The Writer's Cut

by Eric Idle

  “Hello, Stanley,” she says. “I have a little present for you.”

  I’m confused for a second but she seems very determined.

  “It’s outside,” she says provocatively. “Come with me, Sailor.”

  I’m dressed in some kind of naval costume. She smiles and puts her tongue in her cheek in an unmistakable signal. I feel my balls tighten and the breath leave my body as her hand brushes my pants.

  “Don’t keep a girl waiting,” she says. “I want you to come with me.”

  I’m beyond considering where her boyfriend is as she leads me outside. I’m overcome with lust and push her roughly against a wall and kiss her.

  “Not here,” she says, and leads me by my cock into a small clearing in the centre of her spacious yard. I can hear the party sounds from far away as she carefully kneels in front of me, unzips me and lowers her mouth on to me.

  Oh my God.

  She is fantastic. If there were Academy Awards for fellatio, and perhaps there ought to be, she would be a shoo-in.

  I lean back and stretch out my arms to the Milky Way wheeling above. She works on me professionally, looking up at me and occasionally stopping to smile encouragingly.

  “Oh yes,” she says. “Come in my mouth. I love it.”

  I felt that I would never stop.

  “Thank you, Stanley,” she says, wiping her lips with her tongue. “I enjoyed that.”

  I can’t speak. I return dazed to the party.

  Later, I discovered she had a window overlooking the garden, filled with selected friends, watching her. She had been playing to a crowd. All the time she was busy on me she was performing, enjoying the eyes of the unseen watchers, as she knelt and handled and mouthed me into orgasm.

  I found this knowledge exciting. Who were these watchers? Did they take it in turns to take someone into the garden? Did it excite them to see me, arms stretched wide to the stars as I climaxed in her mouth. Later, I would use this erotic memory to trigger orgasm.

  What do you think?

  Was it I used or did I use?

  She certainly inhaled. And it was her party. Ought I to give more clues to her name? It does seem a bit churlish. I had a good time after all. And I have promised Richard Hume I will kiss and sell. But I decide that this is clearly a moral problem. It should be left to the lawyers.

  I can do this, I thought. I’ll have this book finished in no time. But then I ignore my own advice. I answer the phone.

  It’s Richard Hume.

  “Am I interrupting?” he asks.

  “Actually yes, Mr. Porlock.”

  “Sorry, I thought you should know. There’s been a huge sales surge on Amazon and you just passed Deepak Chopra,” he said excitedly.

  This is apparently very significant. Martha Stewart is now in my sights. Pangloss are delirious. They have increased the initial print run to one million. The Bookstores have gone mad for me. The Writer’s Cut is a big hit. They are hanging huge scissors all over the stores. They are planning to stack me on tables. They are making their own Point of Sale displays and inviting people to order signed copies in advance. I have a monster Book Tour planned.

  “And then there’s the rest of the world,” says Richard Hume hungrily. “Maybe we should never get the text for books,” jokes Richard Hume. “They seem to sell a lot better.”

  Very funny, Richard. He was so happy for once he forgot to badger me for delivery.

  *

  Now that I am the spokesman for free speech I no longer have the time to exercise it. I’m too busy to write. My intentions are good, but I’m a hot new celebrity. The local news is all over me. They won’t leave me alone. I’m spooned up by the media. I am on 10, 9, 7, 4, MSNBC, Fox, E, and even VH-1, standing up for freedom. It’s kinda fun. People stop me and go “Hey it’s YOU. Oh. My. God.” Usually they think I’m someone else. In one week I’ve been mistaken for Matt Lauer, Scott Hamilton and Kevin Nealon. It’s a bit worrying. What’s going on? Does this happen to all celebrities? Is American TV-land just a mishmash of semi-recognizable faces jumbled up between the ads? Am I going to wish I could go back to being anonymous? Somebody insisted I was married to Jennifer Aniston, and when I said “Do I look like Brad Pitt?” they said “No need to be rude, Conan.”

