Scenes from the WGA Strike
EXT. FOX STUDIOS - DAY
A mob of dirty hippies in red shirts marches in front of FOX Studios in an attempt to interrupt its lawful operation. They threaten onlookers and employees alike, swinging their signs about wildly and chanting like cultists. From the lot comes a lone, brave figure to confront the restless, blood-thirsty horde.
Worst. Assembly. Ever. You people are less organized than the New Yorkers in Superman II who foolishly attempted to rise up against Zod. However, as insane as they were to think they could stand up against three Kryptonians, they had more hope of success than you.
EVERYONE
Hey Hey! Ho Ho! Free Enterprise has got to go!
COMIC BOOK GUY
How ironic you should mention Enterprise. You redshirts are as expendable as Starfleet security officers.
COMMIE #1
What are you doing here, scab? You should be standing with us, not with the studios!
COMIC BOOK GUY
The studio pays me a handsome salary, for which I perform my labors. You might try the same instead of this futile battle against your employers.
COMMIE #2
We're striking for you too, man. If we roll over now, the SAG won't stand a chance.
COMIC BOOK GUY
While parts of my personage might indeed sag, I am not a member of the Screen Actors' Guild. I do not believe in guilds, other than the Fighter's and Mage's Guilds to which I belong.
COMMIE #1
So there's nothing you care about? Nothing our sacrifices mean to you?
COMIC BOOK GUY
I would not say that. The longer the strike lasts, the more quickly Brian K. Vaughan will be able to return to writing "Y: The Last Man". Jeph Loeb will also have more free time to devote to his more important, sequential art work.
From the lot another figure approaches, silhouetted against two criss-crossing spot lights and accompanied by trumpet fanfare. PETER GRIFFIN reaches the crowd and takes an iPhone from his pocket.
Who wants an iPhone? Who wants an iPhone? You?
PETER holds the delicate object of affection high in the air above one of the writers. The writer tries to reach the phone, jumping and coming up short several times. PETER's taunting is merciless and his cackle pierces the din.
Dance, writer-man, dance!
PETER throws the iPhone into the street and a handful of writers jump in front of a bus in a fatal attempt to retrieve it.
Man! They sure left a lot of residual on the grill of that bus. (BEAT) Come on, they're serving baby seal at the commissary. I want to get there before Vince Vaughn bogarts it all.
FADE TO BLACK:
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