A Studio Head’s Response to the Strike

By Josh Gad

I am a Studio Head. I head one of the major motion picture studios that make motion pictures…“movie magic” as it’s often referred to. It is my understanding that the public perspective is that the Writers are the heroes and the Studio Heads the villains. But, I would like to tell you a story.
I was once in a market in Cairo with my family and our servant, Tabitha. From the inside of my luxury 12 seat Ferrari Hovercraft, (there are only three in the universe), I looked out and saw the back of a boy, between the age of 2 and 14 who was screaming. So I threw a wad of cash (ten thousand dollars in ones) at the back of his head, to get his attention of course. When he turned around, I saw it for the first time. Shock corralled through my inner being. I immediately withdrew my index and middle finger from Samantha, (my wife’s), vagina and held my head out the window to ensure that what I was seeing was but a lie. It could not, however, have been any more real. The chilling image sent me into a nausiatic rage. I had my driver cup his hands to allow my vomit to fill his fists. My three kids, (three of which are illegitimate), were immediately told to go to their room and wait for further instructions…(there are three rooms in this car…there are only three of these cars in the universe.)
Next, my wife, me, and fifteen bodyguards exited the car and approached the savage. What I am about to tell you has not been exaggerated, nor has it been embellished, nor flowered with any demonstrative words to make it grander than it is. This small little boy was holding in his hand a knife. On the edges of this sharp knife was a stream of blood, red and thick, like blood. In his other hand was the victim of some petty crime, no doubt. I will never forget the image of its lifeless body hanging there like it was dead, which indeed it was. For no reason that I can discern seeing that every town has a McDonald’s; every small village, a Palm’s restaurant; and every alleyway a nifty themed diner owned by Wolfgang Puck; this sick rageful thing had slaughtered a CHICKEN!
With a “Hunt for Red October” sort of vengeance boiling inside of me, I withdrew from my pocket a pistol once used in battle by the French dilettante, Napoleon Bonaparte, and I held it up to the boy’s temple. Before I could pull the trigger, however, my translator, translated the boy’s English back to me. He said, “Sir, if I have offended you, I apologize, but here we do not have the luxury of dining out. Here if my family is to eat, I must bring them their food. This is our way of life.” And for the first time in my life, I understood desperation. This poor boy and his family lived like dogs. I would rather eat caviar left out for twenty-two minutes then live for one day in this boy’s skin. So, I took Damir back to his home and after touring his small modest two floor shack, I had my men put the beautiful boy and his family out of their misery. To see their dead bodies laid out, finally at peace, brought such joy to my heart that that very night, I bought the rights to “Sahara” and attached Matthew McConaughey.

So when the writers of the WGA, with their food and their homes, tell me that they don’t have enough money, I want to rape their mothers. I want to cave in and let my demons allow me to blow up their cars and hire assassins to kill them. I have seen desperation. These men are not desperate. The dirtiest word that I can think of is “Fucking Cunt Snatch Piggy Dick deathbed.” Yet, three little letters are worse than any words I could possibly utter: WGA.

Rest tonight, for tomorrow you die.

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