by Tina Fey
When I first set out to ruin SNL, I didn’t think anyone would notice, but I persevered because—like you trying to do a nine-piece jigsaw puzzle—it was a labor of love.
I’m not one to toot my own horn, but I feel safe with you, jerkstore, so I’ll say it. Everything you ever hated on SNL was by me, and anything you ever liked was by someone else who did it against my will.
Sincerely,
Tina Fey
P.S. You know who does have a funny bone in her body? Your mom every night for a dollar.
From a bodybuilding forum
Posted by SmarterChild, on 2/24/2008, 2:10 P.M.
“I’d stick it in her tail pipe.”
Dear SmarterChild,
Thank you so much for your interest. Whether you meant it in a sexual way or merely as an act of aggression, I am grateful. As a “woman of a certain age” in this business, I feel incredibly lucky to still be “catching your eye” “with my anus.” You keep me relevant!
Sincerely,
Ms. T. Fey
From tmz.com
Posted by Kevin 214 on 11/9/08, 11:38 A.M.
“Tina Fey CHEATED!!!!!! Anyone who has ever seen an old picture of her can see she has had 100% plastic surgery. Her whole face is different. She was ugly then and she is ugly now. She only wished she could ever be as beautiful as Sarah Palin.”
Dear Kevin 214,
What can I say? You have an amazing eye. I guess I got caught up in the whole Hollywood thing. I thought I could change a hundred percent of my facial features and as long as I stayed ugly, no one would notice. How foolish I was.
So let’s wipe the slate clean. Full disclosure, here is a list of the procedures I’ve had done. Eye browning, nose lengthening, I get my teeth lightly henna-ed each month to give them their amber luster. I’ve had my lips thinned, and I’ve had a treatment called Grimmáge where two fishing wires are run through my jawline and used to gather the skin until it looks like a fancy pillow.
I’ve had sebaceous implants (small balls of Restylane placed in random locations to give the appearance of youthful neck acne).
I don’t have Botox. Unfortunately I’m allergic. Instead I have monthly injections of Bromodialone, a farm-strength rat poison. This keeps my face in a constant state of irritation and paralysis, which of course is indistinguishable from sexual excitement. My face is longer and thinner than it was twenty years ago, and while some might say that is a natural effect of weight loss and aging, you and I know the truth—I pay a woman to sit on the side of my head twice a week. Madonna and Gwyneth go to her, and we’ve all had amazing results. Ugh, listen to me, I really have changed! Why did I feel the need to name-drop the fact that I’m friends with Madonna Vickerson and Gwyneth Chung?
Since you’re so savvy at spotting plastic surgery, I’m sure you’ve noticed some of my other famous friends who have “had work done.” Bishop Desmond Tutu… cheek implants. Supreme Court Judge Ruth Bader Ginsburg? Major tit job. And SpongeBob SquarePants, gender reassignment.
Keep on helpin’ me “keep it real,”
T
30 Rock: An Experiment to Confuse Your Grandparents
If you had told me when I was a kid that I would grow up to sit through the annual NBC
Employee Sexual Harassment Seminar fourteen times, I would have said, “What’s ‘sexual harassment’?”
because Clarence Thomas didn’t invent that until the early nineties. But I would have been very excited to hear that I would spend a large chunk of my adult life working for the Peacock. I love working at NBC.
How could I not? I grew up watching Seinfeld, Johnny Carson, Late Night with David Letterman, and reruns of The Mothers-in-Law.
When I was in my eighth season at Saturday Night Live, it was time to figure out what the next phase of my life would be. SNL is like high school, but at least in high school they tell you when to graduate. It’s hard to push yourself out of the nest. Lorne suggested I make a “development deal” with NBC and try to come up with a sitcom. A development deal means they pay you while you’re thinking, which is a pretty great deal, unless you’re like me and you feel constant anxiety that you haven’t thought of anything yet. (My ability to turn good news into anxiety is rivaled only by my ability to turn anxiety into chin acne.) After a few months of getting money for nothing, I pitched NBC president of Primetime Development Kevin Reilly an idea about a cable news producer (me, presumably) who is forced to produce the show of a blowhard right-wing pundit (Alec Baldwin, if we could ever get him) to boost her network’s sagging ratings. Kevin Reilly said, “No, thank you.” All of a sudden this development deal thing didn’t seem so bad. If I could get turned down one or two more times, I could keep the development money but never have to make a show. But then I’d probably also never work again, and I have a very competitive and obedient nature, so… chin acne and rewrites.
Kevin Reilly suggested for my next idea that I write something closer to my life. “Why not write about what it’s like to work at SNL?” I was reluctant because it seemed self-indulgent to write about the show directly. I had really liked the cable news pitch because I liked the idea of writing Alec Baldwin as a powerful conservative, having him articulate passionately the opposite of everything he believed in real life. My husband, always more clearheaded about these things, suggested that I just keep Alec’s character the same. Then I started thinking that if it was a show business story, I could use Tracy Morgan, too. A triangle between me, Alec Baldwin, and Tracy Morgan felt like it had potential. These three characters would have completely different views about any topic that came up—race, gender, politics, workplace ethics, money, sex, women’s basketball—and they would agree and disagree in endless combinations.
