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as written by Aaron Sorkin, writer/producer of West Wing, Sports Night, A Few Good Men, Malice, The American President, and other quality entertainment INT. STUDIO on set for West Wing GIRLFRIEND: Aaron. AARON pores over shooting script, ignoring GIRLFRIEND and pacing. GIRLFRIEND: Aaron! (pause) Aaron, we have to talk. AARON, without looking up: I know. GIRLFRIEND: It's getting out of hand. AARON: I know. GIRLFRIEND: You can't just make people angry and say, "I know," as if that makes it all better. AARON: Seems to work for my characters. GIRLFRIEND: Huh. Well tell me if any of your characters have any decent relationships. Because aside from a few fuzzy scenes, it looks to me like most of the people on your shows are single. And that's what you're about to be. AARON, walking away as she follows: I'm going to be single. Honey, I've got five scenes left to edit and then a story meeting. Please. Later, huh? [to director] I think in this scene Rob should be doing something as he talks. DIRECTOR: Hey, I thought the director blocked the scenes. AARON: No. That plant blocks the scenes and needs to be moved so Rob can walk around more. Kapiche? (continues pacing) GIRLFRIEND: You're not listening to me at all, are you. Just like John Gray says. AARON: Does John Gray have to produce blubbering tears and laughter on two weekly shows, using as few words as possible? Didn't think so. [to assistant] Julie, where the hell is Sheen? We're rolling in five. [to girlfriend] And since when do you read that crap? JULIE: Dee Dee Myers is on the phone for you. AARON: I thought we told her we don't need another consultant. JULIE: We did. AARON: Jesus. GIRLFRIEND: I'm not sure how much more of this I can take, Aaron. This is ripping me up inside. AARON: I know. GIRLFRIEND: You're not listening. AARON: I'll listen, I promise. As soon as I have time. And then you can convert me from my lonely Martian manhood. (pauses) Hmm. (taking out pen and paper) Might use this. GIRLFRIEND: I'm fed up and can't take it anymore. AARON: You're fed up. GIRLFRIEND: Yes, I am. AARON: And you can't take it anymore. GIRLFRIEND: Stop repeating the things I say. AARON: Works for my characters. (to assistant). Julie. Sheen? JULIE: He's in makeup. AARON: Powder him up and get him out. And get rid of Dee Dee. We know more about the goddamn White House than she did when she was in it. JULIE: But-- GIRLFRIEND: To hell with your characters! AARON: My characters need me. Do you expect me to fail millions of viewers because you're having a Maalox moment? When you turn on the TV, my dear, you need me. GIRLFRIEND: It's not like this is the real White House, Aaron. You can take a break. There is such a thing as reality and responsibility and truth. You're getting a God complex. AARON: YOU CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH! Now you "listen" to me. You think you know something about reality, out there on Mars and Venus? You have any idea what it takes to get a script made into a blockbuster movie, to turn out two tastemaking shows a week and still have spare time to shmooze? When execs pray to God their ratings meet advertising estimates and their primetime sched doesn't tank, when theaters pray they can get just enough moviegoers to earn that $.50 popcorn increase, who do you think they're praying to? Now you go ahead and read your John Gray and live in your "reality," and with any luck you might get Al Gore for a president and catch a nice lawyer for yourself. But God is in a place where Martin Sheen is commander-in-chief, Tom Cruise is tall enough to be enlisted, the ladies are sassy, and the scripts need some pepper. Let me tell you something: I am God, and this sideshow is over. GIRLFRIEND: Where did that music come from?
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