A Conversation for John Esmonde and Bob Larbey - Comedy Writers

Normally I write novels-but I got a rejection letter from Paramount. Does that count?

Post 1


Dear Sirs:

A screenplay I sent in cold entitled "Metalsport" went up at least three of Paramount's "reader rungs." Then my beloved rejection letter came. It certainly was no form letter, so I bronzed it and had it framed. They loved the story in 1992, but said the special effects would be too expensive. It's your standard "Jaws meets Rambo on the ocean floor, get rich and go off in a spaceship" kind of story. After seeing iRobot’s inexpensive computer effects, I am revamping it.

But forget that. My latest novel entitled “Blowgun” is really going to fly. See my bio for a fuller sample. This book is beyond disturbing--a psycho murder novel with a science idiot-savant nutcase who even hates porpoises AND trees. Deplorable. But he likes Druids and Stonehenge.

This book slams EVERYONE with savage “is it or not?” un-satire. Warning: the UK too (but at least the American character knows all about UK history etc.) and, yes about fifty other groups while he is at it. Please take no offense. Everyone is included. And, yes, I guarantee you it is the most bizarre and weirdly funny thing you have ever read--it’s just “eat up with craziness and all,” and if you don’t like it, “well, that’s your tale, I sit on mine.” Anyway, you can take it. Maybe. I would love anyone’s opinion on it. My email is public.

READY? For example, here’s a part that counter-intuitively includes Southern England and whatnot:


“Here ya go, Bob. Ice?”

Bob could have said “gimmie the f.... gin and let me get out of your stinking house,” and Ira would have still been his best friend.

He politely took the full quart bottle from Ira’s hand and poured the whole bottle into the crappy cup.

Kindly, he said only, “Uh, no thanks. It’s weird Ira: but I actually like warm gin. (You microencephaloid.) Some people kid me and say I am a pain freak. But of course they’re nuts but not me!”

Ira was so happy. “I know dat’s right. Anything you say, Bob. You golf? Hey! We could go golfing together. Maybe tomorrow? It’s on me. Plus beer at the clubhouse! Yeah. How ‘bout it? I’ll pay for everything!”

Bob turned his head a little and sniffed haughtily, then he washed his horse-killing Oxycontin pain pill down with all the gin in the 32 oz. plastic 7-11 cup in one long draw and put it down. Yes. The whole f...... quart! Ira’s eyes popped out.

Now Bob was so happy. In exactly three minutes the shakes would cease and the sweats would start.

Ira continued revoltingly.

“Bob. Maybe we could go to Bible Study together! What ministering do you take to?”

Bob could barely keep from laughing just like Harvey Corman scrawling up a live skit. He solemnly cast his regal gaze upon the Ira-gerbil before him and said it better than a Greek oracle could have, “Why, I am a Druid. And what of you?”

“Dee-ruid? Never heard tell of that. What ya’ll do? It ain’t playing and feeling of snakes or drinking strychnine is it? Shoot. My sister does that.”

“I love snake-handling too but mine’s even better...”
“So, what are you Bob?”
“A Druid. We hum at the moon on the henge.”
“Say what?”
“Stonehenge on the Salisbury plain.”
“Come again?”
“The round stone thing near the River Avon near Amesbury, England.”
“Oh! That. Yeah, yeah. I figured that.” Ira was so smart.
“Well most people think we are just a bunch of freaks wearing bathrobes moaning at the moon.”

Bob’s L.A. accent was coming up to speed.

He his mind raced. Finally, no more craziness. My mood is perfect and my inner-scales with their fluid base are in contact with Counter Earth behind the Sun. I will kill all those damn chiropractor quacks. The AMA says, and I quote, “... there is absolutely no basis in scientific fact for any of their claims.” And I’ll have to add that repulsive carpetbagging, carpet-munching Hillary Clinton. Gee whiz. It truly is a dog-eat-dog world. Just ask that liar and one of her friends when they’re sixty-nine-ing.

“Heah. Bob. Maybe we could go to your church together. I love Salisbury Steak. Even plain!”

“That’s great, Ira. Really, I’m not schmoozing you. You’re one of the smartest guys I’ve met in Alabama.”

Trying to be nice, Bob thought for a moment.
What a “maroon.” The best part of him definitely oozed down his mama’s leg.

If Bob had a chink in his soulless armor, it was booze. And Oxycontin pills. He just couldn’t get enough liquor and hillbilly heroin. One oxycontim was equivalent to, get this, eighteen Percosets, those super strong pain pills whores took when the were falsely, and it was always falsely, claiming PMS.

Luckily, he could drink a quart of Sapphire and most people wouldn’t have had a clue. And he could still fly an airplane.

Exactly like perpetual motion.

After millenniums of effort, all humanity on Regular Earth still didn’t know the secret of perpetual motion. But he had it going in his basement right now. It was better than cold fusion and trillions and billions of Carl Sagans put together.

Ah. Bob was feeling better already. When he turned his three-minute, Sapphire-flushed, cobalt-blue, sweaty face back towards Ira, he grabbed him in a headlock and jabbed the silver pistol barrel into Ira’s temple. No matter. Ira’s head maybe, and for sure his torso would rupture when it smacked the surface of the Gulf of Mexico after a free fall of at least three hundred feet. And this time it wouldn't be "out de doe" of his Cessna 182.

Ira’s skinny throat could barely emit a screech. “Hey. Hey! Bob! Christ, what are you doing Bob? Man I was just telling you about golf and my Southern Baptist church!”

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Normally I write novels-but I got a rejection letter from Paramount. Does that count?

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