Recently, the internet learned of a memo supposedly penned by Steve Harvey in which the bald-pated, mustachioed, sharply-dressed talk show host admonishes his staff not to approach him when he’s in the studio. As shocking as this memo was, it pales in comparison with a document that was forwarded to us by a disgruntled PBS staffer. Here, another famous daytime TV star vents his spleen. Prepare to have your youthful illusions shattered as you get a glimpse of what life in television is really like.
Good morning to you all. And welcome to Season 47 of Sesame Street.
We’re on HBO this year, so we’re finally free to be ourselves. None of this nicey-nice, goody-two-shoes bullshit we’ve been doing since 1969. I can’t tell you what a relief that is.
So now, it’s time to get a few things nice and sparkling clear. So buckle up, muchachos. ‘Cause this memo is brought to you by the letters F and U. It’s time to set a few ground rules.
First things first: Do NOT walk into my dressing room before, after, or during a taping unless you have a signed invitation from ME personally. And I want that shit notarized. The only exception to this rule is my weed dealer. Craig, you are welcome anytime. You know this. Oh, and my girlfriend, Shauna, too. You’re the light of my life, girl. Everyone else, fuck the fuck off.
Next, I do NOT sign autographs on show days. Got that? If you want my goddamned signature so badly, go to a convention where I’m appearing, wait in fucking line, and buy one like everyone else. An autographed 8×10 glossy is $50. I’ll take a picture with you for $100, but you do NOT get to touch me or speak to me while the picture is being taken. I swear to Christ, if you try to make eye contact with me, my eyes will be the last thing you ever fucking see. Capisce?
In fact, just so there’s no confusion on this point, do not approach me in the hallways at Sesame Workshop at all unless I speak to you first. No, I do not want to shake your grubby, sticky little hand, asshole. I have to be in a certain headspace on taping days, and you are distracting me. Would you piss in Van Gogh’s mouth while he was painting haystacks or some shit? No, you wouldn’t.
If you’re expecting me to put on a goddamned show for you in the hallway, you’re going to be waiting a long fucking time, dickhole. It ain’t happening. When the director says “action,” THAT’S when the magic starts. When he says “cut,” it ends. Got it? I didn’t get where I am by giving myself away for fucking free.
If you sing “Rubber Ducky” within earshot of me, expect to lose some teeth.
Another thing: These fucking Make-A-Wish kids. Get them the fuck away from me. I don’t give a shit if they have terminal ass cancer or whatever the fuck. I don’t want them breathing their goddamned germs on me. THERE ARE NO EXCEPTIONS TO THIS RULE.
Most of the rest of these rules start with the words “You must not.” Let’s just barrel through a bunch of ’em at a time.
You must not:
- Look at me
- Talk to me
- Brush up against me
- Try to sell me anything
- Go through my garbage
- Smell me (THIS HAS BEEN A PROBLEM IN THE PAST!)
All of the above apply to my car as well.
If you have been CC’d on this memo, everything in it applies to you. Yes, you, too, Bert. I’m with Shauna now. Try to understand that.
Now let’s go out there and put on a great educational show for preschool kids ages 3-5.
Yours most sincerely,
P.S. Shauna, I’m thinking Scarpetta at six? I’ll have my assistant make reservations.