FRED Entertainment

Sacred Heart Hospital
8 am

I’m going home next month for a family reunion. I can’t wait to see my family, especially my cousin Judy. She’s blossomed into a beautiful young lady and I’ve been thinking about her a lot. We have a real special connection, and by the way, who says cousins can’t kiss? It’s simply an expression of affection and fondness.

Kissing Cousins Five!

Meanwhile, I’m trying to get Dr. Kelso to let me assist in this heart transplant that’s scheduled. Only problem is I have to get the Bolger family to sign off on having their son donate his heart. It’s a tricky thing, so I went to my ace in the hole and bribed Dr. Kelso with my favorite life size doll. His eyes lit up when he saw her, boy do I know his weak spot. He’s like a crack addict when it comes to the ladies.

By the way, I was at the zoo this week. I forgot how much I love the zoo. Polar bears humping, monkey’s playing with themselves, lions and tigers sniffing each other and cotton candy! I could live at the zoo, if they’d let me.

Later,

The Todd

Sacred Heart Hospital

I’ve been at Sacred Heart for 5 years now and every year we take the annual staff picture. I like to think of it as “My Time.”

A chance for me to show the ladies what’s under my Scrubs. This year I’m going to  pump up, slather on some oil,  slip into my flashiest thong and just put it out there!  Let’s face it, everyone loves the Todd in a thong – women, men, young, old, black, white, fat, thin ““ everyone ““ and  when the Todd shows up in the thong, you know it’s time to get the party started, right.

Flashy Thong Five!

Enjoy those pictures and by the way, the love handles are for the ladies. They love to have something to grab on to as they enjoy the ride…

The only problem is the Janitor ruined by best picture thong, playing a practical joke on me – which I’d rather not discuss.

Let’s just refer to it as the Atomic Wedgie Incident and leave it at that. No worries though, I scrambled and managed to find a sparkly red thong just in time for the big picture. So, all I can say is, have at it and enjoy!

Oiled Up Five!
Sparkly Thong Five!
Atomic Wedgie Five!

The Todd

September 19, 2005
Sacred Heart Hospital
8 am

There are 12 residents competing for 4 attending positions at Sacred Fart Hospital, so the Big Dog has been kissing Dr. Wen’s butt big time the last few weeks. I mean come on, I’m sure Dr. Wen is impressed with my huge guns and my luck with the ladies, but clearly I’m the best surgeon. I rock! Still it doesn’t hurt to show a little love and kiss a little tushy to seal the deal.

I offered to tutor his daughter in math or science, or whatever else pops up, but he didn’t go for that. Then I offered to take him to my favorite massage parlor. Again, he wasn’t too excited. So we settled on dinner at Hooters! He’ll love it there, they have great wings (& breasts too). That’s how the Big Dog rolls.

Anyway, J.D. is turning 30. I guess that’s a big deal, I’ll let you know how it feels when it happens to me – in 2 years. Right now let’s face it, I’m in my prime sexually and ever other way too. I started taking a karate class. I take it 2-3 times a week, and I’m really learning how to kick some butt. Some of the dudes around Sacred Fart are doing the triathlon this weekend, not me. The only thing I can commit to doing for 6 hours at a time is pleasing the ladies! Come on! Marathon Sex Five! That’s how I do!

I heard Turk was going to hypnotize a patient and perform surgery, instead of using anesthesia. I tried to hypnotize this really hot babe once and it worked. Unfortunately, half way through our steamy sexual encounter she snapped out of it and wasn’t too pleased to be on my water bed with her feet duct taped around my back. So now I’m very skeptical when it comes to hypnotizing people.

Thanks for reading my blog. Check back with the Todd next week to find out what’s really happening at Sacred Fart.

Internet Five!

The Todd

September 6, 2005
Sacred Heart Hospital
11 am

They finally hired some hot, new nurses. Yes, new blood! And new boobs for me to name. That’s the first thing I do when I see a new nurse, name her boobs. I got right on it and named 16 boobs before 9 am. It’s like I’m in the army, I do more before 9 am then most people do all day. My new favorites are Sloppy and Mr. Snuggles. Anyway, enough about boobs – wait a minute, it’s never enough about boobs, but moving on.

Jordan, Dr. Cox’s wife and a member of the board of directors, is spending a lot of time at the hospital. Don’t want to get on that crazy lady’s bad side. She’ll have me holding back fat flaps in every surgical procedure for the next 6 months if I even look at her the wrong way. She is kind of hot, though. She’s tall and athletic, I’ll bet she used to play volleyball, in a bikini. I can see it now. Her specialty was spiking the ball over the net. I’d let her spike me. She can spike me anytime she wants. Oh, spike me Jordan, spike me. I’ve been bad, spike me.

