Killing Kelly
Kelly Ferguson was the Christopher Columbus of the Suicide Show. She went first, God bless her. On the other hand, thank God she's gone! If that's callous, sorry. I've killed a lot of people. But Kelly's antics, though tame by today's standards, were beyond dramatic when we first started out. Her wild behavior was beyond traumatic, beyond any nightmare we imagined--and we thought we'd imagined them all. If we knew then what we know now, we wouldn't have panicked the way we did.
She came to us after reading an article about me and my idea for the show. And she seemed perfect. She was 37, anorexic and roidal and had made six suicide attempts in the last five years, basically one for every man she dated, and one for a woman. So we thought she was perfect.
We didn't realize at the time that attempters don't qualify. Attempters can't be contestants on the Suicide Show because they desperately want to live. They just don't want to live without a certain person who can't live with them, so they offer their death to see if their love object can live with that. They don't qualify.
I had two men down on the field in minute 12 and she was only in Round Two! We'd just removed eight of her fingers and were getting started on her left thumb when onto the field come three gunmen--why they didn't go highpower from the stands I'll never know--shooting 'em up like cowboys, took down Gus--who was okay--but sent Clorine Pugh on permanent leave. Clorine was the stylist. She did the makeup during commercials--and no, she didn't add blood, she didn't remove blood, she didn't speak to the contestants, she was just there for makeup and hair--but she took a round to the cranium, bled to death on camera, awful, horrible thing--but it made us credible. We didn't turn away from it. Heads bleed like crazy, but dead heads don't. Fortunately for picture purposes Clorine survived the bullet--she was fully conscious and speaking on camera matter-of-factly about garbage we still can't decipher, but the bleeding was spectacular.
The event was difficult on us all, but there was learning from it. Bleeding works once but not twice. It's too long! And it's not very painful, partly due to shock and partly due to not enough blood. A dry brain feels no pain. So, from the learning standpoint, Clorine was an assist. But Kelly?
Kelly was an asshole. And the public agreed. First of all we never should have let her speak. We actually gave her a microphone. And when we cut it off--and you would have done the same thing--it didn't matter. The spectators just hit the parabolic on their fones and keyed her in. We felt we had no choice but to sever the cords, but she didn't agree with that either. She approved it in the contract, but suddenly, on the field, she decides something else. She wanted out!
Out? That was my question. We're in a commercial. I got 35,000 fans in the stands and 200 million at home and she wants out. I'm disgusted. We discussed this. She's in tears because they brought over the gunmen. Her boyfriends. Yes. Boyfriends. This is when I begin to realize I've been scammed. I ask my guys to get these two bloody corpses off my set and Kelly spits in my face. I didn't wipe it off. I spat back. You would have too. We were supposed to be in a commercial, but the networks decided this was news, so the whole thing, without my knowledge, was witnessed by the entire human race at the same moment, and those who missed it caught it later. I spat at the contestant.
Was it something I shouldn't have done? No. She signed the contract. If I wasn't tough now, we'd never get another chance. We'd be yanked. The stadium fell completely silent. You wouldn't think it could be so quiet. Everybody was trying to hear what we were saying. She was begging me to let her out of the contract. I was upset. I'd never seen anybody die before and I wanted more like everybody else, but rather than remind her of all the money her heirs are about to get and pump her up for the next round--which was my job back then--I decided to spit on the contestant, because the contestant spat on me. And then somebody in the southwestern seats started chanting KILL THE CONTRACT. They wanted her to kill my contract.
My show is not a democracy. You don't come on my show to vote. You come here to kill or be killed. Those aren't the rules. That's how it is. I snapped my fingers for a contract. Half the crowd roars approval, the other half disapproval. I tell my folks to take off her handcuffs. She was on the third apparatus, cuffed spead eagle, legs and arms, in preparation for the nosing--which she knew about, of course--but she wanted out of the contract.
I just handed her the pen.
The definition of a classic is something that's always good no matter how old it is or how old you are. There was something so poignant in Kelly's face as she realized that without fingers she'd no longer be playing piano or grading papers or giving handjobs to janitors or signing any more contracts. Who knows why comedy works? Sometimes it just does.
We went ahead with the nosing, as planned if not as scheduled, and it did what it was supposed to. Round 3 for Kelly was all about giving her beauty--and she was gorgeous (with an assist from Clorine). Nosing was the option she chose.
Kelly did make it, thanks to our fantastic doctors who kept her alive through the very difficult ninth and tenth rounds. And when, at the climax of Round 10, she gave her life, she gave the entire world a solid hour of entertainment.
Personally, I was disappointed. We messed around so much before Round 3 that there was no time for reaction control once we killed her. I was shocked by the number of people screaming for us to stop. I couldn't understand it. It was in the contract. They signed it to get into the stadium. They knew what was coming.
There were lawsuits from day one. You ruined my life. I can't sleep anymore. My child wants to be on your show and I don't appreciate it. And most of all, over and over, why the dog? Why the dog? Why the dog? Why her own dog? How could you starve her own pet so he'd finish her off? Such a horrible thing to do, bla bla.
