DON'T HONK IF YOU HATE WRITERS!

Today, I did the unthinkable. With the best of intentions, to show my solidarity with the thousands of unemployed scribes here in Hollywood, I infiltrated the WGA's Writer's Strike. But only for half an hour. That's all I could take.

There I was, at the front entrance gate of one of the major television studios, marching alongside a bunch of twenty-somethings who don't know dick about shit. Yes, there were a handful of gung-ho over-fifties who seemed invigorated by this ordeal, thrilled to be duking it out with Goliath. These righteous elderfolk with their heated passion and unsinkable vitality should have been an inspiration to their younger counterparts, the latte-drinking mopers in expensive ratty clothes. Did these cool whippersnappers take the opportunity to co-mingle with the older-but-wisers? Of course not. Just as most children who go to public school today tend to have no respect for their instructors, these dumbass know-it-all kiddies missed a great opportunity to learn from the "out of touch" Methuselahs, choosing instead to pitch their latest works of genius to each other. It was all too surreal. A couple Comedy Central writers refused to pitch any good ideas, but they spoke endlessly about, well... being Comedy Central writers. Shameless self-plugging, networking by the not-working. They were kind of funny, actually. You know, like Jerry Lewis is funny when he's serious. I mean, for me to know that these guys were Comedy Central writers within five minutes of picketing with them speaks volumes. You gotta hand it to 'em, though. They've got to keep it up for four hours a day. Mind you, verbal viagra hasn't even been invented yet.

Ah yes, then there were the brooding loners, in their own heads, silently pitching their own works of genius... to themselves. I even wanted to tell them to shut up. I kept moving to different parts of the picket line, hoping to escape the sounds of the mono-syllabic word-slingers and their kindergarten logic.

Finally, I met a very interesting lady. She was the lone African-American woman in the crowd. Side by side, with our picket signs held high, we walked and talked. She was by far the most down-to-earth person in the group - talkative, but not obnoxious. Charming and cute. Funny, but not phony. Wouldn't you know it, she turned out to be an actress, a SAG member just showing support for a worthy cause.

I am not rescinding my invitation to striking writers. Criticide needs Critissassins. The offer still stands, but now there's a qualifier: TO JOIN US, YOU MUST BE AT LEAST FORTY YEARS OF AGE. If you're younger than that, you know what an internet is. Congratulations. Now leave the writing to people with experience, wisdom, and genuine self-loathing.