I noticed Jordan’s getting suckered by that crack addict patient Sam. I can’t believe people are gullible enough to fall for what patients tell them. Anyway, I’m so excited, this really hot patient gave me her number and said she really wants to date me. Her number is 555-23451. I’ll call her when I find time later today.

What’s with Carla? I told her about a great new dive bar I found and how they have great bar food, great nachos, and all she did was laugh at me. I don’t get it, if she’s not into an extra large, sweet, hot and spicy Enchiladas, maybe she should go somewhere else. I think the Rawhide makes the best one around. Oh well. I’ll go there with some dudes, we’ll each have a Enchilada and watch the game.

Last week I had been pumping up so much, I decided to get a massage. All the women were booked, so this dude Carlos gave me the massage. While I was laying on the table, face down, looking through that hole where your head goes, I noticed Carlos had recently gotten a pedicure. Not only that, he wore a toe ring and some clear nail polish. I think I might get a pedicure this week and see what all the fuss is about. I’m on my feet in surgery for hours at a time, might as well be good to my toes… feet are hot, they’re sexy”¦ not Carlos’ feet, women’s feet. I’m rambling now, so later….

Foot Five!

From The Todd

August 29th, 2005
Sacred Heart Hospital
9 am

I’m so excited to go to work today”¦ the new interns are here and I love terrorizing them! It’s like when you join a frat; they’re the pledges and I’m already a brother. I have to see if these newbies are up to the challenge. Dance Newbie, dance!

I’ve stayed up all night thinking of practical jokes to play on them ““ they have no idea what they’re in for”¦ basically the best one so far is, I soaped up all the toilet bowl seats in the locker rooms, so when the newbies sit down they slip off”¦ classic! Self five! I’m on the look out all day for interns and when I see them, they’re in trouble. It’s going to be great.

I noticed Elliot isn’t really around and I think she transferred to another hospital. Bummer, cause I really thought she was starting to warm up to me. If I had a couple of more months I could have closed that. No doubt about it in my mind. Maybe she’ll realize she misses me and decide to come back. In the meantime I guess the Todd will have to show himself some love.

I’m going down to the gym after my shift to pump the guns. I’m huge right now, strong and lean, I’m sure every nurse in this hospital has noticed. I can feel the looks. Maybe I’ll cut the sleeves on my scrubs a little more so the ladies can enjoy. With the Summer coming to an end I want the ladies to enjoy my tan, huge guns! I’m sure Dr. Cox will be in the gym today, he’s always down there. He works hard at it, I hope
when I’m his age I look as good as he does.

By the way, Dr. Kelso was collecting urine samples and I’ve decided to go to the pet store and get some monkey urine. I’ll turn that in and we’ll see what the lab tech guys think of that. Classic Todd. Self five for the great idea. Who rules? I rule!

That’s it for now,

The Todd a.k.a the Big Dog

Really, it’s 11:41 on Wednesday night and I’m going to write this thing whip quick.  Do you honestly expect it to be good?  Do you?  Well I do.  But if it’s not, you can email me at this address:  scrubswriterblog @ yahoo.com

I’m just looney-tunes enough at this late hour (after I’ve snuck into half the writers’ offices and changed their homepages to something involving “bottle” and “guy,” after I’ve been chased by a security guard who thought I was an intruder, after I’ve eaten nearly one hundred bucks worth of sushi dinner) to wonder what kind of responses I’d get with an email address.  So send away with your “yO dUdE YOuZ sUx!!!” tomes, we’ll read the choice once in the writers’ room, and here’s the blog:

We’re taking a trip in the sorta-way-back machine today, back to the my first day working on Scrubs. Right now, it’s early December.  I’ve been here for about five months, and the digs are feeling pretty damn comfortable.  At least comfortable enough to hang my office with pictures of giant squid and a Red Dawn poster.  FYI for the new guys out there: make your office look like a dorm room and you will catch hell for it.*

Okay, so pretend it’s late-June 2005.  June 26th to be exact.  Two weeks ago Bill Lawrence, the creator of the show, sent all of the writers a letter talking about the upcoming season and how excited he was.

Included in the letter was some homework.  Here’s what it was:

1.) Come up with five stories for every character.

2.) Come up with at least ten good fantasies for JD.

3.) Interview at least two doctors to get weird/dramatic/interesting stories for the show.

4.) Come up with two full episodes — complete with A, B and C stories — that you’d like to write.  Do a good job, and you’ll get to write them.

For the past two weeks, I’ve obsessed about this stuff.  How could I not?  Like I’m going to show up on the first day of work with some s*** I scribbled out the night before on a Fatburger napkin.  Charming and quirky?  More like stupid and unprepared… although if you can pull that kind of thing off and be funny, hats off my friend.  But me?  I’ve been up every night thinking, writing, rewriting, throwing out bad stuff and coming up with new stuff.  That means no GTA.  No bowling league.  Netflix go away, I gotta concentrate.  And the dedication has paid off, because I’ve come up with more than five stories for every character.  Shoot, for JD alone I’ve got, like, eleven.  I have enough fantasies to fuel a season.  I interviewed five doctors instead of two, and I’ve interviewed three nurses more.  And now it’s the night before that first day of work.  Am I totally psyched and ready to blow everyone away with my genius?  Hell no.  I’ve got a big belly full of “uh ohs” because there’s a solid chance I’ve got twelve and a half printed pages of garbage.

“Hey, what if JD buys Kelso’s old car?”Â  No, lame.  Next.  “What if Turk and Carla can’t decide who to pick as their baby’s Godparents?”Â  No, that’s hokey.  That’s My Two Dads.  “But what if Elliot and JD don’t want the responsibility, so they  try to look irresponsible?”Â  Oh my God, let it go.  It sucks.  Cross it off.  “What if Turk builds a meth lab?”Â  Slap yourself, idiot.  But before you do, wonder what you’re gonna do about the fact that every “crazy” doctor story you got from those interviews ended with poo going some place it shouldn’t.

So that’s what my brain is doing at 2 am, and I haven’t even started thinking about the most important thing.  The absolute, most essential part of my first day.  Which is: what am I going to wear?  I’ve got lots of good t-shirts and good jeans and good sneakers.  And good polos and good button ups and good jackets and even a weird stretchy thing that feels a little like rubber and makes my nipples look pointy.  I want to look good because, as vain as it sounds, I like the idea of my new coworkers first impression being, “hey, lookit that Biegel, he’s a cool cat!  So laid back and so put together.” I want to be put-together guy.

Because people love Put-Together Guy.

So, 2 AM and what’s the wardrobe gonna be, Kev?  What stories are you gonna tell everyone tomorrow, Kev?  Do you wear the “Little Kingdom” pre-school shirt?  Do you start with the story about Elliot and her new fellowship?  Should you wear your Converse?  Should you bag the Kelso-lowers-the-temperature-in-the-hospital-to-save-money runner?  The lack of sleep the past few days and the worry about the quality of my work and the worry about the wardrobe have conspired to create a furious brainstorm, and it’s in this daze that I pick the Spanish T-shirt.

I got the Spanish t-shirt in, shockingly, Spain.  Though I hardly ever wear it, right now this thing is looking pretty sweet.  It’s black, and on the front is simple white building design by the Spanish architect Antonio Gaudi.

It’s… whimsical.

Charming, even.

“A building designed by a famed turn of the century architect on your t-shirt?  How very clever and appealing!” The shirt seems like a smart choice.  I bet my good jeans would go great with it.  Yeah!  And to top it off, how about the blue pull-over the girlfriend likes?  What a brilliant combo!  To maximize the effect, the pull over shall be unzipped halfway to more properly present the shirt’s design.  I lay the clothes out, lay down to sleep, and run over a few Turk stories before I conk out.  And when I dream that night, I dream of being Put-Together Guy.

I wake up real early and chug coffee.  Lots of it.  I don’t even think about the clothes because I made that decision last night and I know this stuff looks good.  I drive to work all full of excitement.  Oh wow there’s the hospital!  Oh wow there’s my parking space.  Me!  My mind races with thoughts of grandeur, thoughts of being funny and inventive and smart, thoughts of being liked.  And thoughts of the sweat rolling down my side, because it’s about this time I realize what I’ve done.

It’s 90 degrees out and I’m wearing a wool pullover.  I was so hopped up on excitement and caffeine that I didn’t bother to think that the hospital is in the San Fernando valley.  Once the sun comes out at, oh, about now, it’s a good 20 degrees warmer here than in my frigid catacomb of an apartment ten miles away.

The simple solution is to take off the pull over, which I do.  I haven’t even started work and the wardrobe has been compromised.  And that’s when I remember why I hardly ever wear the Spanish t-shirt.

