Extend the writers' strike and give the scabs at IBR a last chance. We re-write shows stuck in production.
After gifting a scab-written opening monologue masterpiece for people who call themselves “late night hosts” (as if they’re holding an after-hours dinner party where they’d actually invite someone like you), the Intergalactic Business Report was saddened by our response rate of zero.
As the Writers Guild of America votes to approve an agreement, we make a final plea to movie studios to end negotiations and extend the strike so that our group of barely and non-paid writers have a shot at not being paid by them too. To achieve this, we are pitching a number of show trajectories we would gladly write for some of our favorite programs that were being held hostage. Instead of playing catch up, just take our ideas that are steady and ready. It’s not too late. So, here you go. They’re free.
We re-write popular shows stuck in production. Suck on this, paid writers.
We flip the show and now it’s about how the writers are severed from writing the show. Similar to Adam Scott’s character, they get super drunk and forget what the fuck they’re doing or why they cared.
The silo is actually a huge toilet. Most of season two is it flushing.
Too Hot to Handle.
Since the only written material is the robot and the female comic commenting on contestants’ horniness, we just have someone go, “Dammmn” every few minutes.
Obviously, you can’t have any guest hosts because those motherfuckers are going to “stand with the writers” as if they’re all at the Alamo but it’s air-conditioned and the only Mexicans are doing yard work and not attacking them. Anyway… We do a Colin Jost fashion show (no words, just outfits) and then some really unfunny (and non-scripted) in-absentia public trials of republican politicians done entirely by lawyers.
Country music star Jason Aldean silently hunts Jenny Hoyt and Beau Arlen. The script is just: FADE IN: Ext. Woods-day. Jason Aldean silently hunts Jenny Hoyt and Beau Arlen.
Just to make it all work, they’ve had they’re vocal cords removed, but we don’t know why. They just look like they’re about to say something, then grab their throats in pain, and shake their head, no. Then Aldean shoots at them, and they run.
The Drew Barrymore Show.
Poor Drew. Who knew she needed writers to have conversations with celebrities about how hard it is to be a celebrity? We help her out by turning her show into an hour-long apology where she just cries and does stream of consciousness sorry saying to the audience.
This is a personal message to Devine, who, because he’s in every single Netflix movie produced, directed, and, of course, written by someone’s cousin or dude who “wants to be a writer and they bought my screenplay!” (we’re just guessing), is suffering most. Hang in there, dude. Remember that a writer can write the line, “What?” But only you can deliver it as “Whhhaaaaaaat?” That’s you taking a word out of the English language and making it your own. Our advice is, during the strike, work on other words, like “Buuuuuuuttttt….” and, “turnip.” Not sure how you’d do that last one but you’re the master.
Never would go on strike. Holding strong and just stuttering like a motherfucker. No re-writes for you, noble swine.
We name it. You grab it. Stop thinking so much.