The Writer's Guild of America is on strike. I fully support them. After all, actors and directors all get laid, but who is dumb enough to have sex with a writer? So they ought to at least get more money. The producers's position is - what's the word again? Oh yes - a lie! Fairly paying the people who actually make the product they sell won't bankrupt show business; it will just mean that the studio heads cut will merely be obscene, and not wealth beyond the dreams of King Midas. They might have to make do with only three palaces, instead of seven.
I chose to stagger with the cast of LOST, because if the producers don't give in soon, half of season four will be --- LOST! If the producers don't cave soon, the smoke monster will be visiting studio execs. And I'm not just blowing smoke monsters. In fact, I'm more than willing to blow the whole cast if that's what it takes, or even if it isn't, except perhaps for Hurley. It's not that he's not attractive. What does that matter when you're too close to focus? Hell, I once did Quasimodo in the bell tower of Notre Dame Edna. Paris always makes me giddy with romance. But the last time I went down on Hurley, I got my head caught in a flab fold. Doc Jack had to use the Jaws of Life just to get my head free enough to drink. On the plus side, I found my keys --- and Jimmy Hoffa!
By the way, when we were getting into position for this photo shoot, we were standing on dry land, but when I saw how these four people looked in those shirts, well, I got a little damp. Then Sayid flashed his concealed weapon at me, and my water broke. Sawyer was washed out to sea. The last thing we heard him say was, "This is how I wanted to die1"
So Go WGA! The thought of a winter edition of Big Brother is unbearable! The whole point of that show is pretty young people running around naked. With the anorexic women they cast, a winter edition would mean girls with goosebumps larger than their breasts. And the shrivelling effect on the men would mean I'd have to watch on a big-screen, hi-def TV, with a microscope. "Hey baby, I've got eight pixels - erect!" That's not entertainment.