A striking screenwriter's Oscar acceptance speech

It occurred to me today that the Writers Guild of America strike will probably end in time -- or at least get a no-picket waiver -- for the 80th annual Academy Awards to proceed as usual.

Why not? They can appear to be sympathetic to a public audience jonesing for celebrities after the Golden Globes tanked. Plus, two members of the union will win Oscars for best original and adapted screenplays, allowing them an international TV audience to deliver their negotiation pitch to millions of viewers.

Here's what a screenwriter winner might say:

"I will not spend my 45 seconds of on-stage time before the orchestra plays me off thanking my significant other, parents or God for what I wrote. They can divvy up my Oscar swag bag later. I hear God hasn't spent a spa weekend in Cabo San Lucas since Ecclesiastes.

Instead, I would like to thank all the writers who have joined me on the picket lines, who held American entertainment hostage for the past three months -- at least on TV because Hollywood stocked up the canned beets of quality. Without your fortitude, even with the concessions allowing me this platform, our current labor stalemate would be much less effective.

I know those Ramen noodles have been tough to chew for writers whose film and sitcom ideas have been unsold during negotiations. When the strike is over and my next, Oscar-emboldened screenplay offer comes in, perhaps we can have a "cookout to help out" (a nice news release title but, hey, I'm a writer). Just don't pee in the pool.

I would like to remind producers whose unawareness of unfairness -- I'm on a rhyme roll -- in compensation to writers whom multimedia fortunes are built upon that our cause is just.

(Orchestra begins playing 20 seconds early.)

But only just as long as we can hold out for the big Kahuna, the pay-by-letter clause that Diablo Cody is pushing for.  But, you know, this red carpet stuff is pretty seductive. Keira Knightley looked at me. ME!

(Orchestra music swells.)

We gave up defending reality show TV writers -- I honestly didn't know they had any --  in order to let the Grammys go on without picket lines. To those writers, I apologize and wish them luck on Monster.com when we cash in without them. We had to concede the Grammys because (a.) it's the only time anyone can catch up with what's happening in pop music 10 years ago, and (b.) without music I'd never score with the chicks.

(Orchestra stops playing in bewilderment, wondering why Keira Knightley didn't look at them.)

But giving the Grammys a pass enabled us to get to this place in time, when someone like me who is just like you except for the development deal, could stand in front of millions of television viewers -- perhaps not as many because few people saw the Oscar nominees -- and speak for all others.

(Orchestra, still confused, begins playing the next best song nominee from Enchanted.)

We are the writers. We are the source of everything derivative and downright stupid making those fortunes we want a fairer piece of. If not for the occasional artists like me and the other four, unfortunate nominees who didn't win crafting words and scenarios that are truly original (for some audiences), there wouldn't be a bounty to argue about dividing.

We are your Mediterranean mansions, your Botox treatments, your next luxury rehab tab.

We can't deny the fact that you like us! Right now, you really like us!"

(Orchestra conductor tosses his baton in the air. Keira Knightley smiles.)