Nobody's Worthless

When a person says to me--and I've heard this so many times--Jack, they say, I feel worthless. I say why. They say they've got no purpose. I say yes you do.

That's what I'm giving people. A purpose. A chance to make something out of themselves, make sense out of the mess they made down here, leave behind a legacy that includes a vast array of managed holdings--not just cars, cash and college--but a genuine inheritance that carries your name down through the generations.

And they call me a killer!

Look. There are no dead celebrities. You can't be dead and remain a celebrity. Because celebrity requires appearances.

Fame, on the other hand, prefers you dead and will look back on you fondly if you leave behind something great--fat chance ha ha said the typical Americon back in the early seventies when I first started thinking this stuff up. What I saw back then was a society of fully compatible, continually updated people, good people, once dedicated employees and built that way by a proud Americo, people who were now deliberately choosing the wrong way, the path of crime, the wide road that leads straight to the vats of Chihuahua.

People, ordinary people, some as young as 120, going on violent sprees to no good purpose but to blow off steam. It wasn't war but sport. I saw what they wanted, and I said so, and they said I was crazy. But I say it still.

People want to die. They do. There's a time for it. But the ceo's enthusiasm for reuseability took that freedom away. I still think that's what these young people were looking for. A way out. Flies on a window.

But I proved it was more than that. People desperately wanted the hope--not the guarantee, but just the hope of a chance to slice their wedge of fame and lift themselves, if only an inch, from the rest of the crowd. Crime was the only route, as long as it was truly spectacular. But sadly, crime doesn't lead to fame either, but to infamy--and it was still more appealing than vanishing from this Ur and leaving behind nothing but dust.

Maybe all you did in life was get a Participation Award. Is that enough? Some would say yes. I don't. I say that's crap. You're worth more than that. When you die, what do you want people saying about you? He was never late for work? She took good care of her car? He did his best? She didn't complain as much as her mother? You see? What good is a life of such petty insignificance? Not much!

Not much. Face it. It's true. Life is cheap, my friend, life is very, very cheap. Don't believe it? Look at how we kill each other. We say we value life, ours. Yours we snuff. Look at how we breed. Casual sex, casual parenthood, generations raised by puter, orphans by choice. What have we got?

Before there was Jack Jaw, what did any of these people have besides nothing. What the hell is left to be taken away from most people? Their dignity? Come on. That goes early. Our money? The times we live in, if you have money, you better know it's temporary. Look at me, living proof. What was I, $28 billion urd? Yeah, that's a lot of money. Was I happy? What do you think? Would you be?

I make 14 cents an hour and I'm happy. I created more moguls than Ray Kroc and Dick Cheney combined.

I found a need and tapped a nerve. I gave people a way out. With dignity, I believe, though many have argued with me on this, but there is dignity to entertainment, and there is entertainment in true life drama such as we presented.

I had a man tell me he was worthless, I looked that man right in the eye and I said, yes, you are, I admit it, and I applaud your candor, but if you sign this document, I personally guarantee that your family will receive one million dollars. The man didn't believe it, but he was no fool. He signed. And thank Gad he did. Because he was my father. And the document he signed was a check. Later there would be more checks and more until finally out of money he died the very day I made the call to Hack Bitburg my associate producer who agreed my idea was perfect as long as it was clear my father made the choice on his own.

That's why I loved Hack. He always brought it down to where it was. Dad had to want to kill himself so I could shoot the pilot. I couldn't go to the Network with a script. Or a proposal, a pitch--no, no, nobody'd ever believe anybody'd kill themself for a donation. We had to show it. I knew Dad would understand. He was my greatest supporter all my life. Oh, he complained sometimes, but he had a lot of money, and I was always much larger than him. I'll tell you more later--lice check.