by Nell Scovell
Some of the jokes were harsh, like Grandpa Simpson telling Homer, “I know the greatest tragedy is to outlive your children . . . but it doesn’t feel so bad.” The meanest jokes rarely make it into the script, although they often make the room laugh the hardest.
Following a traditional story pattern, Homer’s dilemma must get worse at the end of Act Two.
“What if he’s speeding home and then gets stuck in traffic?” someone pitched.
I heard the word “speeding” and realized we could up the ante.
“What if he gets pulled over by a cop and thrown in jail?” I said.
That seemed overly cruel—and funny—so we decided that a cell door clanging shut would end Act Two.
Act Three tumbled out as a race against time. Homer needs to get out of jail, stop at the bar to see Moe, and get home in time to be “intamit with Marge.” Someone pitched a post-coital snippet of dialogue.
“You know, Marge, I don’t mind if you marry someone with money to take care of the kids,” Homer says. “Like Jackie Onassis.”
“Remind me which one of our friends is a Greek tycoon,” says Marge. (Bonus points if you knew Marge’s maiden name is Bouvier.)
For the conclusion of the story, we thought Marge could fall asleep after sex while Homer sneaks downstairs to cherish every last second. He flips through TV Guide. Nothing’s on. The Bible on a bookshelf catches his eye. Aware of his shortcomings, he opens it up to reveal two cassette tapes.
“Ooh, the good book on tape. Phil Collins reads Genesis.” (Bonus points if you knew Collins was the drummer in the band Genesis.)
Homer drifts off and we dissolve to the next morning. Marge finds him slumped in a chair. He snores and Marge realizes he’s alive. The two celebrate.
While breaking the story in the room, I scribbled down pitches as fast as I could. I always advise writers to take their own notes. Too often, this task falls to an assistant who’ll capture the gist of jokes, but miss the exact wording. Specific words in a specific order matter. Taking notes also allows a writer to annotate. I put a star next to a line that gets a big laugh, especially from the showrunner. Not only does it remind me to include that joke; it also gives me a window into the showrunner’s sense of humor.
I walked out of the Simpsons room with over thirty handwritten pages. The next step was turning the scrawled notes into a neat outline.
The Outline
An outline lays out the acts and scenes while clarifying and tracking the attitudes of the characters. On some series, you’re not given much to work with and need to fill in a lot of plot holes. The Simpsons room generated so much material that outlining became more an exercise in choice than creation. I had four different possible explanations for why the Simpsons decide to try sushi:
Marge heard about sushi at the beauty shop or pet store.
Lisa is bored with meatloaf and wants to try something new. Homer defends meatloaf: “Every time I find something different. A clove of garlic. A hint of cayenne.”
Marge says her sister likes sushi “and she’s got good taste.” “Marge,” says Homer, “That woman thinks I’m a stupid clod.”
The family heads to Homer’s favorite burger joint and discovers it’s closed for health violations. The sushi place is next door.
I went with #2 since it contained the emotional component that Lisa is bored. A character with a strong attitude generates more comedy. A joke is just a joke, but an emotion can be mined. Runner-up was #4 where Homer is upset that his burger joint is shut down. (“Oh no! The rotating pie station!”)
The outline pulled together quickly since Homer checking off his list of activities provided a built-in structure. In the room, pitches jump from scene to scene, but an outline requires that the writer figure out the transitions. The fugu episode took place over twenty-four hours—most sitcom stories work better in a compressed time—and we hadn’t discussed a transition from the night where Homer gets poisoned to the next day. I tried this:
INT. BEDROOM – NIGHT
HOMER
(ADJUSTING ALARM CLOCK) Then I’ll get up at seven to make the most of my last day.
INT. BEDROOM – 7 AM
The alarm rings. Homer rolls over and turns it off without getting up.
INT. BEDROOM — 11:30
Homer rolls over, opens his eyes and sees the clock.
HOMER
11:30!
INT. LIVING ROOM – MINUTES LATER
HOMER
(UPSET) Marge, why did you let me sleep so late?
MARGE
You looked so peaceful lying there.
HOMER
There’ll be plenty of time for that!
