Illustration by Bob AulHey, film-school losers! You make me sick. I have to fight the urge to strangle you as I walk through Cecil B. DeMille hall. You think you're the next fucking Stephen Spielberg. For the past seven semesters, I have had classes with you. You whisper about the professors in class, make fun of their lectures and their outfits—and then stay after class to kiss ass and have them look at your (self-described) fabulous work. Every time I walk by, I hear you brag about the latest project you're working on: “This is the funniest script you'll ever read.” “I just checked the dailies, and I'm telling you, it's going to be the best thing to come out of this film school.” Then you read your script in class, and it sounds like every script that gets thrown in the trash at my office; I watch your film, and it's the most uninventive, typical film-student production. You squeeze your face in to meet Arnold Schwarzenegger—or whichever industry insider comes to campus—and then ask pointless, shallow and typical questions and hang around to mingle desperately as if you were important.
You will graduate, work unsuccessfully with one another, and return in 10 years to teach at this film school or some other, more minor film school. You make me want to stab myself in the eyes.
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