Ripple Effects Of The Writers’ Strike.
BY John Moe
Lack of scripts means pilots are unable to perform “welcome from the cabin” announcements, which are customarily lengthy, loquacious, and infuriatingly drawn out. Having dedicated their careers to the complex task of operating commercial aircraft, pilots reveal themselves to be woefully inept at extemporaneous speaking, as their attempts (“We’re in air. High up. Weather. No crash. Temperature!”) prove disastrous. Filled with self-loathing, pilots refuse to leave their homes and eventually die. All air travel ends.
Grocery-store produce managers
Unable to skillfully phrase sales like “Grapes—$1.99/lb.,” retailers panic and choose instead to throw fruits and vegetables at customers while screaming, “MONEY NOW!” Frightened by the prospect of facing a grocery store full of wild-eyed produce managers clutching rotten bananas while cloaked in ersatz-broccoli cloaks (fashioned after long bouts of existential madness), customers stay away. Consumer economy collapses.
When you think about it, it’s a bit too much to expect someone with an exceptionally profound sense of spirituality to also be a gifted crafter of prose. I mean, what are the odds, right? But since the strike means no new sermons written, the clergy must simply read from sacred texts and then stare forward, blinking. Attendance at religious services plummets, churches are boarded up, and, perhaps most importantly, God just says, “You know what? Screw all of you,” and walks out.
Brides and grooms
Roadside direction signs like “Johnson-Turpin Wedding—Turn Left” are no longer possible and are replaced by feeble nonunion attempts such as “Girl! Ring! Left! I am Turpin! Turpjohn! Dress! Ah!” With would-be attendees unable to find events, weddings cease. Then love ends.
Shouting the classic written line “Play ‘Free Bird’!” has historically been a quick way to convey to fellow concertgoers the message “I am aware that I am watching a concert by a band that would be highly unlikely to ever play a Lynyrd Skynyrd classic, but by shouting out such a request, I demonstrate that I am a student of popular culture, that I am intellectually superior to Skynyrd fans, and that I have mastered irony.” But with no one to write such lines, fans soon forget about shouting “Play ‘Free Bird’!” The result: the whole world starts going to more concerts, live music thrives, the human condition is elevated, beauty proliferates, and fewer douchebags get themselves stabbed at shows.
Without the assistance of professional writers, such droll puns as “purrfect pets” prove impossible, leaving shopkeepers to describe their offerings as “perfect pets.” This results in unrealistic expectations being placed on the pets. Eventually, an acrimonious pet/owner dynamic emerges that proves impossible to overcome. After a surprisingly short period of time, cats say, you know, fuck this shit and they leave. The human/cat arrangement, which, to be honest, has been on thin ice for centuries, finally collapses and the domestication of the cat ends.
With their natural predators, the screenwriters, out of the literary ecosystem, poet herds thrive and proliferate, soon overrunning their native habitats and exhausting their food supply. Before long, having any unlocked windows in one’s house becomes an invitation to poets to bust in, which they unfailingly do, spouting some goofy-ass nonsense while grabbing whatever is in the fridge. All are shot on sight, of course, creating an unwelcome sanitation problem. Heartened, God gives us one more chance.
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