We fed a comedian 50,000 sitcom scripts and this is what she came out with: a quick visit to the hospital and a stomach pump. When she was done having 4,000 reams of paper surgically extracted from her wailing body, she held our head under a bucket of water just long enough that we stopped struggling and started contemplating our own fleeting mortality with decidedly mixed emotions before leaving us sodden, bruised, and unenlightened at the back end of a particular urine-soaked alleyway.
It was less edifying that we’d hoped.
Undaunted, we found another comedian, one less likely to be missed, and fed him three scripts a day in a much more digestible shredded form. Unfortunately he broke out of his cell less than nine months into the estimated 45 year process, though he didn’t get very far before dying of scurvy, malnutrition, and an impacted bowel. We arrived just in time to witness his sphincter relaxing for the final time; it would have brought a tear to our eye, if we had tear ducts. If we had eyes.
A frustrating process, to be sure. Still, the work continues, and we’re always looking for aspiring writers! Interested parties apply within.