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Conan O'Brien's strike diary
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By Conan O'Brien

There was an eerie calm before the Strike hit, which made its arrival all the more terrifying. The sky darkened and the cruel November winds howled. Hell hath no fury like a Writer denied his appropriate Internet-participation formula. I was tossed about my quarters like a rag doll, gasping for air and struggling against the relentless tide of angry industry chatter. Then all was blackness...

I am alive, but there is no writing for television and motion pictures. I stumble about my apartment — a stranger in a strange land. Gathering my wits, I take stock of my meager supplies: four original episodes of House, a handful of fresh 30 Rocks, and two Heroes, which I fear have gone bad. I cannot survive long — panic sets in.

Using three coat hangers and an old T-shirt, I construct a crude device to collect potable water. I then realize that fresh drinking water will not be an issue during a Writers' Strike. I go to the refrigerator and fetch a Pomegranate Lychee Green Tea. It is my first triumph over the elements and I rejoice.

With no sign on the horizon of fresh scripted television, I decide to read a book. The first few pages go well, but I can't help wondering if Meredith and McDreamy will ever work things out. They're so right for each other and yet so wrong. I burn the book for warmth.

DAY 12
Tragedy! A power surge fries my DVR, destroying my meager larder of scripted shows. With little to sustain me, I am forced to subsist entirely on Reality Television. I gorge myself on marathons of The Real Housewives of Orange County and Flavor of Love, then collapse in a wretched heap. If this is living, I welcome death.

DAY 23
I hear a plane and decide to make a signal. I head to my roof to spell out ''Help — End Strike — Need New Shows — Make a Fair Deal for the Writers and End This!'' Sadly, I only have enough sticks for half an ''H.'' Must eat more Popsicles.

DAY 37
I turn my back on TV and venture off into uncharted territory: Halo 3. I enthusiastically shoulder my rifle and begin my virtual campaign to defend Earth. Within the hour I've been shot in the face six times by a 9-year-old Dutch boy named DeathGiver23.

DAY 45
The solitude is unbearable. Am I alone? Are there others like me? I decide to visit the Internet and check out some blogs. ''How is everyone holding up?'' I post innocently. The response is swift and merciless: ''U R Gay!'' Quickly I retreat to YouTube and hum along quietly to ''Chocolate Rain.''

DAY 51
I am now surviving completely on Game Shows. I have lost weight, my hands tremble uncontrollably, but I am certain that Briefcase Twenty-Two holds the million dollars. I scream at my television, but that stupid Physical Therapist from Tarzana cannot hear me. Seriously — what is wrong with that bitch?

DAY 58
How much can one man endure? Now the heavens themselves are conspiring to destroy me, as a light rain knocks out my DirecTV. I get through watching six hours of video snow by convincing myself I'm watching a director's cut of The Ring.

DAY 60
Today, a shocking discovery: I am not alone! In the guest bedroom, I stumble across a woman who refers to herself as my ''wife.'' She tells a harrowing tale, having survived all this time on just one DVD: Reba: The Complete 4th Season. There is nothing I can do for her, and I slowly back out of the room.

DAY 64
Blasphemy! Horror! The Golden Globes are canceled and the Oscars may be next. I want no part of a world that refuses to congratulate itself. I drag all the now-useless televisions to the center of my room and lash them together to form a crude raft. Soon, global warming will cause the seas to rise and I can float effortlessly out my eighth-floor window. It feels good to finally have a sensible plan...

EDITOR'S NOTE: Here the diary abruptly ends. It was found several weeks later in a lobster trap off the coast of Nova Scotia. Nothing is known of the author's current whereabouts. Rumors persist that he can be seen nightly at 12:35 a.m. EST on NBC, but at press time, those reports are unsubstantiated.
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"Using three coat hangers and an old T-shirt, I construct a crude device to collect potable water. I then realize that fresh drinking water will not be an issue during a Writers' Strike."


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