Another transition that required some thought was the moment after Marge discovers Homer isn’t dead. The episode never explains why he survives the poison. I thought Homer could return to the restaurant the next day.
MASTER CHEF
Ah, Mr. Simpson, so you live. Our blowfish is so weak it won’t even kill a cat. I must get a new wholesaler. Anyway, you owe us $56.80. We have a policy of not charging customers who die from eating our sushi. But since you survived . . .
A typical sitcom outline has ten to twelve single-spaced pages. My Simpsons outline had seventeen, and that was after cutting funny lines like, “Tomorrow is the last day of the rest of my life.” Finally, I needed to give the episode a title. As a Dr. Seuss fan, I went with “One Fish, Two Fish, Blowfish, Blue Fish.” It stuck.
Outline Notes
A few days after I turned in my outline, I was back in the Simpsons office to get notes. Matt Groening and some additional writers (all male) joined the group, and we moved to a conference room next to Sam’s office. The chairs were arranged in a circle. I sat to the left of Sam, and Matt sat directly across. Jim Brooks wasn’t there, but he’d read the outline and given his notes to Sam.
The session did not start well. Sam thought it took too long to get the family to the sushi restaurant. I drew a big line through my first two pages. One of the best rules of screenwriting is “Start late, end early.” In real life, we ring doorbells and ask, “How are you?” In TV and movies, you can just jump to the scene of the crime.
Thankfully, the notes slowed down on page three. Details were added. In the outline, the Master Chef is unavailable to slice the fugu because he’s making out with a woman in the backseat of a car. Someone suggested it should be Bart’s teacher Mrs. Krabappel. They had to spell her name out slowly for me. This exchange didn’t make it into the script, but it still cracks me up.
MASTER CHEF
Oh, Miss Krabappel, your hair smells so clean.
MISS KRABAPPEL
Oh, Mr. Hirohito, can you really get me a futomaki roll?
The notes session dragged on. At one point, I looked over and saw that Matt had decided to rest his eyes for a bit, arms crossed in front of his torso at the wrists. I glanced over at Sam. I didn’t know it at the time, but there was tension between the two Executive Producers. Our eyes met and Sam’s took on a conspiratorial gleam.
“Don’t wake him,” Sam mouthed.
Tragically, Sam died in 2014. He was only fifty-nine. When he learned that his cancer was untreatable, he devoted himself to charitable work to save and protect animals. It’s hard not to think about his choice in light of the theme of this episode. Sam did so much good in the time he had.
In the last two pages of the outline, Homer gets out of jail and races home to make love to Marge. I thought it would be funny to have Homer grab Marge, lead her toward the bedroom and then cut to the two lying in bed, staring at the ceiling.
“It’s understandable, Homer. Especially when you consider all the stress you’ve been under,” Marge says.
In my old copy of the outline, the word “sweet” is written over this dialogue. Sam instructed me not to play the scene for laughs. Someone suggested that maybe Marge could read a poem that she’d written for Homer as they lay in bed. I loved that idea.
The next scene was Homer sayi
ng goodbye to his kids and then heading downstairs. When we got to the second-to-last scene where Marge finds Homer’s slumped body, Sam peered at his notes. “Wait, Jim has an idea for here.”
I transcribed the pitch exactly as Sam read it: Marge touches his chin. “His drool is warm. He’s alive. He’s alive.”
This is truly my favorite line in the entire episode. Hilarious and poignant, it’s quintessential Jim Brooks.
The Simpsons™ and © 1990 written by Nell Scovell. Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation. All rights reserved
Sam rejected the scene I’d added to explain why the poisonous fugu hadn’t killed Homer. He said nobody would question Homer’s survival. (It still kind of bugs me.) I’d also added a tag that wrapped up all the story threads. Sam thought it worked well and approved it.
Writer’s Draft
Armed with a very detailed outline, I strung a script together. There are always discoveries along the way. I added “Hang gliding” to Homer’s bucket list.
“Oh Homer,” says Marge, “that’s too dangerous.”
“Maybe at the end of the day,” he concedes.
I took Sam’s tonal note to be sweeter. In addition to writing a poem for Marge, I put in three quick beats of Homer stopping by each of his kids’ bedrooms for one last look.
