It’s more like when a room is “breaking a story”-and that means plotting it out, not throwing it on the ground and smashing it to pieces, though sometimes they’re one and the same-the room’s collective experience guides the path.
FIRST MATURE GAY MASSAGE TUBE TV
To be clear, it’s not like the TV shows you watch are just some dude’s weekend translated to the screen. Part of the job is showing up every morning and telling a room of people you’ll probably only know for six months, tops (most shows don’t live to see a second season) the most humiliating, horrible, and perversely hilarious stuff that’s ever happened to you.Ī small fraction of the stories I’ve heard and/or told on the job, and excuse me if I don’t tell you which is which: serving a spouse divorce papers at couples counseling cheating on a spouse with a couples counselor confessing to putting a tracker on a spouse’s car pooping in a tote bag in the parking lot of The Grove pooping in a CVS bag in an alley behind CVS pooping at Runyon Canyon behind some minimal shrubbery taking shrooms and thinking you invented the expression “Boom!” taking shrooms and calling your parents and telling them you’re gay taking shrooms and breaking up with your boyfriend in French fighting with your wife about spending too much on children’s bedsheets ($600) fighting with your husband about erectile dysfunction making out with a man at a bar who claims to be Waylon Jennings then discovering the next day that Waylon Jennings has been dead 20 years getting roofied and almost assaulted getting mugged by a 12-year-old getting mugged by a preteen but then peeing yourself out of fear getting arrested in Vietnam getting arrested in Africa almost getting arrested in Mexico City but bribing the police and running away getting an erection during a massage getting a happy ending during a massage getting an erection during a massage and having the masseuse take out a tiny chilled spoon from a refrigerator and gently lay it over said erection and say “this should help” reaching down to reposition one’s junk during a massage and having the therapist jump back and shout “hands up!” getting banned from a massage parlor discovering one has two vaginas getting drunk and trying to walk through a McDonald’s drive-thru getting drunk and vomiting in someone’s vagina getting drunk and vomiting on someone’s penis getting drunk and using someone’s towel to wipe oneself then throwing it out the window to “hide” the evidence getting drunk and telling your father if he ever contacts you again you’ll call the police getting drunk and going up to Bradley Cooper at a restaurant and saying “Did we go to college together?”
Rogers, but imagination isn’t everything. (By “most people” I mean “men I’ve gone on Bumble dates with.”) But what’s maybe not entirely apparent is that working on a TV show requires literally giving your life-or at least intimate, sometimes excruciating, details of it that you may not even share with your spouse, friends, or therapist. Most people also think they could probably do it if someone would just let them. Most people I’ve met seem to think it means getting paid a lot of money to sit around a table and tell jokes all day, which is…not entirely untrue. On the surface, writing for a comedy television show seems pretty straightforward. (There are no fewer than eleven podcasts dedicated to unearthing the many mysteries of “the writer’s room.”) A fellow TV writer friend came home complaining about the travails of “the room” so often that her 7-year-old son asked his Catholic school if they could dedicate their morning prayer circle to his mom, who’s been “trapped in the room.” The teacher called home to make sure there wasn’t a Brie Larson thing going on. I write for TV, which by all accounts, including my own, is a very neat job, not to mention one subject to a lot of cult-ish fascination. And yet, at mine, it ended up coming in handy, pun very much intended.
(Obviously the other hand is occupied.) Not so much an appropriate story to share at 99 percent of workplaces out there. Balancing the phone on the back fingers, using the thumb and pointer to expand the photo? That’s some Simone Biles-level hand gymnastics. Specifically how I pinch-zoom on the 'grams to “cut out” distracting details-his wife, new baby, and rescue dog-and how this base act actually requires real dexterity. It was maybe four weeks into my most recent job when I started telling my newish coworkers, many of whose lower halves I had yet to meet (hat tip, pandemic), about how I masturbate to pictures of my ex-boyfriend on Instagram.