Mr. Big strode from the front door of his Bel Air estate wearing the new silk suit his First Assistant (the one who liked reverse cowgirl) had picked out for him at Barney’s. He loved the suit for the way it clung to his body and made his dick look really large.
Running a profitable multi-national Hollywood studio and network conglomerate was, of course, rewarding. But having people think you had all that PLUS a big dick was undeniably better.
The Chauffeur respectfully lowered his gaze as he opened the limo door. Mr. Big enjoyed how the little people instinctively knew not to make eye contact with him as he slid his silk suited rich-as-fuck ass over the soft leather of the limo’s interior.
The morning ride to work was one of the better parts of his day. Closeted from the world, the retinal screen tuned to Bloomberg, he could track the performance of his stock options and consider all the new things he might buy.
One time, due partially to a sig alert on the 5, his net worth increased enough during the drive to justify the purchase of a new Maserati. A couple more fender benders and he would have been able to order up a McLaren.
But the screen today wasn’t showing charts and graphs. It was taken up by a white woman named Rachel insisting she had the right to “identify” as Black, genetics and personal history notwithstanding.
How the hell, he wondered, if this kind of thing caught on, was the music division supposed to sell hip hop CDs with videos showcasing Black Gangstas partying with White Ho’s if ghetto kids weren’t sure if the Ho’s were really White anymore?
The woman annoyed Mr. Big, reminding him of all those activist groups and guild committees who besieged him on a quarterly basis to insist he wasn’t hiring enough people of color to direct his films or protest the lack of diversity in his writers rooms.
He snapped off the display and turned to the stack of scripts and reading material dutifully laid out for him on a daily basis by Assistant Number Two, despite the obvious reality that his car always returned to the studio without anything ever being read.
If that ridiculous woman turned down one more invitation for a weekend in Cabo, she was done.
To further suggest her imminent demise, atop the pile sat the latest issue of “Vanity Fair” and its Bruce Jenner “Call Me Caitlyn” cover. Bruce Jenner disgusted Mr. Big.
It wasn’t just that he’d grown up eating Wheaties and cheering on the man’s Olympic feats. It wasn’t that he’d passed on the Kardashian show because he didn’t think it had legs. It wasn’t even because Bruce was insisting he could still keep his Penis and date starlets.
Caitlyn reminded him of all those Diesel Dykes who disrupted his panels at ComiCon demanding he hire more female directors and that his writers rooms reflect a gender balance.
He was tempted to tell them he hired on the basis of talent, but nobody in town would believe that. Certainly not the agents and other studio heads who knew who really needed to be placated to get a picture made these days –- and it wasn’t just Stan Lee.
He had briefly considered saying he’d given all the jobs to members of the LGBT Community whose privacy rights would be violated if he out-ed them. But anybody who ventured into the stained sweat shirt and scuffed Nike world of any writers room would know that was a lie.
He’d long ago learned that unless he wanted to be the next Donald Sterling, one needed to speak in vague platitudes when it came to issues of race and gender, insisting there was progress and that it was really the audience and not him who determined the voices they wanted to hear.
Although it had got him thinking seriously about hiring a hot Asian chick as his Third Assistant. That might quiet some of the rabble AND make some friends in the Chinese Financial sector.
He searched around for a pen and paper to make a note, finding the previous day’s lengthy list of un-returned calls. It included that over-the-hill director who’d bitched to Variety about “Age-ism” and the two writing team clowns who maintained that two writers meant negotiating two separate writing fees.
They’d all been in to see him with a pitch so high concept it was in the Stratosphere. He’d loved the idea. But getting through a first draft before he could fire those three yahoos would truly define development hell.
The cost of overpaying the typing twins was irksome enough, cutting into the money he had left to pay the next 18 guys who’d be brought in to make it better.
More than that, he’d have to put up with Gandalf telling him how Peckinpah or some asshole named Ford would’ve shot it –- along with a diatribe on how Comic books were ruining “The Cinema”.
The world was full of entitled morons.
But what if…
The standard mantra of the producing class repeated itself subconsciously as THE IDEA came in a brilliantly creative wave.
But what if –- the old fart would be willing to identify as a woman.
This was clearly his last hurrah and when push came to shove no self-respecting director would allow one last possessory credit slip through his fingers.
The typing twins could likewise identify as Gay or Black or both. Who would dare argue with them? And anyone who did would no longer be welcome at Morton’s.
With one brief news release he could go from being the most reviled executive in Hollywood to a champion of diversity. There would be humanitarian awards. Dinners in his honor. Sean Penn would finally return his calls.
His mind reeled at the possibilities. Anybody who wanted their picture green-lit or their series renewed would be called upon to identify as whatever he needed to keep running the place the way he always had.
He couldn’t believe his brilliance. Well, of course he could. Everybody knew he was the best (insert skill here) man in the business. He sank back into the leather seat and smiled, silently blessing Rachel and Caitlyn.
It was good to be on top again.
And just as good to be on the bottom for a few minutes before lunch if that First Assistant wanted to work on her “Yippee-Ki-Yay” after the announcement went out.