HOMER
Goodbye, Maggie. Stay as sweet as you are.
(then)
Goodbye, Lisa. I know you’ll make me proud.
(then)
Goodbye, Bart. I like your sheets.
Table Read Draft
As a freelancer, I didn’t take part in the next stage where the staff “tables a script.” This means going through page-by-page before the table read. Sometimes scripts are overhauled completely and writers end up with a “Written by” credit on an episode they barely recognize. I was told that “One Fish, Two Fish . . .” changed about the same amount as a script by a writer on staff.
The changes made scenes punchier. Bart and Lisa singing “Mockingbird” became Bart and Lisa singing “Shaft,” one of the most memorable sequences in the episode. At first, the FOX censors wouldn’t approve the song because of the lyric: “He’s a bad mother—Watch your mouth!” The producers pushed back. Sam sent over a tape of Isaac Hayes performing “Shaft” on the Oscars and the censors relented.
Only one revision bumped me. At one point, Homer offers Bart three phrases that will help get him through life. The table script read: “Number one, ‘Cover for me.’ Number two, ‘Oh good idea, boss.’ Number three, ‘It was like that when I got here.’ ” Fans love that line, but I still prefer the original three pieces of advice: “Number one, you’ll end up with a bad job, but if you kiss up, you can take a day off every now and then. Number two, find a woman who loves you, think twice about having kids. Number three, don’t eat blowfish.”
Production (or Shooting) Draft
George Takei was cast as Akira Kurosawa, the sushi waiter, and Larry King read the Bible passage, tacking on some sports picks at the end. Al and Mike shepherded the script through the production process. For animation that includes recording the actors, approving animatics (preliminary sketches), and adjusting the script and animation at every step. “One Fish” ran long and needed trimming. Sometimes it makes sense to omit an entire scene rather than making smaller trims throughout, which can lead to choppiness. Sadly, Homer seeking solace from Rev. Lovejoy didn’t make it to air.
Produced Episode
“One Fish, Two Fish, Blowfish, Blue Fish” premiered on January 24, 1991. I watched with my sister Claire and brother-in-law Rob and was delighted to see the finished product. The biggest surprise came at the very end. I was expecting the tag that wrapped up all of Homer’s actions, but it was slashed for time. Instead, Homer simply declares, “From now on, I will live life to the fullest!” This pronouncement is followed by a hard cut to Homer in his armchair, eating pork rinds while watching bowling on TV. There was no dialogue. Just the sound of a bowling commentator and crunching pork rinds. The new last scene—concocted by Al and Mike—was a gut punch. Homer had stared death in the face . . . and had learned absolutely nothing. In that moment, we all became Homer, staring at a cartoon character who’s staring at bowling as our lives tick away.
The quality and quantity of material generated by the Simpsons writers was astonishing. I could have written three different versions of the same story. And even if Homer learned no lessons from his experience, I learned one from mine. At Newhart, I’d been instructed to write “Joke, joke, joke, joke.” Working with Jim and Sam taught me there was another choice: to play a scene for real emotion. Here’s a comparison of Marge’s poem in my writer’s draft (left) and the dialogue that aired.
MARGE
MARGE
The blackened clouds are forming
Soon the rain will fall
My dear one is departing
But first please heed this call
That always will I love you
Dah-dah-dah-dah-dah-dah dah
Sorry, I didn’t have time to
finish the couplet
The blackened clouds are forming
Soon the rain will fall
My dear one is departing
But first please heed this call
That always will I love you
My one, my love, my all.
Sometimes sweet and sincere trumps snarky. I didn’t understand that until I heard Julie Kavner’s gravelly voice reading Marge’s poem. When she got to the last line, I didn’t laugh, but my eyes got misty. I suddenly cared deeply whether a cartoon character lived or died. And that’s a far more complex and interesting response.
With the permission of The Simpsons, here’s the lost tag from “One Fish, Two Fish, Blowfish, Blue Fish”:
INT. SIMPSON HOUSE—LIVING ROOM—THAT AFTERNOON
HOMER IS ON THE COUCH, DRINKING A DUFF AND WATCHING ARM WRESTLING ON TV. HE LOOKS VERY CONTENT. MARGE APPROACHES CARRYING MAGGIE AND SEVERAL PINK MESSAGE SLIPS.