By 2005 I had fleshed out the idea Kevin Reilly had requested. I would play the head writer of a late-night comedy show. Tracy Morgan would play a lunatic comedy star and Alec Baldwin would play my overbearing conservative boss. Well, it was written for Alec Baldwin, but none of us had the balls to talk to him about it yet.
I wrote what they call a “pilot,” which means you write the first episode of what you hope will be a long series. Pilot scripts are particularly difficult to write because you have to introduce all the characters without it feeling like a series of introductions. You have to tell a story that’s not only funny and compelling but also dramatizes your main characters’ points of view and what the series would be about thematically (love, work, investigating sexy child murders in Miami, etc.).
If you want to see a great pilot, watch the first episode of Cheers. It’s charming, funny, and well constructed. If you want to see an awkward, sweaty pilot episode, watch 30 Rock. I will not be joining you, because I never want to watch that mess again. (The 30 Rock writing staff have asked me to stop saying the pilot was terrible, so from here on out I will refer to it as “quirky and unique.”) I met with several excellent actors about playing the role of Jack Donaghy, and with each meeting it became increasingly clear that the part was meant for Alec Baldwin. But I didn’t have to work up the nerve to talk to him about it yet, because now I was pregnant and the shooting of the pilot was postponed.
In September, my daughter was born. (For the record: epidural, vaginal delivery, did not poop on the table.) Around Christmastime I was back to work at SNL, and Alec was hosting. The show was good that week and Alec was having a good time. Lorne and I looked at each other—should we just ask him?
Lorne asked him and Alec said yes. I stayed out of the room, which is my specialty.
An Auspicious Beginning
NBC executives must have seen something of value in my quirky and unique pilot (Alec Baldwin) because they decided for some reason (Alec Baldwin) to “pick it up.” This means they agreed to make eleven more episodes and maybe show them on TV.
The announcement of which shows are picked up each year takes place in May at an advertisers’
convention called the “Upfronts.” Ad buyers from all kinds of companies gather in New York City
for a week. Each day one of the networks presents its “new fall lineup” of shows. They rent out Radio City Music Hall or the Hilton ballroom and try to dazzle the advertisers with exciting clips and personal appearances from their biggest stars. They talk about which “target demographics” they reach and how many “upscale” viewers they have. It is sexy, like having-lunch-with-your-parents-after-a-medical-exam sexy.
The advertisers then decide where they want to spend their ad money, and the networks know how much money they’ll have to work with in the fall.
We have now exceeded my understanding of the television business.
Right before the 2006 Upfronts, I was called into Lorne Michaels’s office at two in the morning after an SNL show. “This is it,” I thought. “They’ve come to tell us they want the show.” I don’t know why I was so confident they would (Alec Baldwin).
I had mixed feelings about this. I now had an eight month old at home, and I wasn’t sure that this new seventy-hour-a-week job was, as disgraced politicians say, “in the best interest of my family at this current juncture at the present time.”
I was a little excited but mostly blorft. “Blorft” is an adjective I just made up that means
“Completely overwhelmed but proceeding as if everything is fine and reacting to the stress with the torpor of a possum.” I have been blorft every day for the past seven years.
I went into Lorne’s office to receive my good news, but something was up. The CEO of NBC
Universal Television Group, Jeff Zucker, was there, and he seemed agitated. Apparently, with all my business savvy, I hadn’t realized that Alec Baldwin had not signed up for any episodes beyond the pilot.
NBC wanted Alec to sign a new contract before any announcements were made, but Alec, being one of the all-time great Irish ballbusters, would not be rushed.
(Alec and I like to joke now about what I call his “Irish Negotiating Technique,” which usually boils down to his saying: “They offered me more money and I told them to go f*** themselves.”) So Mr. Zucker was being forced to order a show that did not actually have its star in place. He paced around the room. Lorne calmly assured him it would all work out; Alec would eventually sign his contract. Then Lorne waved his hand gently in front of Zucker’s face and said, “These are not the droids you’re looking for.” He didn’t, but he might as well have.
“We’re really going out on a limb for you here,” Jeff Zucker said, wagging his finger at me begrudgingly. “You’re picked up.” And then, in a most unfortunate Freudian slip, I said, “You’re welcome” instead of “Thank you.” And that was the glorious becoming of what would go on to be the 102nd most popular show on television.*
Assembling a Team of Ragtag Assassins
Alec did eventually sign his contract, and we started production that August.
My friend and former SNL coworker Robert Carlock had moved with his wife and baby from California to New York to be an executive producer and co–head writer on the show. We surrounded ourselves with hardworking, funny people.
