I expected it to be difficult for me to choose sides in the Writers Guild strike.
On the one hand, the writers should be entitled to some compensation for digital replaying of their shows. (For some time while I was on the run from the United States Military, traveling through the destroyed and despoiled wastelands these once-beautiful landscapes have become, I was only able to watch The Office on iTunes, and it horrifies me to think that I was engaging in intellectual property theft.)
On the other hand, the studios that the writers are striking against are comprised almost entirely of Jews (and, in the case of the few non-Jews left in Hollywood, Zionist atheist Jew-lackeys), And the writers are all homosexuals or the sort of tedious women who enjoy cavorting with homosexuals.
Ultimately, I decided that I hate the Jews more than the Gays, so I offer this advice to the striking writers:
Perhaps you should consider each strapping between 10 and 20 pounds of homemade pipe bombs to a vest beneath your clothing. Then, split up between public buses, pizza places, and nightclubs in the Los Angeles area, and arbitrarily blow yourselves up. This strategy, while not as relaxing as strolling in circles holding witty signs, guarantees one of two outcomes:
- Success! The studios cave, fearing your campaign of terror.
- Failure! The United States government calls Israel for advice, elects to spend the next quarter-century engaging in well-meaning but useless peace talks with you; roughly one of you blows himself up a week over that span, and no one rides the buses anymore.
It is your choice, writers, but know that if I miss a single episode of Season 4 of Lost because of this, my mujahideen will resolve this dispute with the swift and merciless wrath of Allah.