The Spec Market Fucking Rocks!

Damn, I’m high. Soooo fucking high. It’s 11:38am and though I’ve only been awake 15 minutes I somehow managed to get so high that I can peek around the corners of time and poke my future contingent self in the ass with the piece of wire I use to scrape out my bong. In about an hour I’m going to feel it and it’s going to hurt, especially that last poke when I got a little carried away and drew blood. Or will draw blood, since it technically hasn’t happened yet.

We’ve been warned of the dangers of using time travel to fuck with the past since causality can spiral out of control, i.e. just spitting a wad of gum on the sidewalk in 1902 could indirectly spawn a nuclear holocaust, thus we return from our time-travel journey to find a bunch of cannibalistic mole people living in underground bunkers plotting a revolution against the giant invisible dinosaur robots that roam the surface. We’ve been warned about that shit countless times by the movies, speculative fiction novels and comic books from which we glean the REAL truth.

Yet fucking with the future seems a bit safer. Yeah, we still have to live with the consequences of our actions, but not for a while. It’s like cigarettes. You know the cancer’s a-coming yet you rest easy knowing the science-doctors will find out a cure by the time it’s your problem. Same deal with global warming. Or crystal meth.

Note to self: Score some crystal meth.

So as to the reason I’m up before noon and already hard at work getting high: My spec script hit the market a week ago and I’ve got a bunch of important meetings lined up with actual studio execs, one this very afternoon. Which means I can’t adhere to my usual schedule of sleep until 4:00pm, wake n’ bake, play Unreal Tournament for 5 or 6 hours, eat a bowl of Chef Boyardee, write for a half hour, play Unreal Tournament for another 4 hours, crash/repeat. Nope. Today I have to make myself reasonably presentable, hell maybe even take a shower so I can wow the panties off whatever creative exec Murray has lined up to suck my big fat writer’s cock. I’m going to win them over them with my freshness, positive attitude, and winning spirit. And if those don’t work I’ll threaten to cut the little faggot’s throat with a Bowie knife. That’s what Murray says I should do anyway.

Murray’s my manager. I met him at a car wash. Not the pansy-ass hand wash crap where you pay an illegal immigrant 15 bucks to rub a dirty rag all over your ‘86 Jetta. I met Murray at the coin-op Wash Ur Self in Van Nuys. We got to talking and as it turned out Murray used to work at William Morris back in the day. Had some big clients but got fired after a little controversy involving a transvestite hooker whom the police claimed Murray beat to death with a shovel. Murray insisted s/he’d died of a broken heart and while I have no reason to doubt Murray’s account the police apparently did because Murray ended up doing 20 years (with another 10 years tacked on for stabbing a screw in Folsom). So Murray, out on parole, decided to go the route of Mike Ovitz and put up his own management shingle; all he needed were some clients. “You need clients? Well fuck,” I says. “I can rap, I do impersonations, I play bass guitar in a Night Ranger tribute band and to top it all off… I’ve got this great idea for a fucking screenplay that I know will be a big fucking hit, hell bigger than BOAT TRIP!” I pitched my idea to Murray and he was so impressed that he signed me that afternoon, for the very reasonable fee of $1000 cash upfront and 50% of all my future earnings.

So I drove down to the machine shop, told my boss to go fuck himself then went home to write. 18 months later I’ve got 56 pages of the funniest script-writing since 1997’s FOOLS RUSH IN. Murray’s sending it to every producer and studio exec in town with the demand that they read it ASAP or face the same fate as that transvestite hooker (that’s just Murray’s shtick, playing off his bad-boy image). And now I’ve got meetings with potential buyers up the wazoo. 4 meetings. 4 fucking meetings. If you look at writing like a job, which it apparently is for some people, that’s like having 4 interviews in one month. Well hell, that’s more job interviews than I’ve had in my whole entire life! To think that 2 years ago I was eating irregular Ramen in a sublet storage closet with no windows, contemplating faking my own death to get out of paying back taxes and child support – and now, thanks to Murray, I’m just a cunt-hair away from selling my first screenplay for something like 8 million dollars!

Hey, don’t get me wrong. I know the reality of the situation. These meetings could all be a bust; scheduled merely to placate Murray and cease his constant shovel-threatening. That’s why I’m being cautiously optimistic. I’m not going out and spending money I don’t have. I only borrowed enough from the loan shark for a down payment on the Porsche. That’s it. The mounds of coke, mansion in Bel Air, and Russian sex slaves can wait until this afternoon, AFTER Murray closes the big deal. Hey, I wasn’t born yesterday.

Well, I better get in the shower soon or I’m gonna be late. Wish me luck! Not that I think I’ll need it, because my writing speaks for itself, but just in case… JESUS!!! OW!!! FUCKING CHRIST!!!

Damn, my ass hurts. And it's bleeding like a son of a bitch. Note to self: Fucking with the space-time continuum should be reserved for more noble pursuits than poking one's self in the ass with a bong-scraper. Like cheating at internet poker.