And the Emmy goes to… Me!
As we all know, the 64th Annual Primetime Emmy Awards aired this past Sunday. What you’re probably not aware of is that one of my goals in life is to win a Primetime Emmy Award. But how does one go about such an ambitious goal?
The Oprah says if you want something you should visualize yourself already having it, then magic stuff happens and voila, there it is! Well, who doesn’t like Magic? That being said, I’ve decided to visualize myself winning an Emmy. It’s even on my vision board (but so is a picture of a large, organized closet. Baby steps…)
Since it’s also important to be as detailed as possible when doing the magic, I’ve begun to write down my acceptance speech, as I imagine it will happen. Some details will obviously have be filled in later, but below I’ve decided to share the rough cut:
On stage at the Emmys.
And the Award for Best Comedy Series goes to_______________(Name of series, which I will write, eventually.)
The audience erupts into applause. It will take me a full 6 minutes to make it to the podium, because of all the hugging. Someone grabs my junk, but I don’t mind, because I’m shitfaced. Two back handsprings, about ten yards of “the worm”, and a chest bump with Alec Baldwin later, I’m finally on stage. (I may have also “made it rain” on the way down the aisle, I’ll have to watch the recap). There’s other people on stage too, but I’ve already called “I get to speak!” backstage and, like calling “shotgun”, it’s an ironclad agreement.
I take the Emmy from Matt Damon and casually size him up (he’s tiny, but looks like he can scrap), because unbeknownst to him and everyone else, I’m not leaving this stage on my own accord. I step to the mic. You could hear a mouse fart.
Holy Fucking Shit!!!! (Establish immediately that you’re from New Jersey, and the F-bombs will fly fast and frequently. The censors are gonna earn it today.) This is amazing! Did you see the backflips? I was like Kerri Fuckin’ Strug down there. Oooh, you know what else me and Kerri have in common? We’re both champions. That’s right, bitches! I’m the 20_______(enter date later) World Comedy Writing Champion!
I raise the statue up over my head, which, like a golden voodoo doll, causes the entire audience to shoot up out of their seats, for the first of many applause breaks.
Now, there are a lot of people I’d like to thank, so shut the fuck up! (Completely unnecessary, but I’m just establishing dominance) First and foremost I have to thank my wonderful (Wife/ Girlfriend / Sexbot? Who knows how long away this is gonna be). Honey, you are my rock, and without you this means nothing. (Total bullshit, since she’s never set foot in a Writer’s Room, but I’m just hedging my bet on an “award winning” blowjob on the limo ride home.)
A big thanks to my manager___________(I don’t have one yet), and my agent____________(Ugh, nothing here either. Note to self: Get agent and Manager, or winning Emmy will be next to impossible).
My Mom (hopefully still alive) and Dad (definitely dead), for being so supportive of all my creative endeavors, or at least to my face! (Audience laughs. Of course they do, I’m the “World Fucking Comedy Writing Champion”, remember?)
Tina Fey, my mentor and co-show runner, for helping bring this thing to life, and for giving me a mental comedy boner all these years.
They cut to Tina, as she blushes and gingerly pull her hand from her husbands loving grasp. It’s subtle, but obvious.
I’d also like to thank______________________,
(Name of Studio),
(Name of Production Company)
(Name of other Production Company),
(How many fucking companies do we have producing this thing?!)
(I don’t know who he is, but a lot of people seem to thank him, so it’s a safe bet that he deserves it),
(Not sure if my Emmy winning show will be on HBO, but I just reallllly like their shit!)
and of course ______________________.
(My actual network, if it’s not HBO. Why HBO first? Because I’m sure their shows are better, so it’s a straight respect move.)
In the background, I can hear the faint sounds of a violin as the Orchestra begins to play me off. They are sorely mistaken.
FUCK YOU, ORCHESTRA!
I remove a rented tuxedo shoe and hurl it into the orchestra pit. This one is just a warning shot, nerds, the next one will draw blood. (Also, remember to collect shoe(s) after speech, as to not lose my security deposit on rented tuxedo.)
Oh, you think a little music is gonna get me off this stage? I’ll karaoke to that shit like it’s 3am in Thai Town! Where was I? Fuck! Ok, speedround, here we go. I’d also like to thank ________________________
I’m just freestyling now, thanks to the alcohol and adrenaline, giving shout-outs to random people with no regard for time or relevance. People I think are cool, friends from high school, my third grade art teacher, people that let me crash on their couch in Europe, the hot cashier at Starbucks, Christopher Walken (why not?), etc. Some of it is incoherent, because I’ve also been simultaneously taking a shot of Jameson between each name I yell out. I see the Producer frantically giving me the “wrap it up” signal, but I just act like it’s a fist pump and keep this train rolling. The audience is Going. Fucking, Apeshit.
This goes on for a while, until eventually I catch Matt Damon out of the corner of my eye, slowly advancing towards the podium. Even though I’m hammered, I did take a few Crossfit classes back in 2010, so I think I’m Rambo. I turn to him with an outstretched hand, as if to thank him for his time.
THWACK! The sound of the butt of my sixteen pound Emmy crashing into Matt Damon’s skull can be heard on flat screens across the country, leaving millions of witnesses to which I’m sure will later be a charge of “attempted manslaughter”. At this point (as a shock even to me), another standing ovation erupts! Either I’m the most amazing person in the world, or being cooped up in this room and watching this boring ass show has turned them into bloodthirsty animals. Either way, I decide to milk it.
(To audience, mocking the alarmingly unconscious Matt Damon)
Hey Jassssn Boorne, where’s theeese hands t hnd combat skills now, youuuu mutherfuck?!
Errrrrr, maybe it’s time to cash out? Nope, my mouth is about to talk again…
Apparntly it is yer fault, Good Bill Hunnting!
Ok, at this point I can barely see, and I’m somehow carrying the remnants of a tiny microphone that I’m pretty sure was firmly attached to a podium moments ago. The audience seems to be cooling to my weak movie references, and I’d kill for some Taco Bell right now. Also, I think Matt Damon is dead.
Fine, yeh knowwwhat, fuck yous guys!
(Why am I angry?)
I’m going home, gimme my football…
Deciding I’m officially Jesus, I drop the mic to the ground, except it’s tiny and broken, so the desired “I’m a Boss!” effect is not attained. Also, the super hot chick who was supposed to escort me off the stage is nowhere to be seen, but in her place are two very large, very black men. Hey, maybe they’re here to carry me off the stage like Rudy, while the audience slow-claps and…
Wait, no, they’ve broken my sternum. Yup, Definitely. Even though I’m the drunkest human ever, I know the sound of a ribcage shattering when I feel it. The only thing I’m being carried to tonight is an ambulance. If I’m not in handcuffs (unlikely) on the stretcher ride down the aisle, I’ll be sure to give the audience a nice Mike Utley “thumbs up”. Except with my middle finger.
At some point after, once I’m firmly in jail, I’ll have time to revel in my victory, and make sure to update my resume with “Emmy Winning Writer”. On the flipside, I now also have to add “Convicted Murderer”, so I think it’s officially a wash. I will then spend the next seven years using my Emmy like a rock hammer, eventually tunneling my way out of Shawshank, which will come as a complete shock to the warden and his goons.
See you on the beach, Red!