INT. LOST PRODUCTION OFFICE — DAY
DAMON runs ALL THE WAY THE FUCK INTO THE OFFICE, passing SIX FUCKING WRITERS. He carries a latte — A FUCKING VENTI LATTE, MOTHERFUCKERS! Teach that FUCKING BARISTA a lesson!
CARLTON holds up his hand. Holy. Fucking. Shit. It’s the BIG FUCKING HAND of a FUCKING BIGSHOT TV WRITER!
Emphasis is important.
We need more fucking.
More fucking Flann O’Brien.
Jack fucks the dead fucking skull of Flann
Fucking O’Brien?
Damon spills his latte onto the boardroom table. Holy. Fuck!
Fuck. Where’s Brian when you need him?
The writers cower underneath the table. BENT and BROKEN! This is a REALLY INTERESTING standoff and suddenly —
Christ, do I need to straighten out another fucking
mess from Season 3?
ON CARLTON. Yeah. Oh yeah. Fucking camera tight on FUCKING Carlton! GET AS CLOSE AS YOU CAN ON HIS FACE OR I’LL CANCEL YOUR LUCRATIVE SENFUCKINSATIONAL CONTRACT, YOU DIRECTOR CUNT!
What? The? Fuck? Writer!
(seriously fucking backpedaling)
Have the intern look up Faraday on Wikipedia again.
Maybe there’s some bullshit science we can throw
in. Keep the fucking websites guessing.
But oh no! YOU FUCKING DIDN’T BRIAN!
And then Damon’s got this like BIG FUCKING LOOK OF HATRED — like he’s going to FUCK Brian. Up. The. Ass.
Hey, comic boy. You want to pull some Bryan Fuller shit
on me?
No, man. I was only —
Because I’ll write a script with more fucks than
a callgirl’s monthly ledger.
Fuck you.
No, fuck you!
And the other writers are like totally RUNNING THE FUCK AWAY as Carlton and Damon are TOTALLY FUCKING BEATING THE SHIT OUT OF EACH OTHER!
– BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! Oh yeah baby! That FUCKING sound. Instantly recognizable as a fucking emphasis. We’re IN THE SHIT here, folks. Make up some kickass camera moves, MOTHERFUCKERS.
And if Brian has some FUCKING IDEAS on where to go from here, well then YOU KNOW HIS FUCKING PHONE NUMBER!
Fuck YOU!
(Tip: Bookshelves of Doom)