Whose Throne Is It, Anyway?
You have a morning audition for the usual unpaid, film school, artsy director wannabe, useless crap that you're getting tired of auditioning for. It's all uninspired drivel, and always written so heavy-handedly.
You give a stellar reading (glossing over the many misspelled words and nonsense phrases), and subconsciously hope they don't call you back. You thought perhaps your role in this Shakespeare re-write might have been something interesting to add to your demo reel, but the jackasses running the audition didn't give you their shitty sides until you were standing in front of their camera... that some kid hadn't properly focused yet somehow. It's a good thing, too - if you had've seen the shit they expected you to read, you would've walked.
You arrive home by subway about an hour later, pick up a pizza to reward yourself for spending time with talentless hacks (for free, no less!), and plop down in front of your laptop, ready to put the finishing touches on a comedy feature screenplay that would make Greg Giraldo proud (God rest his awesome soul!).
You glance out the window and happen to see your dumpy, overweight mail carrier shuffling past. Intent on not letting unfetched mail distract you from your would-be task, you go ahead and walk outside to retrieve it from your locked box.
"Bill... bill... KFC coupons... flyer... charity request..."
You almost drop the other mail as you flip to the last letter. The envelope even feels better than the rest - made from heavy card stock, and embossed in gold-leaf - it bears the return address of simply: "The King of TV Land"! You hurry inside, lock the front door, throw the other crap on the foyer table, and sit down reverently on the same sofa where you first incredulously heard that this correspondence was coming.
You give a stellar reading (glossing over the many misspelled words and nonsense phrases), and subconsciously hope they don't call you back. You thought perhaps your role in this Shakespeare re-write might have been something interesting to add to your demo reel, but the jackasses running the audition didn't give you their shitty sides until you were standing in front of their camera... that some kid hadn't properly focused yet somehow. It's a good thing, too - if you had've seen the shit they expected you to read, you would've walked.
You arrive home by subway about an hour later, pick up a pizza to reward yourself for spending time with talentless hacks (for free, no less!), and plop down in front of your laptop, ready to put the finishing touches on a comedy feature screenplay that would make Greg Giraldo proud (God rest his awesome soul!).
You glance out the window and happen to see your dumpy, overweight mail carrier shuffling past. Intent on not letting unfetched mail distract you from your would-be task, you go ahead and walk outside to retrieve it from your locked box.
"Bill... bill... KFC coupons... flyer... charity request..."
You almost drop the other mail as you flip to the last letter. The envelope even feels better than the rest - made from heavy card stock, and embossed in gold-leaf - it bears the return address of simply: "The King of TV Land"! You hurry inside, lock the front door, throw the other crap on the foyer table, and sit down reverently on the same sofa where you first incredulously heard that this correspondence was coming.