The crowd has hushed.  Jack Valenti, the master of ceremonies, tapped on the microphone, an evil smile carved across his Easter Island-esque face.  The hordes of faces in the audience stared at him, too afraid to even blink for fear that they might miss the greatest moment of their lives.

    “Well, now,” Valenti began, “I guess you all know what time it is.”

    That they did.  This was the big event, the equivalent of the Oscar, but much, much bigger.  The rest of the year was just a façade in preparation for this.  All of them, baptists, right-wing fascists, romantic comedy directors, Joel Eszterhas, and even a small cult of people that were convinced that film stole one’s soul, turned out in droves for the honor that was about to be bestowed.

    “This past year we had a hell of a job picking a winner,” Valenti continued, “I mean, there were so many obvious choices: Flawless, Down to You, The Haunting, and, of course, not one but two films by Garry Marshall.  But in the end, there can be only one winner.  And this year, we went small.”

    The crowd was so silent you could hear Steve Martin’s talent draining out of his body.

    “This year, the Society for the Prevention of the Advancement of Movies has chosen as the movie of the year… LOVER’S LANE!  Director Jon Steven Ward, Writers Geof Miller and Rory Veal!”

    The crowd went wild.  Ward, Miller, and Veal, so sure that they’d be ignored in a year that brought us Double Jeopardy, took a moment before they realized their names were called.  Quickly, they made their way to the stage, Miller accidentally bashing Meg Ryan in the head with a copy of his screenplay for No, Seriously, I Really Know What You Did Last Summer.

    “Oh, God,” a dumbstruck and breathless Ward began, “When we first started on Lover’s Lane, a slasher film about a hook-handed killer that offs some high school teens, we thought we’d do something original.  You know, throw in some creative plot twists, throw in some interesting characters, maybe break a cliché or two.  But one night we were working, and Geoff, frustrated over his screenplay for House IV, just said, ‘Why are we doing this?  Who cares?  Let’s just watch a whole bunch of slasher films and rip them off entirely.”

    Geoff got up to the pedestal next.  “Yeah, and then Rory thought maybe, if we were going to follow all of these clichés, we should at least add some ironic dialogue like in Scream, but I thought most people wouldn’t get it.  Thank God!  Or else we’d never be here!”

    Rory shoved Geoff out of the way.  “I want to thank some people.  I want to thank the creators of My Bloody Valentine for the holiday, I Saw What You Did Last Summer for the killer, Halloween for the plot, Silent Night Deadly Night for the twists, and all the shasher movies I’ve forgotten about already for the brilliant idea of having all the murders take place off-screen, thus ensuring that nobody will be entertained, not even pathetic gore hounds!”

    By this point, the cue light was on.  The three winners took their awards from Valenti and returned to their seats.  Valenti calmly walked to the mike once more.

    “Thanks, boys, you’ve done a hell of a job.  Your film may have been little, but you’ve done your hardest to make the least original crock of tedium you could, filling it with incomprehensible coincidences and characters that don’t have any common sense, like the sheriff who’s not particularly worried that an escaped lunatic that killed his wife may be coming from his son.  You’ve also wasted the time of countless decent actors, who could have been off doing commercials for Sudafed or something.  I expect great things from you boys.”

    But the boys weren’t paying attention.  An executive had come up to them and was propositioning them with a deal.  “Hi, my name’s Jerry.  I’m from Blockbuster.  We hate film and want to see it destroyed.  Your work is perfect for us.  You got a distributor?  We can get you some great looking cover art.”