'Twas the night before Christmas,
When all through the production company,
Not a creature was stirring:
except for the development execs who hadn't gone home yet;
The stockings were hung by the script breakdowns with care,
in hopes that supplemental financing would soon be there;
The artists were all nestled all snug in their beds,
while visions of ancillary marketing danced in their heads;
And rappers who composed the title song; in their 'kerchief,
and I in my cap, had just settled down for a family moment,
with my smart phone, tablet and I'll be there in a minute I have to take this -- !
When out on the internet there arose such a viral,
That I sprung from my arrogant yearly Christmas letter writing,
to see this million hit rival.
Away to my Microsoft Windows I flew like a flash,
Tore open the virus protection and threw up the history erasing software.
The moon on the breast of our newly hired leading lady,
Gave the luster of scandal in her sex tape just uploaded.
When, outside to my wondering eyes came before us,
Yes! A miniature foreign sales sleigh and eight tiny lawyers;
With a little old driver; so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Slick!
More rapid than Disney childhood stars spiraling into dysfunction they came,
And he texted, and blue toothed, and called them by name:
"Now Leopold! Now, Loeb! Now, Bialystock and Bloom! On, Ponzi! On Pyramid! On, Bit Coin and Ruin!"
To the top of what's trending, I know the web's call,
I'll make production delays dash away, dash away, dash away all!"
As paparazzi before the wild celebrity fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, sue said celebrities for bodily injury and harm,
So up to the house-top the lawyers they flew,
With the sleigh full of principle photography start dates, and St. Slick too.
And then, on my video security system I saw on the roof,
The prancing and pawing of each little dress shoe.
As I alerted my team pre-production might start,
Down the chimney St. Slick came to see our conceptual art.
He was dressed all in fur; from his head to his foot,
But P.E.T.A. had tarnished his clothes with red paint and soot!
A bundle of private funding he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a mere screenwriter opening his back pack.
His eyes -- how they twinkled! His dimples, how surgically perfect!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry! And he had two years sober.
His droll little mouth shook off box office woes,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the net profit page of any studio feature we know;
The stump of his pipe he held tight in his teeth,
but it wasn't lit because of CA's landmark statewide smoke free workplace, outdoor public spaces, parks, beaches and shopping districts law.
But the smoke I imagined could have encircled his head like some Sheik;
He had a broad face and six pack abs from his palates class belly,
That rippled, when he laughed, like America's proud flag.
Oops, Fox News hijacked that line.
He was commanding and svelte, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of my selfie;
A wink of his eye, as our .pdf script back log he read,
Soon gave me to know I might receive production deal bread;
He spoke not a word, but extensive note taking commenced,
And he filled all the stockings; with Pay or Plays as pretense,
And laying his finger on the top script he'd chose,
And dropping an option fee, up the chimney he rose;
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team face-timed and Skyped,
and away they all flew like meta data mined by NSA types.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
"Your project's a go! If you cast it just right!"