My Bossypants Managerial Techniques
I’ll admit that as a female producer I have a tacit “no hotheads” policy. For years, to be considered a genius at comedy, people had to be “dangerous” and “unpredictable.” I have met some very dangerous, erratic, funny people over the years, people I admire, but I don’t want to work with them every day. Go do your own show, tough guys, and I will gladly watch it from the safety of my home. I hire the most talented of the people who are the least likely to throw a punch in the workplace. If this is contributing to the Demasculinization of America, I say hold a telethon and let me know how it goes. I don’t ever want to get punched in the face over a joke—or even screamed at.
These were those gentle people:
Jack Burditt—a TV veteran who had worked on every show from Mad About You to Frasier to DAG. A handsome, soft-spoken, Gary Cooper type, I don’t think Jack said a word the first four weeks.
When he finally spoke, it was during a mundane conversation in the writers’ room about crappy summer jobs we’d had as teenagers. Jack laughed as he told how at eighteen he was operating the roller-coaster at Magic Mountain and how one night, there was a riot in the park after a disco concert and six people got stabbed. One guy bled out in front of him. Then he turned in a thoughtful and hilarious 30 Rock script that showed he was more than just a former carnie who had watched a man die. A couple months later he spoke again to tell us how he had once bought a bunch of depth charges and thrown them off the side of a rowboat in Mexico. Also, he believes his torn ACL was healed by a visit to Roswell. And once he fainted in front of Ringo Starr from an undiagnosed testicle infection. Jack’s stories were reason enough to keep him around; his elegant scripts were just a bonus. MVP episode: 204, “Rosemary’s Baby.” MVP joke: this piece of Jack Donaghy wisdom.
LIZ
Oh, thank God. It was terrible. I went to her apartment. I don’t think she has a toilet. I saw my future, Jack.
Jack pours Liz a drink and hands it to her.
JACK
Never go with a hippie to a second location.
Kay Cannon was a woman I’d known from the Chicago improv world. A beautiful, strong midwestern gal who had played lots of sports and run track in college, Kay had submitted a good writing sample, but I was more impressed by her athlete’s approach to the world. She had a can-do attitude, a willingness to learn through practice, and she was comfortable being coached. Her success at the show is a testament to why all parents should make their daughters pursue team sports instead of pageants.
Not that Kay couldn’t win a beauty pageant—she could, as long as for the talent competition she could sing a karaoke version of “Redneck Woman” while shooting a Nerf rifle. MVP joke: Tracy Jordan admonishing a pigeon for eating out of the garbage.
C.C.
(giving in)
No one can know we’re together, Jack. Not even your friend Tracy Jordan out there.
JACK
I don’t think we have to worry about Tracy.
CUT TO: Tracy in front of the building, talking to a pigeon.
TRACY
Stop eating people’s old french fries, little pigeon. Have some self-respect. Don’t you know you can fly?
Dave Finkel and Brett Baer were a writing team from LA, and I’m proud to say that during that first year they contributed some of our weirdest material. MVP episode: 118, “Fireworks,” in which Tracy finds out he is a descendant of Thomas Jefferson. MVP scene: Tracy, anxious over this change in his racial identity, dreams that he is on a paternity test episode of The Maury Povich Show with Thomas Jefferson. Played, for dream-logic and financial reasons, by Alec Baldwin.
MAURY POVICH
Sally Hemings just called you a dog, Thomas Jefferson.
THOMAS JEFFERSON
I don’t care. This is about Tracy. I rode a horse all the way from Heaven to tell him something.
There was Matt Hubbard, a baby-faced Harvard boy who always wanted to order McDonald’s for staff lunch, which I liked a lot. Matt and his wife sublet a place on the Upper East Side of Manhattan that turned out to have bedbugs. This kind of deep human suffering, in combination with his highly processed diet, transformed him into a joke-writing superhero. MVP episode: 115, “Hardball.” MVP
joke: Tracy Jordan on food.
KENNETH
Hello there, Mr. Jordan! Mr. Slattery, Mr. Oppenheim. I’ve picked up your lunch from Sylvia’s.
Extra cornbread, because I know you like it.
TRACY
Like it? I love it! I love that cornbread so much I want to take it out behind the middle school and get it pregnant!
There was Daisy Gardner, a delicate soul with a nervous stomach who pitched some of the filthiest jokes you could imagine, in the gentlest voice you could imagine. MVP episode: 116, “The Source Awards,” in which Jack Donaghy tries to recover from the failure of his foul-tasting wine, Donaghy Estates, by trying to market it to the hip-hop community a
s a replacement for Cristal. MVP
joke: rapper Ghostface Killah trying to swig Donaghy Estates during a music video.
GHOSTFACE KILLAH (CONT’D)
’CAUSE I GET RAW AND TAKE NAMES/JUST LIKE LEBRON JAMES/AND DONAGHY KINDA RHYMES
WITH PARTY/WHICH IS COOL –
He takes another sip, reacts, disgusted.
GHOSTFACE KILLAH (CONT’D)
I gotta take a break. I can’t drink any more of this. My tummy hurts!
The Lord sent me John Riggi, who upon first meeting looked like an angry longshoreman in a denim jacket and a skullcap, but turned out to be a sensitive Italian boy from Cincinnati and an excellent cook. MVP episode: 104, “Blind Date.” MVP joke:
