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The Time I Almost Got to Be on 'Game of Thrones'

People ask me about who I am and where I came from a lot. What's my background, where was I before Cracked? Like, did I sleep with Dan O'Brien to get this job? And is it because I was so good that I got hired, or is it because it was so awful and the things we did so stomach turning and in violation of the basic tenets of civilized society that he bribed me to never tell anyone? What's my favorite color? There are lots of questions you could ask, and I won't answer them because you're not the boss of me. But I will tell you a thing about me, and the thing I will tell you is this -- I love Game of Thrones.

I'm maybe what you'd call a fantasy nerd hipster. Yes, I read all the books before they became a show. Except for the fifth one, because George R.R. Martin can only write one book per saturnine year or something like that. Point is, he's a bit slow. Like maybe he dictates his writing to Gary Busey and sometimes Gary doesn't even have a pen, he's just yelling the words at the paper in the hopes they'll stick.

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"Fuckin' Hodor!"

When Game of Thrones is on TV, I watch it religiously and silently critique it in my head -- silent because it's my head and I don't need to talk loudly there, and also because I am desperately alone because obviously no one is in my home. So I watch and compare to the books and bounce very slightly in my seat because the show is so awesome. Remember when Tyrion slapped Joffrey in his little smarmy cock of a face? Awesome. Remember when they poured the molten gold over Viserys' dick-like head? Awesome. Remember when Sam was hiding and the White Walkers walked by all white and awesome? Awesome!

So obviously, as a fan of the show and the books, I wanted to be a part of it. I have a lot to offer a quality program like Thrones, from my semi-believable Yorkshire accent that makes me sound like a mentally challenged Monty Python fanatic to my Wyman Manderlyesque physique that would fit right in with the Westeros countryside like a unicorn on Skagos. Holy shit, what a nerdy sentence!

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"Pardon me, sir, but I believe the unicorns of Skagos are really only a myth that no one has confirmed as of yet."

Given how obviously I belong in the world of GoT, I figured I'd help HBO out by letting them know where I was so they could get in touch with me and get the ball rolling. This was back in Season 1 of the show, mind you. I figured they'd need me in Season 2 to take the part of Jaqen H'ghar. Remember how awesome he was when he murdered all those people and then changed his own goddamn face into another goddamn face like it was a pair of boxer briefs? I wear boxer briefs all the time sometimes! I could do that!

I sent HBO a very thoughtful and detailed email that read a lot like this:

Dear HBO and the people therein,

Long time watcher, first time writer. I'm a huge fan of your series Game of Thrones and would like to offer my talents in the continuation of the show's greatness. While I'm sure you have plans for how the show is to unfold and confidence in its continued success, may I draw your attention to the following pieces of information:

  • -The ship Titanic was often considered unsinkable and was, at its launch, a worldwide phenomenon. It sank. Correspondingly, I was not on the Titanic. Had I been invited to be involved, we can only guess at the outcome.
  • -The Hindenburg. I was also not invited to attend.
  • -That show about the Geico cavemen. No one asked me my opinion before going ahead with that. Disastrous.
  • -Communism. Didn't happen when I was in town.


    Jupiterimages/Photos.com/Getty Images

    Not on my watch.

Now, don't get me wrong: I'm not saying bad things happen when I'm not around; just the opposite. I'm saying good things don't happen when I'm not around. It seems entirely plausible that my involvement in Game of Thrones would ensure that your fine program wins all the Emmys and probably an Oscar or a Tony as well. Please consider this my application.

Sincerely,

Felix Clay

P.S. I would make a badass Jaqen H'ghar, as I am a master of face making.

How do you imagine our good friends at HBO replied to this email? Did they send me a congratulatory pinata in the mail in which were stored Peter Dinklage and a contract? You would think, but no. Instead they opted to never reply at all. At all. Like there isn't even an unpaid intern over in Ireland whose job is to answer emails and clean up direwolf shits. Like that guy doesn't exist. So help me, I know he exists.

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The poopsmith has taken a vow of silence.

My ire was raised, and I vowed to never watch Thrones again until next season. No reruns during the fall or winter at all. Oh, was winter coming? I wasn't aware, because I was watching my DVDs of Wonderfalls.

Season 2 brought me back into the fold with a forgiving kiss on the forehead. How could I stay mad at HBO? Of course they were too busy to get back to me, look at what they had created. The Red Chick was making vagina monsters, and Tyrion was Hand of the King. They must have planned this early, and that was my error; I sent my last email too late in the season. I wouldn't make that mistake this time. I rattled off another email.

Mike Coppola/Getty Images Entertainment/Getty Images

I'll show you some Dinklage.

Dear HBOners,

What a great season of television you've put together so far. This really makes up for Treme, which I've never even watched, I just don't enjoy it. And you even include Hot Pie, what a great touch! Fat kids really connect with an audience.

Looking ahead to Season 3, I'm betting you're making some wicked awesome choices for who to cast as characters from beyond the Wall. Now, I don't mean to toot my own horn, but toot toot! (ha ha!) I feel that, as Mance Rayder or Rattleshirt, I'd really bring a sense of dread to the role. Or, for something more exotic, perhaps I could play Strong Belwas. I once ate 30 chicken wings in a single sitting and barely puked later, I'm pretty intense.

Enclosed is a picture of me fighting a dog.

Yours,

Felix Clay

Guess what they said to me? Guess what I got after weeks of intense anticipation and delight at the prospect of HBO and the executives in charge of the best show on television writing back to me and letting me know what they thought of my idea? That poop intern still couldn't be bothered to reply. Couldn't even take a picture of the direwolf shit on his smartphone and mail it to me.

Stockbyte/Stockbyte/Getty Images

Dire-licious.

Now listen, I'm not naive. I don't think I'm going to get to be on one of the biggest shows in TV history because I sent an email that sounds like a kid who ate a lot of lead paint wrote it. It was shtick, man! It was an attention getter. It's the same reason I reply to all my court summonses with letters written in mustard instead of ink -- because it makes people remember you.

Truth be told, my plan was to get the attention of someone at HBO, strike up a dialogue, use my charm and panache to woo them, and then, after a course of correspondence with minimal fawning but a lot of really intense interaction and exuberant ideas the likes of which they've never experienced, they'd stumble upon the idea of inviting me to be on the show themselves, as though I hadn't been leading them there the whole time. But for fuck's sake, someone needs to write back first. Are they reading all their emails on a Commodore 64 with no keyboard? What the hell?

Hemera Technologies/Photos.com

256kb of awesome!

With no time to waste, I set about cutting them off for Season 4 before Season 2 even finished airing.

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