Call me a survivor. In fact, call me "Survivor", and start humming a few bars from "Eye Of The Tiger". In the 3 years I've lived in Los Angeles, I've managed to find steady work in the film industry. Still, I haven't had that BIG break. You know, a smashed collarbone. A torn uvula. That Tarantino-style leap into the public eye. Imagine my frustration when the very movie company I work for proudly doled out a six figure sum to a 17 year-old high school senior for her first screenplay. The official vomit-inducing press release announcing its sale included a quote from the producer like, "This girl was so sharp, I asked her to show me her ID because I didn't believe she was seventeen!"
When the film eventually opens, its entire marketing angle will be 'She wrote this when she was only 17!' What really burns me up isn't even her. It's the sound bite starved community that'd scoop up the shit from the horse Christopher Reeve crushed his spine on.
Through a little investigation, I found the name of
the actual agent who represented the script. Taking
a deep breath and gargling some bile, I rang him up.
In my normal voice, I asked for the agent. They switched
me through to his office, and an assistant picked up.
Me: (Fast and excited little-kid voice, as if possessed by Ridalin) Hello, my name is Billy, I'm eight years old and I wrote a script about a turtle. You wanna buy it?
Assistant: (Long pause.) Hold on.
(Suddenly, I'm on speaker phone, and the agent is there with his assistant.)
Agent: Hi, you were saying?
Me: Oh yeah. My name-- my name is Billy and I'm eight years old. I wrote a script about my turtle. It's really funny. You wanna sell it for me?
Agent: (laughs) Really? What does your turtle do, Billy?
Me: He's- he's big and fat, and makes doodies, and flies around the world in a red suit!
Agent: Oh, really? Well, that's not the kind of thing we're interested in doing right now.
Me: (getting upset) But...but...it's funny! You like it! C'mon, let's go and pitch it!
Agent: (firmer) No, no, I'm sorry. It's really not the kind of thing we're doing right now. What's your turtle's name, though?
Agent: Oh, that's great. (By now, he's becoming tired of playing along and is getting a little annoyed at being mocked by the likes of me.) How old are you really, Billy?
Me: (hurt) I'm eight years old.
Agent: And do you have a job, Billy?
Me: (matter-of-fact) A job? NO! I sit around the house all day with my mom and make sammiches!
Agent: Mmm, really. What kind of sammiches?
Me: Ham and cheese, butthole!
Then, I hung up. Sure, I could have gone on and on about sandwiches, or the size of Larry's doodies, but I think I made my point. And I had called a major Hollywood Player a butthole. I considered calling back as a fetus with a hot sitcom idea, but my energy had been sapped. Now, my goal is to get that very same agent to represent ME. Then years from now, after I'm super-famous, I'll take him out to the Oscar's or something and say, "Hey, you remember that seventeen year old girl's script you repped? Have I got a story for you..." Then stab him mercilessly with my steak knife on live TV.
The Journal of Substance, Wit,and Dangerous Masturbatory Habits