Emmy Fever! - Part One

October 3, 2002

Emmy Fever! - Part One
Wherein Jacques wins an Emmy
And then discovers what the hell an Emmy is.

Apparently, as far as awards go, an Emmy is kind of like an Oscar, only worthless.

It’s fair to say that I’d never given much thought to the Emmy. Not until the day I read that the television show Saturday Night Live had won for “outstanding writing for a weekend variety, music or comedy series performed live” that is. My outrage had no bounds!

Outrage at the fact that, although I’m a writer for that show, no one had thought it necessary to even inform me of my nomination. Granted, I was never actually “hired” to write for Saturday Night Live, nor has anyone yet recognized my substantial “behind the scenes” contributions, but for the past year or so I’ve been about 98% certain that I am a writer for the show. And thus, in accordance with New York common-law, I am.

I deserve a chunk of that Emmy. It is now that I symbolically claim the bottom of its gleaming left butt-cheek.

But, in a more physical sense, each writer is designated their own personal Emmy statuette. That, I realized, is what I must now set my sight upon.

I care not for the morbidly obese sentimentality of the award itself, nor do I esteem its representative accolades; only that I may smelt its luscious gold coating and color my head and butt an impenetrable gold. Only then can I hope to attain blond hair, and only then may I inch ever closer to achieving perfection in my grand “falsified eugenics” scheme, furthering my goal of becoming a member of the much coveted “master” race.

And so, it would be a daring raid on the NBC building in order to attain the Emmy that was rightfully mine.

Initially, I had learned of an Emmy’s covert shipment to a secret “safe house” location in Nepal, and it was my intention to intercept the vile thing by hijacking the truck on its way to Katmandu. But upon a further inspection of the situation, I realized it was simply a trap. A ploy to lure me away from the NBC building itself. While I’m certain that Saturday Night Live assumed I’d head straight for Nepal, they would least expect me to double back and hit them at their own headquarters.

It’s Jacques! Now in a more convenient, bite-sized form! Donning my black stealth outfit and cape (for effect), I prepared for my assault. All that was left was to determine where my Emmy was being held and from whom I would swipe it.

Ultimately, in the grand scheme of things, “Desmond Peabody the 3rd” does not sound like someone who should possess an Emmy. It was his Emmy that I would thoughtfully and purposefully target. Or, rather, it was my Emmy that I would rightfully claim from him.

Fortunately, the NBC building was conveniently built on a 2-dimensional plane.

Jacques draws out his plans for infiltrating the offices of Saturday Night Live based partly upon what he knows of the NBC building’s layout and partly upon educated assumption.

Entering into the NBC building with a tour group, I quickly slipped away and crawled into an air vent. Ever since 1918, immediately following the Great War, as a result of the “red scare”, federal law has required that buildings always be constructed with air vents for people to crawl into and hide in. The tour group had barely noted my presence seeing as how my black stealth outfit and cape had rendered me utterly nondescript and forgettable.

After crawling for a distance, I popped out of the air vent and into what I realized to be the offices of Saturday Night Live. The air was stale and smelled of burnt flesh. Voices carried from around a corner.

The musical voice of lovely head writer Tina Fey was discussing tiling arrangements for the NBC kitchen. She vehemently opposed the implementation of light red tiles, while some guy named Samson Pfisher proclaimed that aquamarine was “simply foolish”. While they argued and slurped coffee, I was able to slip by the kitchen’s doorway unnoticed.

Suddenly, a man came running out of an office screaming “the cake fell out the window!”.

“The cake was pushed!” someone proclaimed. “The cake was pushed! It was deliberate! Call the police! I saw the whole thing!”

“No, it was an accident; I swear.”

“It’s so horrible! There’s icing everywhere,” someone moaned from within the office.

I stood, frozen. I flattened myself against a white wall.

“It’s him! He assassinated the cake! It’s him I saw on the balcony!”

At that, my mission had been compromised.

“He must be the assassin or my name’s not Sir Desmond Peabody the 3rd.”

To Be Continued...