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,
Its fair to say that Id 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 Im 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 Ive
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
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 Emmys 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 Im certain that Saturday Night Live assumed
Id head straight for Nepal, they would least expect me to
double back and hit them at their own headquarters.
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
Jacques draws out his plans for infiltrating
the offices of Saturday Night Live based partly upon
what he knows of the NBC buildings 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
kitchens 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
No, it was an accident; I swear.
Its so horrible! Theres icing everywhere,
someone moaned from within the office.
I stood, frozen. I flattened myself against a white wall.
Its him! He assassinated the cake! Its him I
saw on the balcony!
At that, my mission had been compromised.
He must be the assassin or my names not Sir Desmond
Peabody the 3rd.
To Be Continued...