There’s a pall over America as citizens and immigrants alike fret over the TV writers’ strike. With writers on strike, there will soon be nothing to watch but reruns and reality shows. Americans will be facing the dire prospect of talking to their spouses or finishing their homework, which could lead to a case of mass depression that not even all the pill makers in the world can pull us out of, at least not without a government manufacturing subsidy.
To help prevent this catastrophe, we offer the public a one-size-fits-all TV script, which should alleviate the pangs of sudden-script-withdrawal-syndrome (ask your doctor about the proper medication).
Detective: (Standing in a park in her underwear, as she was called out on short notice). What is this mouldering pile of man-shaped refuse?
Police officer: Looks like we have another homicide on our hands. The killer obviously fed the corpse to the worms. They ate and regurgitated him, resulting in this feted pile of pinkish goo that should look particularly nauseating to viewers with high definition. Better bring it to the morgue.
Coroner: Oh good, a pile of goo! In my business, even goo tells a tale. I can tell by the brightish tones that the worms expelled the body less than three hours ago, and they couldn’t digest this disgustingly dirty Rolex, which suggests the victim was wealthy. In fact, DNA from the face of the Rolex proves this was billionaire Richard Rancid. I suggest contacting his wife.
Detective (standing at open door with her clothes on, finally): Hello, Mrs. Rancid. I hope I didn’t disturb you and those three partially-clothed men I and 20 million TV viewers saw running out the back door. I regret to inform you that your husband is dead.
Mrs. Rancid: Dead! I know he’s dead! I watched him die!
Detective: Oh? Where exactly did he die?
Mrs. Rancid: In that Seattle hospital! He had a heart attack, rather mild I thought, but they let him die! When they wheeled him into the emergency room, there were no doctors. Eventually I had to search the hospital myself. I found two interns in the closet making out, two residents in the furnace room in a passionate embrace, and the chief of staff and head of surgery fully entwined on an operating table. By the time I got them all clothed and back to the ER, my husband was dead!
Detective: By the name of Marcus Welby, M.D., I’m shocked by the behavior of modern TV doctors. But they need ratings, too. So you took the body and dumped it in the park?
Mrs. Rancid: It was the “green” thing to do, I saw it on the 6 o’clock news, lead item, ahead of all that foreign policy stuff. Green burials, they call it. The worms turn the body into compost and global warming is better off for it. What you took to the morgue was my beloved compost. By removing it, you’ve violated the Kyoto Protocols.
Detective: I’d better get a lawyer.
Lawyer: Sorry to keep you waiting, detective, but I was paying special attention to a rich widow who’s fighting over her late husband’s estate with his foxy girlfriend, who is in the waiting room. So, you may have violated the Kyoto Protocols? If true, this could be a serious matter.
Detective (peeling off her clothes): I swear, I thought it was just another stiff in the park. I had no idea it was compost, waiting to make a thousand flowers bloom.
Lawyer: You know, I think you and I can work something out. Let’s go over to cable so our vast viewing audience can watch our negotiations in full, as soon as the writers return and tell us exactly what to do.