You see, the Spanish t-shirt hates me.

Me not feeling remotely awkward.

Who’s this thing cut for?  Maybe a runway model.  Or maybe it’s supposed to drape the body of a coke slut as she wakes on the pool table in her boyfriend’s mansion.  The shirt was not cut for a run-of-the-mill white boy.  The thing is bunching up in odd places, and it’s crawling up my back.  Literally: it’s inching its way up my back, catching on sweat and skin, and as I walk in and say hi to the first people I see (our two writer’s assistants) I’m yanking the shirt down around my waist.  And I’m sweating.  I look like a junkie.  As one of the guys walks me down the hall to my office, the shirt starts to crawl up my belly.  My belly!  I can’t even enjoy seeing my office for the first time because my shirt is stuck to my belly.  This thing is sentient and it wants to kill me.  I am trying to be Put-Together Guy with my new coworkers while draped in a hateful being.  The only saving grace of this shirt is that it’s black, because that means no one can see that I’ve soaked the pits.

As I meet all the other writers I try to play calm and cool but I know I’ve got to look a little weird. And I’m worrying about the homework, too: are they going to go, “oh man, sweaty Baby Huey over there, so not funny. And so stiiinky!”Â  Damnit damnit damnit damnit damnit damnit damnit!!!  But then, as we go into the big writers’ room and start to talk, something weird happens: I start to chill out.

In my head, I had almost envisioned the first day as a giant board room with lots of old guys sitting around.  You walk in, do your presentation and they go “yay” or “boo.”Â  But this wasn’t going to be like that.  This was people talking about vacations and restaurants and boyfriends.  You always hear that about TV and movie crews: “Aw jeez, two weeks into production and Charlie the grip was like my brother! I swear, we’re a big old family!”Â  But the writers at Scrubs have been together for four years.  They’ve gone to each other’s weddings.  Their kids have played together.  The whole two weeks leading up to this, the only notion in my head was that the spotlight was going to be on me, and that I had better perform.  I hadn’t taken the time to realize — to just sit back and chill the hell out and realize — that no, no way, it wasn’t going to be me walking in, all eyes turning toward me expectantly, and then I just start firing off the comedy rockets, man. I hadn’t really grasped that no, I already earned my spot.  I’m here.  So slowly, I sat back and I did chill the hell out and enjoyed the conversations happening around me.  How are the twins?  How’s the beach house coming along?  Does Bill Callahan’s dog still smell? The twins are great, the beach house is coming along and like a fat kid’s bellybutton, by the way.

Bill took charge and laid out the plan for the year, and I was even more comfortable because I realized he wasn’t going to make me stand up and give some horrid introductory “hey I’m Kevin so glad to be here I love sitcoms and tacos!!” speech.  Bless him for that.  As he talked it was reassuring, hopeful… s***, it was great.  I sat near the writers’ table and we all listened and talked for hours.  Note “near” and not “at”: me and Aseem, the other new writer, sat on a nearby couch because there weren’t enough chairs for everyone (it would take me one more week to get the stones to grab a chair AT the table).  Bill talked about how the show was doing: how it sold into syndication (Comedy Central), how the network feels about us, how he feels creatively invigorated.  And he had concrete ideas about where the show can go this year, and what characters can do, and goddamnit I counted it as a victory that a few of the ideas I wrote down he had written down, too.

This show — any show — is written by a lot of people, and though you do have to prove yourself, ultimately the process is not about the individual you.  I guess I should’ve just kept in mind what Bill had written at the bottom of that letter.

“I expect a lot out of all of you.  Except Kevin and Aseem.  Don’t make me too crazy and you’ll do fine.”

I still hate that f***ing Spanish t-shirt, though.

*Most TV writers would rather give Leon Spinks a sponge bath than hang so much as a picture of their kid in their office.  That’s not because they hate their kids or because they haven’t come to terms with their feelings regarding Mr. Spinks, although I’m sure some are guilty of both.  It has more to do with the fact that you don’t spend all that much time in your office. That and the fact that the running idea seems to take its cue from Robert De Niro in Heat — you want to be able to leave a place in 30 seconds flat.  Me, I got a shag carpet and a statue of Elvis and I’m feeling right at home.

