Is there anything in this country that workers’ unions refuse to ruin? The 12-hour workday, child labor, free trade, efficient work practices — and now, my favorite prime-time television shows. It never ends.

With the Writers Guild of America’s strike, current television programming, and perhaps even November sweeps, is in jeopardy. And mark my words, I’ll be hotter than a two-dollar pistol if these hooligans make me miss an episode of House.

What can writers possibly be complaining about? Next to pro athletes, they have the greatest jobs in the country. The only difference is that while pro athletes entertain me on a regular basis, the same can’t be said for the hacks in charge of Saturday Night Live and pretty much any show on CBS.

Look, if I don’t feel bad when some illiterate at the Ford Motor plant complains about his job, I sure as hell ain’t going to feel bad when some pompous English major who drives around in a Volvo voices the grievances he has about his.

It’s simple. If you have a problem with your job, quit. I could understand immigrant sex slaves picketing for an increase in their weekly condom ration — because they have no other choice but to perform their work. But TV writers? Give me a freakin’ break. No one is forcing these crybabies to write unoriginal sitcoms and dated jokes for Jay Leno.

Have the members of the WGA forgotten that they aren’t real workers? They’re writers. Do you know what it’s like to work as a writer? It’s not like you’re mining coal or fighting fires. The only physical activity writers have to partake in is moving their fingers. And the rules of the workplace aren’t quite the same as your normal job either.

Hell, as I write this I’m half-drunk, downing my fifth Miller Lite, watching videos on YouTube, wearing a pair of gym shorts and slippers and eating a bowl of Spaghetti O’s. Go to any other job and try this and I’m fairly confident you’ll get fired on the spot. But not if you’re a writer. That kind of behavior is not only permitted, it’s encouraged. It fosters “creative thinking.”

The WGA doesn’t seem to realize this. Every one of its members could be easily bussing tables or working a drive-thru. But instead, they’re making a living by doing what a bunch of college kids do on a Wednesday night for fun — smoke pot, make sex jokes and think of ridiculous scenarios that would probably never happen in real life.

And it’s all the fault of unions — a concept, by the way, that is inherently socialist and anti-American. Unions constantly conspire against the benevolent corporations that support them and disrupt the American economy for their own self-interest. And now, they’ve poisoned the minds of America’s writers, causing them to refuse to perform a job most of us would kill for.

Worthless unions. Nothing is ever enough for these people. You give ’em safety glasses, soon they want a safety helmet. You give a week’s vacation, they want two. You pay employees with credit at the company store, they demand actual money.

And for some reason, we oblige. Did we not learn any lessons from the books If You Give a Mouse a Cookie and If You Give a Moose a Muffin? The more we concede, the more the unions are going to take.

I don’t know if I can handle it anymore. In the past I’ve tolerated union work stoppages, but only because they don’t actually affect much. If the UAW strikes, I can’t buy a car for a few weeks. If a teacher’s union strikes, kids don’t attend school for a few days. If a construction union strikes, only two people can take smoke breaks at a time, instead of the normal three.

But when writers go on strike, we all feel the pinch, especially me. I’m subjected to watching reruns of crappy shows, instead of new and exciting episodes of crappy shows. I turn on Conan and listen to old jokes about Jerry Falwell’s death. It feels like I’ve gone back in time, kind of like Martin Lawrence in Black Knight. It’s awful (both the movie and the feeling).

I just hope these writers recognize how childish they’re being, and go back to work entertaining me. If not, I don’t know what I’ll do with myself. If I increase my video game-playing time any more, I’ll probably have a seizure. If I go the gym, I might have a heart attack. Lord knows I’m not going to read a book.

Well, I guess I still have pornography and drinking. That’s usually good for keeping me occupied throughout the day. Let’s just hope that the producers of those fine products don’t have a damn union too.

Brian Fudge, a senior in the College of Communication, is a weekly columnist for The Daily Free Press. He can be reached at [email protected].