MARGE
Homer, the phone’s been ringing off the hook. (HANDS HIM SLIPS) The police moved your court date . . .
HOMER
Ohhh.
MARGE
The towing company has your car . . .
HOMER
Barney!
MARGE
Your father says he wants to fly kites with you . . .
HOMER
Oh, yeah.
MARGE
And your boss wants to see you first thing in the morning.
HOMER
Oh, no.
BART STICKS HIS HEAD IN.
BART
Hey, Dad, Mr. Flanders says, and I quote, “Where the ding-dong-doodley are the steaks?”
HOMER
(THROUGH GRITTED TEETH) It’s still great to be alive.
THE END
Chapter 7
Brush with Greatness: Working for Letterman
Top Ten Least Popular Summer Camps
10. Camp Tick in beautiful Lyme, Connecticut
—My first Top Ten joke, aired July 12, 1990
BY JUNE 1990, IT WAS STARTING TO FEEL LIKE I BELONGED in Hollywood. I knew my way around the freeways and I’d already had the obligatory threesome with Warren Beatty. Okay, that’s an exaggeration. But I did have dinner with Warren and one other guy. Sadly, I can’t confirm that Warren is a Grade A lover, but I can confirm that he’s a Grade A wingman.
I met political pollster Pat Caddell at a party where we had a nice talk and he asked for my number using the oddest pickup line that I’d ever heard: “Maybe we could have dinner some night. I’ll bring Warren Beatty.”
Odd, but effective. We made a date for dinner at a dark restaurant in Brentwood. Pat arrived, solo, and explained that Warren was tied up in post-production on Dick Tracy. Ah, the old bait and switch. It was fine. I could always talk politics with Pat, who made his name helping Jimmy Carter become president. Pat and I were halfway through dinner when suddenly . . . he walked into the party like he was w
alking onto a yacht.
Warren Beatty, in the flesh, made his way toward our table and sat down. He apologized for being late, and then did something that truly amazed me. Instead of launching into a monologue about his life, he started asking me questions about mine. He wanted to know all about SPY magazine. Were Kurt and Graydon good guys? He even asked follow-ups, which meant he was listening to my answers. No wonder women tumbled for him.
The next day, I called my mom. “Guess who I had dinner with last night?” I said, pausing for effect. “Warren Beatty!”
“Don’t you sleep with him,” my mother snapped in a tone I’d never heard before.
“Don’t worry, Mom,” I said. “It’s not gonna happen.”
My reasoning was less moral and more realistic. “He’s currently dating Madonna,” I added.
Not much was going on in my personal life around this time. A long-distance relationship with a nice guy in NYC had cratered during my time at Newhart. I thought about moving back east to try and jumpstart the romance. Impulsively, I sent some more material to Steve O’Donnell, the head writer at Late Night with David Letterman. I even included a small Japanese toy in my envelope, employing the same trick as charities that give you a nickel to get you to open their letters.
I didn’t hear back so I took a job on a new sitcom called Married People. Created by Robert Sternin and Prudence Fraser, the series centered on three couples (newlyweds, new parents, and grandparents) who lived on different floors of a townhouse. I was just settling in when, at the start of the second week, Steve O’Donnell called. He’d received my material and they had an opening. Could I come in and meet with Dave?
I was in shock. Late Night was known for being a frat house—a Harvard Lampoon frat house, but still. At that point, Merrill Markoe was the only woman who’d ever worked on the writing staff. Bitingly brilliant and inventive, Merrill served as head writer in the early years and is widely credited with co-creating the show.
“What’s the difference between Johnny Carson and David Letterman?” Merrill once joked. “Me.”
Merrill and Dave were also a couple, but after seven years and four Emmys, she walked away from both the job and the relationship. There’d been no female writer hired since. I called Gavin excited that I had a shot at joining the Late Night staff. He couldn’t fathom why I’d even contemplate a leap from a prime-time sitcom to a late-night talk show.