  My freedom of speech issue has sparked intense local debate. The right to speak out freely exercises everyone in Hollywood. There is a banner, a poster, and flyers with an unforgettable image of my face being cut in half by a pair of scissors. Don’t let them cut what you can say is the slogan. Neat, eh?

  I am Mister Freedom. The poster boy for writers’ lib.

  My band-wagon is suddenly crowded with people clambering aboard. Every liberal cause junkie wants in. I’m inundated with offers from rock stars to donate a song for my appeal. Elizabeth Taylor calls. Michael Jackson’s people want in. Sting sympathizes. Paul McCartney sends a shirt. The list is endless.

  We are to have a Gala Fundraiser. It’s going to be at The Writers’ Guild. After I look at the guest list, I suggest we call it “Actors in need of Publicity” but no one finds this funny. The A list, the B list and the wanna-be list are all going to be lured to this event by the promise of a free lunch and the chance to talk to the cameras. Janey, my foul mouthed publicist, assures me they will come for this. She explains it to me like I’m a kid. Actually I am in these matters.

  “You’re the hottest thing since vagina,” is how she puts it.

  Did you know several Award Shows will give you an Award if you simply show up? I never knew that. I thought you had to earn something to win an award. I’m learning all the time. Already I look different. And it’s not just the fancy haircut Luke of Lucaro has given me. It’s like I had an inner makeover. I’m simply brimming with confidence. I begin to take it for granted that wherever I go someone’s gonna recognize me, even if it is as someone else. It’s cool. Like being popular in High School. Which I wasn’t.

  I’m limoed from one interview to the next, from one meeting to another, all across the Inland Empire and up into San Francisco. I address a rally at Berkley, where I receive an honorary degree, and a BJ from an economics major in a car park overlooking the Bay. She thanks me so much, after she vigorously pleasures me in the rental car, that I worry for her. Will her life be just an anti-climax after mine?

  Even Andy Rooney gets in on my act. He does a think piece on 60 Minutes.

  “It concerns me,” he says, “that a writer should be forced to alter his work because of an actor. Our job as authors is to tell the truth. If every two bit thespian in Hollywood can sue to prevent the truth coming out, where are we in our society?”

  The Actors’ Guild is outraged. They are furious with him. What he said denigrates actors. George Lucas stirs up the heat by stating publicly that actors are animals. NBC aren’t at all happy. There is a hint that the Actors Guild may boycott Leno. After a few days of stirring by the media Andy is forced to apologize.

  “I did not intend to denigrate actors, whom I respect,” he says sincerely, “and amongst whom I am proud to number myself.”

  George Lucas stands by his statement. No animals sue.

  But for me the damage is done. Borders orders another 40,000 books.

  *

  My Writers’ Guild Award makes it on the news. The Lunchtime Achievement Awards, held at the Beverly Hilton, is packed with writers in search of a free lunch. Salman Rushdie appears on video explaining the importance of freedom of speech, and honoring me. Too bad he didn’t send his dishy girlfriend. The Award is a naked glass woman throwing her arms backwards, either in ecstasy, or in basketball. The citation is in Latin. A wag translates it as “First Do Some Harm.” I get laughs in my acceptance speech by thanking God, who can’t be with us today as he is working on a new book, and translating the Latin as “Biting the hand that feeds you.” The committee is not amused. But the audience loves me and I look very cute in my new Armani tux. Several huge names hug me for the photographers backstage. Janey smiles at me and puts her
tongue into her cheek.

  I think I am becoming a God.

  So famous am I now that an LAPD traffic cop actually rips up a ticket when he sees it’s me who did the U-turn on Ventura. He asks for an autograph and gives me a high five. What’s happening to me? Playboy names me Man of the Month and shoots me holding my cover, sitting on the bare backside of Miss October. The Board of Jews honor me with their Honorable Goy Award. Victoria’s Secret even want me to do an ad. I’m to be seen on a beach with some swimsuit models. Something about inner freedom. Richard Hume is ecstatic. This is the ultimate exposure for a Beach Book. I am bouncing between Greta van Susteren on CNN and Arianna Huffington, and Warren Olnay and Which Way LA. I am a public figure. I am recognized and applauded wherever I go. I get tables at Morton’s, young actresses want to touch me. All America, it seems, agrees that such blatantly powerful and manipulative censorship is shameful, downright anti-American and ought to be defeated in Court.

  Ah yes, in Court.

  10

  I’m in Book Soup and I’m naked and I’m running through the shelves pursued by Joan Collins who is throwing books at me, and I’m screaming “Don’t kill me, don’t kill me Joanie.” There are books all over the floor and I keep tripping over them, and hands are reaching out from between the shelves trying to grab me, and Joan is closing in on me and I run round a corner and come face to face with Jackie Collins, who screams “You’re not a real writer!” And I turn to face a giant wall of books, like a waterfall threatening to fall on me, and there is no way out. I’m completely trapped and I’m filled with terror and there is a tremendous banging, a pounding sound and I wake up, sweating, realizing someone is yelling outside my door.

  “It’s the Law,” someone is shouting. “Open up!” And I think Oh my god I’m being busted. Still only half awake I stumble to the door and open it to find three men in suits.

  “Who the fuck are you?” I say.

  It’s ten in the morning and I’m still shaking from my recurring Book Soup nightmare.

  One of them reaches into a briefcase and I think Oh my god they are going to shoot me. I say, redundantly, and in great panic “You’re not cops!” and try and slam the door, but he has his foot inside and my heart is pounding so fast it takes my ears a minute to catch up to what he’s saying.

  “We are your lawyers,” he says.

  “What?”

  “We are your lawyers, schmuck,” says the pale one to the right of him. “And you’d better talk to us right now if you want to keep your skinny white ass out of jail.”

  Wow, that’s a lawyer talking.

  “I’m Jed Olsen. We’re from Holstein, Olsen, Garment and Mann and if you don’t wish to spend the rest of the decade being butt fucked in San Pedro you’d better listen up.”

  Nice talk.

  We go into my room. Olsen shakes his head and says “Jesus, this is where you live?”

  He pulls out a thick file of clippings.

  “First of all, let’s get one thing clear: there are no injunctions, are there?”

  I swallow hard. Even I can tell lying to lawyers is redundant.

  “No.”

  “It’s all bullshit isn’t it?”

  I nod.

  “You made up this whole thing, right?”

  “Yes.”

  They all take a good look at me.

  “So what’s the problem?” I say.

  “What’s the problem? Tell him, Jed.”

  “What the problem is,’ says Jed, ‘is that you have violated about eight state laws and perhaps seventeen federal laws.”

  “Do you realize you are looking at jail time?” says Olsen.

  Now they really have my attention.

  “It was just a joke,” I say lamely, but my heart goes bam in my chest and I’m instantly terrified. It’s the word jail.

  “You think it’s a joke? You think we’d come down here to haul your sorry ass out of bed so we can enjoy the sight of you with your dick sticking out of your pajamas instead of sitting in our smart offices earning five per cent of your income? This is fraud, buster.”

  I think he must get his dialogue from cheap detective novels, but I don’t say so. I am too busy working out what five per cent of my income amounts to.

  “There is only one law,” says Holstein. “And that is Don’t fuck with the law. Otherwise you are in deep shit. Todd, read him what he has done.”

  “He has defrauded and mislead, variously and severally, by contract both implicit and explicit with intent to fraudulently deceive, blah blah blah, contrary to section A, yatter yatter yatter …” I’m lost. But it sounds bad. Worse, it sounds expensive.

  “If you want my professional opinion, you are in deep doo-doo,” says Holstein.

  “Is that a legal term?” I ask.

  He ignores me.

  “Pangloss can sue you, their new parent company can sue you, Paramount can sue you, your agents can sue you and perhaps even we can sue you.”

  They love that.

  My lawyers suing me.

  They think my whole case is hilarious.