Yes. It was.
The Kelly Ferguson Endowment is today worth $686 trillion. Not bad for an hour of her time.
She came to us after reading an article about me and my idea for the show. And she seemed perfect. She was 37, anorexic and roidal and had made six suicide attempts in the last five years, basically one for every man she dated, and one for a woman. So we thought she was perfect.
We didn't realize at the time that attempters don't qualify. Attempters can't be contestants on the Suicide Show because they desperately want to live. They just don't want to live without a certain person who can't live with them, so they offer their death to see if their love object can live with that. They don't qualify.
I had two men down on the field in minute 12 and she was only in Round Two! We'd just removed eight of her fingers and were getting started on her left thumb when onto the field come three gunmen--why they didn't go highpower from the stands I'll never know--shooting 'em up like cowboys, took down Gus--who was okay--but sent Clorine Pugh on permanent leave. Clorine was the stylist. She did the makeup during commercials--and no, she didn't add blood, she didn't remove blood, she didn't speak to the contestants, she was just there for makeup and hair--but she took a round to the cranium, bled to death on camera, awful, horrible thing--but it made us credible. We didn't turn away from it. Heads bleed like crazy, but dead heads don't. Fortunately for picture purposes Clorine survived the bullet--she was fully conscious and speaking on camera matter-of-factly about garbage we still can't decipher, but the bleeding was spectacular.
The event was difficult on us all, but there was learning from it. Bleeding works once but not twice. It's too long! And it's not very painful, partly due to shock and partly due to not enough blood. A dry brain feels no pain. So, from the learning standpoint, Clorine was an assist. But Kelly?
Kelly was an asshole. And the public agreed. First of all we never should have let her speak. We actually gave her a microphone. And when we cut it off--and you would have done the same thing--it didn't matter. The spectators just hit the parabolic on their fones and keyed her in. We felt we had no choice but to sever the cords, but she didn't agree with that either. She approved it in the contract, but suddenly, on the field, she decides something else. She wanted out!
Out? That was my question. We're in a commercial. I got 35,000 fans in the stands and 200 million at home and she wants out. I'm disgusted. We discussed this. She's in tears because they brought over the gunmen. Her boyfriends. Yes. Boyfriends. This is when I begin to realize I've been scammed. I ask my guys to get these two bloody corpses off my set and Kelly spits in my face. I didn't wipe it off. I spat back. You would have too. We were supposed to be in a commercial, but the networks decided this was news, so the whole thing, without my knowledge, was witnessed by the entire human race at the same moment, and those who missed it caught it later. I spat at the contestant.
Was it something I shouldn't have done? No. She signed the contract. If I wasn't tough now, we'd never get another chance. We'd be yanked. The stadium fell completely silent. You wouldn't think it could be so quiet. Everybody was trying to hear what we were saying. She was begging me to let her out of the contract. I was upset. I'd never seen anybody die before and I wanted more like everybody else, but rather than remind her of all the money her heirs are about to get and pump her up for the next round--which was my job back then--I decided to spit on the contestant, because the contestant spat on me. And then somebody in the southwestern seats started chanting KILL THE CONTRACT. They wanted her to kill my contract.
My show is not a democracy. You don't come on my show to vote. You come here to kill or be killed. Those aren't the rules. That's how it is. I snapped my fingers for a contract. Half the crowd roars approval, the other half disapproval. I tell my folks to take off her handcuffs. She was on the third apparatus, cuffed spead eagle, legs and arms, in preparation for the nosing--which she knew about, of course--but she wanted out of the contract.
I just handed her the pen.
The definition of a classic is something that's always good no matter how old it is or how old you are. There was something so poignant in Kelly's face as she realized that without fingers she'd no longer be playing piano or grading papers or giving handjobs to janitors or signing any more contracts. Who knows why comedy works? Sometimes it just does.
We went ahead with the nosing, as planned if not as scheduled, and it did what it was supposed to. Round 3 for Kelly was all about giving her beauty--and she was gorgeous (with an assist from Clorine). Nosing was the option she chose.
Kelly did make it, thanks to our fantastic doctors who kept her alive through the very difficult ninth and tenth rounds. And when, at the climax of Round 10, she gave her life, she gave the entire world a solid hour of entertainment.
Personally, I was disappointed. We messed around so much before Round 3 that there was no time for reaction control once we killed her. I was shocked by the number of people screaming for us to stop. I couldn't understand it. It was in the contract. They signed it to get into the stadium. They knew what was coming.
There were lawsuits from day one. You ruined my life. I can't sleep anymore. My child wants to be on your show and I don't appreciate it. And most of all, over and over, why the dog? Why the dog? Why the dog? Why her own dog? How could you starve her own pet so he'd finish her off? Such a horrible thing to do, bla bla.
Yes. It was.
The Kelly Ferguson Endowment is today worth $686 trillion. Not bad for an hour of her time.
by CW Fisher at 11:43 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home