The world’s most successful studio executive, Scot Squeegee, drove his new stretch Rolls Royce from his 60-room mansion in Bel Air to Streak Studios to view the rushes of: The Scot Squeegee Saga.
The Scot Squeegee Saga had everything from stunning women to power. Well, actually it only had two things: stunning women and power — with those two things you could get everything else you needed in Southern California.
To be truly accurate, women did not need to be that stunning, so long as they had enormous mammary glands, which could be purchased from almost any competent plastic surgeon on any corner in Beverly Hills. (Usually mammary glands were sold in sets, although some starlets bought an extra for a spare.)
After a power breakfast prepared by Martha Stewart, Scot Squeegee went to his inner, inner executive office (the one with 11 private bathrooms, a Krispy Kreme donut concession and series of small ICBMs used to annihilate tiny countries that did not endorse American screening policies).
Mr. Squeegee was smoking his second three-foot Havanan of the day.
He was inhaling the Havanan. The Havanan was a small actor from Havana; lately, studio executives had taken to midget smoking
It was a pastime that Arnold Schwarzenegger had introduced in Predator VII, a lovely piece of cinema in which he single-handedly invaded Cuba using all of the guns in the United States of America.
After Arnold ran out of bullets, he began smoking the rebellious natives of Cuba. It was a movie thing that appealed to the film executives.
Another case of life imitating art.
At the time of this article, there were over 687,000 students taking Very, Very Advanced Directing Courses in universities and institutes around the world.
This was a good thing, since executives never knew when one of the six or seven (bankable) Hollywood film directors might die, requiring Hollywood to find a newcomer to fill his or her boots.
Mr. Squeegee’s six secretaries were standing by this desk when he arrived. The desk was not particularly large by Hollywood standards, being smaller than a regulation basketball court, but Mr. Squeegee had a saying. What he liked to say was, “The size of a man’s desk does not count as much as the size of his winkie.”
And then he would smoke another Havanan and stare at the person he was talking to and demand, “Do you know what I am saying?”
If the person worked for Mr. Squeegee and nodded his head, then Mr. Squeegee would let the person keep his job. When Mr. Squeegee ran out of Havanans, he would often light an employee on fire and smoke him.
Today was like every other day. Mr. S. was looking for talent. And of course pussy. Not necessarily in that order. His people had brought in a fresh crop of uh, talent.
Mr. Squeegee looked into the upturned faces of the young directors, many of whom had been going to school for two decades so they could learn what an f-stop was.
The young directors’ faces were upturned because they were kneeling in the pit in front of Mr. Squeegee’s desk. The pit was 40 feet deep.
This was a subtle method that film executives employed to convey the raw power of a studio head to anyone who visited them. “I can take three questions,” said the world’s most powerful filmmaker. “Do you know what I am saying?”
All the young directors nodded, and raised their hands. They all looked so eager and so intelligent.
Finally, Mr. Squeegee selected an intelligent girl (who, coincidentally, possessed huge mammary glands).
Mr. Squeegee deduced the girl was eager to talk to him because she was holding her hand the highest and she had removed all of her clothing except for her seven-inch pumps. “The film student — the perky 42D — what is your question, dear?”
“How do I become head of a studio like this?”
“Study hard, maintain a high degree of integrity, respect all your fellow workers, and don’t flaunt your success. Be humble. Work under a famous studio head such as myself. Do you know what I am saying?” asked Mr. Squeegee, using an electric bullhorn to get his message across.
“But how do I get my big break? Didn’t you become head of this studio after Arnold did a picture with you?”
“I worked part-time as a window cleaner to support myself, all the while perfecting my film making skills. Do you know what I am saying?”
He cranked up the power of the bullhorn and accidentally (but permanently) deafened nine students in the front row. (A small price to pay for his wisdom.)
The babe in the pumps batted her eyelashes. “I heard that while you were cleaning windows at Arnold’s you happened to catch him and Richard Gere experimenting with tiny Havanans. You took some photos and then, next thing you knew, you were making film.”
“I’m sure that had nothing to do with my subsequent three pictures, starring the world’s greatest action actor, the world’s greatest male romantic lead, and a small hamster-like creature. Do you know what I am saying?”
All the students nodded. Hard work and dedication, coupled with integrity — that was the ticket to film success in Hollywood. Later they wrote a paper on it, everyone except the babe with the high pumps who asked so many silly questions.
She became a window cleaner and, a few months later, ran Sony Entertainment.
