. I look good in those little skirts. I just have to shave my legs: the hair bushes up the hose. My legs look lumpy like hand packed sausage.
Too much info? Sorry I'm a writer. Brevity may be the soul of wit, but the soul of every writer is possessed by a long-winded fool. That means this strike will go on forever. There'd be novella sized rhetoric manifestos raining down from New York high-rises, but the pen is on strike; blank reams aren’t nearly as ominous. Literary mime is an underappreciated art.
"—" he mimed emphatically.
I might sympathize, but they tried to convince me that Cavemen was a good idea. They may not lie, but they do spin good PR about bad stories. What's to keep them from giving Dow's scrubbing bubbles a show?
We write crap so you don't have tooooo…
We're on strike!
That's one strike against them. The next strike smacks them in the forehead when they realize that reality shows own half the airwaves. "Well Heroes was nice, but I have Survivor and Singing Bee to keep me buzzing." This is where the corporate villains and townsfolk audiences shrug in realization, "We don't need the writers." Here's some more bad news: the longer this draws out, the bigger the risk. Most relationships end under seige. MyUnwife and I used to joke about this. The death knell of every relationship:
"If that's how you really feel, then what are you doing with me?"
The next sound you hear is a car engine and, "Hey wait! Come back!" but then it's too late. The future has been written, and it says "the end." The smart combatant avoids this point, unless they're done fighting.
MyUnwife and I are both smart, we're just done fighting.
"The end," they wrote, and they wouldn't lie.
2 comments:
Are you serious about the refrigerator?
LOL! Oh Lord no! That was just me being sarcastic and bitter. Besides, If I missed a clue like a fridge, you can tack onto the "Reasons for leaving Rob" list: "He turned stupid overnight."
Although, the fridge is fictional, there were other purchases that later became suspect. Stuff she expected "Us" (to be translated as "Rob") to pay for, while she kept the new toy. Not to worry. I made sure that "We" (to be translated as ...well, "we") paid them off before she left. I'm not sure if it was oblivious poor planning on her behalf our insidious good planning. Either way, it's done now.
But the fridge she bought with her money. She did bring me along to help pick it out though. mmmm fresh lemon in the open wound. I always wanted to pick the parting gifts...
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