Imagine, more than anything, you want to bake apple pies. The first time you took a bite of apple pie, way back when you were little, you said, “ho boy I love this apple pie so much, sweet god I’ve found my purpose in life.” So you work and you work and you work at it and eventually you get pretty good at baking apple pies. And then one day, after your professors and parents and even your little old grandma has given up on you as some crazy brained pie baker, you get hired at the best apple pie baking shop in town. People from miles around come to eat this pie, it’s that good. You are freaking out: this is your dream. You’re going to bake apple pies with best of them. And then your big moment — the first apple pie you bake is served up! Swollen with pride, you watch that lucky customer take his big first bite. And then you watch him spit it out and fix you with angry eyes as he says, “It tastes like you s*** in this.”

And that, in a pretty frigging good metaphor, was my biggest fear a few months ago as I went into my job as a staff writer on Scrubs. This is my first truly big gig as a television writer, and it’s on a show I’ve loved since the first episode. I stress – since the first episode. This show that I’m writing on is one of the reasons I wanted to write TV in the first place. It’s very surreal. I suppose I should introduce myself. Hi, my name is Kevin Biegel, and this is the “intro” blog. As such there’s no giant point because I’m trying to make a deadline. If you want to see the pictures, go ahead and skip to the bottom.

As I type this I’m in my office and hopped up on about twelve cups of coffee. It’s very dark outside and everyone went home for the day hours ago. I’ve got those antsy gut pangs you get when you know you can leave work but something is making you stay. I’m pretty much all alone in the abandoned hospital where we shoot the show. Much has been said about how creepy this place is. It’s “haunted” some have said. It’s “about to fall apart” and “infested with mice and rotting things” and “teeming with black mold” that will “years later, kill me.” All of which may be true, but more than anything else, I find the hospital charming. It’s cavernous and full of old equipment, the kind of place you’d love to sneak into when you were a kid. You’ll start in a dark spooky room full of giant, leaky machinery, exit to a musty hallway full of unused lighting equipment, and end up on the set for J.D.’s apartment. That set is right down the hall from my office, and my office is actually a converted old patient’s room. During the course of this place’s days as a hospital, I’m sure a few old geezers croaked in here. If their spirits are wandering around this place – hell if they’re looking over my shoulder as I type – well, I say a big old hearty hello! Please don’t haunt me. And sorry about the farting.

So three paragraphs in and that’s one fart mention and one mention of defecating in someone’s mouth. What up, Disney! (Disney owns the show. Go see Chicken Little)

So you get that I’m excited to be here, right? That hand in hand with that is the fear of doing a bad job on something I love? As these blogs go on I’ll write about what it’s like to work on the show, what you go through”¦ your basic young writer’s view on stuff. And a fan’s view on it all, too. I promise I’ll try to write this thing as honestly as possible. I’m pretty hard on myself: while one day I might go home thinking “goddamn, I’m a funny man,” the next I’m just as likely to walk out of here shaking my head thinking “man, you sucky fraud.” And not to be self aggrandizing, but when I was starting out, I didn’t find a lot to read as far as “here’s what the freshman year of writing on a TV show is like.” So hopefully that’s what this will be. That peppered with stories about the writers, stories about the cast and anecdotes. Lots of anecdotes. Anecdotes like this:

I just went on a walk to get coffee, and I found a giant cart filled with Hostess stuff. Chocodiles, Twinkies, caramel Ho Hos. Caramel?! S*** yeah caramel! That’s almost as good as finding the same mountain of stuff in a dumpster behind 7-11, except it’s not in a dumpster behind 7-11. This stuff probably belongs to set dressing, but at this late hour they’ve all gone home. As I walked back to my office with two big fistfuls of Ding Dongs, I thought to myself, “man, right now, I am the King of Scrubs.” Tomorrow, after set dressing reads this, I’m sure they’ll say, “you’re gonna pay us back for those Ding Dongs, stupid.” And I’m gonna say, “sorry, no.” And they’ll say, “Why no?” And I’ll say, “Because I am the King of Scrubs. It says so on the blog, jerks. Burn.” I ate those free Ding Dongs, and they were good. Burn.

So there’s the first blog, all seven disconnected paragraphs. Did you read that last paragraph and mutter, “this jackass writes for TV?” Well, I read it and muttered the same thing. Except I had a belly full of free fruit pies. Burn. I promise future blogs will be much, much shorter and they might actually be about something. I’ve been told that most of these will be in video format, too. Which is great and all, except that probably translates to me pointing the camera at people and throwing acorns or dead snails at their heads. Or, conversely, me getting punched in the head for throwing the stuff. But for now, I leave you first with a picture of me and The Todd in a robe:

And then a picture of me with The Todd without the robe: