Saturday, February 27, 2010

Hillary and The Red Phone


               The CAMERA is above the level of a large king size bed.  BILL
               CLINTON is asleep in the bed.  In the background is the door
               to the bedroom.  HILLARY CLINTON appears wearing a nightgown.
               She leans against the door jam dangling pink panties from her
               index finger.

                                   HILLARY CLINTON
                         Bill...Bill...Bill wake up.

                                   BILL CLINTON
                         What...hey...what time is it?

                                   HILLARY CLINTON
                         What is this?

                                   BILL CLINTON

                                   HILLARY CLINTON
                             (referring to the pink
                         This.  I found them in your pants.

               We start to HEAR a telephone ring.  The ringing continues
               throughout the scene.

                                   BILL CLINTON
                         What were you doing in my pants?

                                   HILLARY CLINTON
                         I want to know where this came

                                   BILL CLINTON
                         Maybe they're yours?

                                   HILLARY CLINTON
                         Cut the crap Bill.  I don't need a
                         scandal during my administration,

                                   BILL CLINTON
                         Hey...isn't that the hotline

                                   HILLARY CLINTON
                         So who is it?  Is she on my staff?
                         One of my interns?

                                   BILL CLINTON
                         Sweetheart, you really should get

                                   HILLARY CLINTON
                             (screaming over her
                         Would somebody get that? (back to
                         Bill)  So who is the little bitch?

                                   BILL CLINTON
                         Really, I don't know...maybe it was
                         left over from, you know...

                                   HILLARY CLINTON
                         It's a new pair of pants.  It's not
                         left over from anything.

                                   BILL CLINTON
                         You really have to get that phone,

                                   HILLARY CLINTON
                         Would somebody get the goddamn
                         phone for chrissake.  (back to Bill
                         and screaming)  Now I am not
                         dicking around, you hear me.  Where
                         the hell did these panties come?
                         Give me a straight answer.  And I
                         want to know her name.

                                                       CUT TO:

               INT.  RED PHONE ROOM

               A CLOSE SHOT of the red phone.  A hand enters the frame.  The
               receiver is raised to the back of a male head.  It is BARACK

                                   BARACK OBAMA
                         I'm here.

               FREEZE FRAME.  And then...

                                   BARACK OBAMA (CONT'D)
                             (voice over)
                         This ad has been approved by me,
                         Barack Obama.

                                                       THE END.

Friday, February 26, 2010

Sean Hannity Gets Lecture From Roger Ailes

Sean Hannity sat in one of two matching dark wood chair with green leather seats in the office at the end of the hall on the third floor of 1211 Avenue of the Americas in New York City.  The office formed the southeast corner of the building facing the traffic driving north on Sixth Avenue.  The digital clock on the desk that faced Sean Hannity read 5:32.  It was January, and there was a light snow falling outside the floor to ceiling windows of the corner office.  The sun was setting and the car headlights danced on the snowflakes.

Sean Hannity had his right leg crossed over his left leg.  His right foot was air tapping, and his back hurt.  Hannity rubbed his hands on the armrests and could feel the sweat in his palms.  He had been sitting for ten minutes, waiting for a meeting that was called by Roger Ailes.  He looked to his right and out the open door of Mr. Ailes’s office; the well-lit office corridor was trafficked with earnest young interns and other administrative staff.  No sign of Mr. Ailes.

The door to the left of the Mr. Ailes’s desk opened.  Roger Ailes emerged.  Sean Hannity did not know that Mr Ailes’s had his own private bathroom installed.  Sean stood.

“Been here long?” asked Ailes.

“No.  Just arrived,” said Sean.  Sean was not certain why he lied.  It was a sign of weakness.  He knew that.  But he felt compelled.

Roger Ailes sat in his large chair.  Sean was waiting for Ailes to give him a sign to sit.  But Ailes did not do so.  So after an awkward moment watching Ailes shuffle some papers around, Sean took his seat.

“You wanted to see me?” asked Sean.

“That is why you are here,” said Ailes without looking up from his papers.

“Is everything OK?” asked Sean.

“We have some interesting information,” said Ailes.  “Did you ever hear of the amygdala?” asked Ailes.

“The what?” said Sean.

“They are two almond-size parts of the brain.  Deep inside,” said Ailes.

“Ah hah.  OK.  No, I never heard of them,” said Sean.

“They are interesting little suckers.  They respond emotionally to stimuli.  When the amygdala is not responding, the brain is not really interested,” said Ailes.

Sean had no idea where this was going.  “OK.  Cool,” said Sean.

“And the amygdala of people watching you on TV are not responding, Sean.  That is a problem, ” said Ailes.

“I don’t get what you are saying,” said Sean.

“We commissioned a study to monitor the amygdala of people viewing our programs.  It is very interesting,” said Ailes.

“How do they do that?” said Sean.

“Never mind how they do it.  But the results have made us take a second look at our programming,” said Ailes.

“So you are saying that these things did not respond to my show?” asked Sean.

“I am saying that they did not light up to you, Sean.  You are not making any emotional connection to our viewers,” said Ailes.

“I have to disagree, Mr. Ailes.  I get emails everyday…”

“Fuck the emails,” said Ailes, cutting off Sean.  “Emails mean nothing.  This study goes much deeper than emails and anecdotal evidence.  And it tells us that you are a dud, Sean,” said Ailes.

Sean knew that he had recently re-negotiated his contract, so this could not be some kind of tactic to pay him less money.  “But sir, the Nielson ratings show that I am very popular in my time slot,” said Sean.

“We do not rely just on the unreliable Nielsons, anymore, Sean.  We are going for the core of what touches our viewers.  Let’s take your show with Sarah Palin, for example,” said Ailes.

Sean felt good about talking about his interview with Palin.   It won that time slot hands down, one of the most watched shows of the week.  Sean smiled.

“Yeah, that was a hit,” said Sean.

“Sarah Palin was a hit.  The amygdala lit up like halogen bulbs when Palin was on screen and talking.  They went dark when you were o screen talking.  I could have had a dog sitting in your chair and we would have had a hit show with Sarah Palin,” said Ailes.

Sean tried not to take offense.  “You are overstating it.  A bit, don’t you think,” said Sean.  “How did O’Reilly do on these tests?” asked Sean.

“O’Reilly lights up the amygdala just fine.  Here’s the problem, we think.  You are an ass-kisser.  You ass kiss everyone you agree with.  The viewers know this.  There is no drama when it comes to you, Sean.  They know what you are going to say.  And you say it.  You are predictable.  In fact, you are ass kissing me right now.  You are fundamentally, a bore.  And we never would have known this without those little amygdala telling us the truth,” said Ailes.

Sean re-adjusted himself in the chair.  “You want me to challenge people more, is that it,” said Sean.
“This is a warning.  You better do something.  Because I ain’t going to keep paying what I am paying to have you just sit there and be predictable,” said Ailes as he picked up the telephone in response to a ring.

“Yes.  OK, I will take it,” said Ailes into the receiver.  Ailes covered the mouthpiece of the receiver.  “I have to take this, so…”

Sean stood, Ailes returned to his phone call.  Sean walked out of the corner office into the brightly lit corridor.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Hannity,” said a young intern with long blond hair as she passed Sean heading for the corner office.  Sean nodded, put his hands in his pockets and walked back to his office.

Lady Gaga in Her Dressing Room After Grammy Awards

Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta walked into Dressing Room #34 at the Staples Center in Los Angeles after the conclusion of the 2010 Grammy Awards.  She was in seven-inch soled shoes with ten-inch heels, and her shoulders were burdened with what could best be described as silvery balloons that rose above the top of her bleached hair.  Stefani, otherwise known as “Lady Gaga.” slammed the door shut, making a sound that penetrated her temples and made her flinch.  Stefani turned to face her reflection in the makeshift mirror bolted to the wall of a room that Stefani knew was not designed as a dressing room.  The Staples Center is set up to house many different kinds of events, mostly sports, and has only a handful of what entertainment professionals consider “full-service” dressing rooms, with bathrooms, hot tubs, a kitchen, a fully stocked refrigerator, and a lounge area.  The walls of Room #34 were cinder blocks, painted in what Stefani considered a dull yellow, and there was definitely not a kitchen or lounge area.  There was a sink.  And the card table set in front of the mirror is where she plopped her two Grammy Awards.  She went to the sink against the wall to her right and washed off all her makeup.  Her eyes were think with black, and as she splashed her face, the black ran down her cheeks, giving her a gothic appearance.  Stefani pulled out the hardware hidden in her hair which released the long strands which fell to her shoulders.  She then ripped off her wardrobe, tearing it in places, and as each piece came off, she threw it to the floor.  By time she was down to her white underwear and bra, she sat in the chair facing the table and looking at her two Grammys.

There was knock at the door.  ”What” yelled Stefani.

“Security,” announced a man’s voice through the closed door.  Stefani rose and opened the door.

“Yeah?” asked Stefani, standing in her underwear as she was scratching her right armpit with her left hand.

The security guard was taken aback by the bare appearance of Lady Gaga.

“You are going to have to vacate in thirty minutes,” said the security guard.

“What the fuck are you talking about?  This is my shit-hole dressing room.  I’m going decompress,” said Stefani.

“You can’t.  This is Derek Fisher’s room,” said the security guard, a tall African-American man.

“Who the fuck is Derek Fisker?” said Stefani.

“He’s a guard for the Lakers,” said Stefani.

“The Lakers.  Jesus Christ, is there like a fucking basketball game on tonight, huh?  No.  I doubt it.  So tell Derek Fisher to come back tomorrow,” said Stefani.

“No can do, ma’am,” said the security guard.  ”Basketball takes precedence over everything here,” said the guard.

“Well then tell him to come in with me here like this in my underwear, OK.  He won’t mind if I hang out while he does whatever he wants to do in this cinderblock prison cell,” said Stefani.

“He just wants to get into his closet and pull something out,” said the guard.

“Yeah, well, OK,” said Stefani.

“I’ll go tell him he can come,” said the guard.

The guard turned to go, and then stopped to address Lady Gaga.

“If you ask me, I think you should have gotten Record of the Year for Poker Face,” said the guard.

Stefani stood and looked at the guard.

“Oh yeah?” said Stefani.

“Yeah,” said the guard.

“You want to come in.  Join me for…for whatever,” said Stefani.

“Come in?”
“Yeah, like come into my dressing room.  I’m sure Derek whatever his name is can give us time to….you know,” said Stefani.

The security guard looked down the hallway.  He then looked at his watch.  Stefani walked into Room #34 and stood at the table next to her Grammy Awards.  She unsnapped her bra and it fell to the floor, exposing her breasts.  She then fingered her Grammy Awards.

“You want to touch them,” asked Lady Gaga.

The guard came into the room and shut the door.

Elin Nordegren Meets With Tiger Woods at Sex Clinic

Elin Nordergen had flown on a Gulfstream G5 into New Orleans on a flight from Stockholm.  She brought one suitcase, a small one, with certain traveling and identity essentials.  Elin had gotten into the habit over the years to travel light and merely purchase what she needed on arrival.  She took a taxi to the nearest Volvo dealer in New Orleans and bought a white 2010 Volco c70 with leather seats.  Using her iPhone’s mapping, she had made her way to Interstate 10 going north, crossing over Lake Pontchartrain, eventually hopping onto Route 11 which took Volvo into Mississippi.  Then she veered onto Interstate 59, going north to Hattiesburg, Mississippi.  Elin was searching for the Pine Grove Gentle Path Facility where her husband, Tiger Woods, was being treated for his “problem.”  Though the Pine Grove center treats its patients in groups, Tiger was given a private “cottage” residence.  This did not conform to Pine Grove procedure, but the risk of media encroachment justified the special treatment.  Tiger’s offer to make a generous contribution also persuaded the Pine Grove management to satisfy Tiger’s request.

Elin was leaning again a dark green wall in the cottage where Tiger was housed.  Tiger was sitting on a couch, his buttocks perched on the edge of the couch, his hands on his knees, his legs to together.  It was not a relaxed position, nothing casual about it.  This was there first meeting since Elin had left for Sweden and purchased a house on Faglaro Island about an hour’s drive from Stockholm.  Elin was wearing black sweatpants, Reebok running shoes (no more Nike for her), and a black running shirt covered in a black leather jacket.  The blond hair was long as it draped over all the black.  Her legs were crossed, her back leaning on the wall, her arms crossed.

“So what is this place?” asked Elin.

“You know what it is,” said Tiger.

“Well, actually, I don’t.  It says clinic.  (Elin made quote signs with her fingers.) Like a golf clinic, yes,” said Elin, trying not to be sarcastic.

“It’s a clinic for sexual addiction,” said Tiger.

“Oh yeah.  What is that?  Is that like an illness?  Do you have an illness, Eldrick,” said Elin.

“Could you not call me that,” said Tiger.

“It’s your fucking name, Eldrick.  Maybe you should start using your birth name.  Isn’t it more honest,” said Elin.

There was a moment of awkward silence.

“So tell me about what they do here for your problem,” said Elin.

“They have group therapy, and they do shame reduction work and trauma work,” said Tiger.

“Shame reduction work?  You mean they are trying to make you feel less shame,” said Elin.

“It’s part of the therapy,” said Tiger.

“You’re joking,” said Elin.

“It’s part of the process.  I cannot overcome my addiction to sex without first dispensing with the shame,” said Tiger.

“They should fucking make you feel more shame.  It is shame that got you to come here,” said Elin.
“But it will be the eradication of that shame that will permit me to leave,” said Tiger.

“And trauma work?  what trauma did you go through, Eldrick?  Tell me that?  Like I didn’t have any trauma.  Like the kids,” said Elin.

“Maybe you can check in with me.  We can go through this together,” said Tiger.

“That is not happening,” said Elin.

“I have to talk about you and our relationship here.  With the doctors, with the other patients when we are in group,” said Tiger.

“You talk about me?  You better not talk about me.  This is your problem, not mine,” said Elin.

“No, listen.  After I described things to them, it might be the case that you are suffering from sexual anorexia,” said Tiger.

“What the fuck did you say?”

“Sexual anorexia is a pathological fear of intimacy, a fear of sexual interaction,” said Tiger.

“We have two children, Eldrick.  What kind of goddamn fears do I have?  None.  And you don’t talk about me to them.  It is none of their business,” said Elin with rising anger.

“Sexual anorexia is a serious problem,” said Tiger.

“Oh, and they are trying to blame this on me, is that it.  What a load of crap,” said Elin.

“And you have paranoid tendencies, Elin.  That little bit you pulled with my cell phone and texting Rachel, that was deceitful,” said Tiger.

“It’s Rachel, now?  You can just say her name in front of me,” said Elin.

“It’s part of the shame reduction therapy.  It is working,” said Tiger.

“They call this place “Gentle Path,” said Elin.  ”Like this thing you are going through is supposed to be ‘gentle.’  They are making this easy for you.  Making you think that what you have is a disease, and to come to terms with it, and then just recover, gently, easily,” said Elin.

“Yes,” said Tiger.

“Let me sum up my diagnosis, Eldrick.  You are a prick.  An asshole.  A liar.  And the last fucking thing this recovery should be for you is gentle,” said Elin.

Elin moved to the front door of the cottage.  Tioger watched her as she walked.  He noticed how she walked, the sway of her hips, her long shimmering blond hair.

“Do you want to make love?” asked Tiger.

Elin turned to face Tiger.  She looked at him.  And then she opened the door and left.  Eldrick Tont Woods placed his forehead into both his hands and his body’s posture bent forward.  He did not cry.  Crying was forbidden at the Pine Grove Clinic.