  Olsen outlines my legal options. They are not good, but by far and away the scariest is that I can to go to jail. I’m a writer and a paranoid, and I’m frankly scared to death.

  “Why the fuck did you make up this crap?”

  “I needed time.”

  “You may get more time than you bargained for,” says Jed.

  They think that’s a hoot.

  “Where is this piece of shit anyway?” says Holstein, looking round my tiny room.

  He’s talking about my novel.

  “It’s on my computer.”

  “Is it finished?”

  “Yes.”

  I lie from habit. Why? I don’t know. What’s wrong with me?

  “So you can deliver?”

  “No problem.”

  Question me. Doubt me. Please. You’re my lawyers. Don’t take my word for it. Say “Isn’t it a well-known fact that you are a total bullshitter and you haven’t written jack shit?”

  But no. They believe me.

  “So, gentlemen, what do we do to save our client from the clutches of our penal system, and make ourselves a lot of money?” says Holstein.

  “Can we counter sue?”

  “Can we counter sue people who haven’t even sued us? I don’t think so.”

  Holstein laughs. He finds this thought very amusing. It’s surreal. They discuss me as though I’m not in the room.

  “The trouble is, this jerk – excuse me, our client – has been on national TV screaming his head off about everyone infringing his freedom of speech. It’s only by a miracle that our media is so damn lazy no one’s yet bothered to check up where these complaints have been filed. But it’s only a matter of time. Do you think Court TV won’t notice there is no Court?”

  I say nothing. I’m a screenwriter. I don’t deal with reality.

  “Supreme Court?”

  “Risky. They don’t like free speech issues.”

  “We can’t appeal a case to the Supreme Court when there isn’t a case in the first place,” says Jed.

  “How about we file an injunction?”

  “Against who?”

  “What if we capitulate?”

  “That’s good.”

  “We settle out of court. Amicable settlement, announce an agreement has been reached. We agree to whatever, in return they agree to drop the case.”

  “That works for me.”

  “Sounds good. Providing no one checks the records.”

  “Why should they?”

  “Why indeed? And if they do they sure as hell won’t find anything.”

  They think this is a pretty Solomonic solution.

  “Well guys,” says Olsen. “We did it again. Cigar time.”

  “Lunch?”

  “Who’s paying?”

  “Oh, no question. He is.”

  They laugh at me affectionately.

  We’re settling a non-existent lawsuit over the
right to publish a non-existent book.

  And I’m paying.

  11

  Variety reports the settlement next day under the heading Settlement. There is a brief paragraph, a short statement from Holstein, Olsen, Garment and Mann, announcing that the “various actors” involved in the lawsuit have agreed to drop all claims against the author, Stanley Hay, a Los Angeles based writer, for certain unnamed allegations mentioned in his book The Writer’s Cut, and have been reassured, that in exchange for certain undertakings to which the author has voluntarily agreed, including a reassurance that he will not expose their private lives in any way, and in return for a large gift to an unnamed charity on Mr. Hay’s part, an amicable agreement, satisfactory to both sides, has been reached, and the lawsuits dropped.

  “No harm, no foul,” says Ebert Holstein, the leading attorney.

  The gift to charity is Olsen’s idea. I worry that it makes me look guilty. It implies I have done something wrong. But in the end, I decide it is a good thing. I appear charitable. And since the charity is unnamed and therefore unpaid I sit back, contented, basking in the warm glow of my generosity. I have donated nothing to no one, and yet here I am outed in the trades as a philanthropist. Will no good deed go unpunished?

  I’m feeling smugly confident, and wonderfully relieved. I think it’s all been rather brilliantly taken care of. Things are going well for a change. Life is on the up and up.

  Bullshit.

  The roof falls in.

  Events get totally out of control.

  God, that French farceur up there, with a malicious sense of humor, steps in.

  Marvin Lutwig rejects the settlement.

  Even now just writing that sentence makes me wild. The sheer gall, the fucking nerve of the guy. The balls of this egomaniacal sociopath to thrust himself into the middle of a totally fictitious lawsuit and fuck up an imaginary settlement.