Happy Plonker
[Shot opens on a dusky studio. The stands are empty, and will remain so, because the live television audience, in this case, are piped in over the Internet, and drawn in with computer graphics, should any shots pan out away from the set. Light glistens on the host's desk like a disco ball and a painfully orange man sits in the Lazee Boy (tm) chair next to the host, who looks like the sort of person you'd imagine not wearing pants behind the anchor desk. He isn't. He's wearing a kilt, despite the fact that he's from an Inuit family, born and raised in Alaska. But you can't see any of this, so just ignore it. Just know that he's got a look on his face like he wants you to think he might not be wearing anything behind that desk, and he knows it creeps most of his viewers out. We join them in progress.]
ORANGE: Well, Brad, I'm going to have to say that I'm the most fascinating person I know.
INUIT SCOTSMAN: Really? Is that so? Now, you've met the Dalai Lama, correct? Isn't he mildly fascinating?
ORANGE: Mildly. You see, that whole thing with the sheep he has is completely and utterly fake.
INUIT: Sheep?
ORANGE: Yeah, sheep. Didn't you know he's got this sheep gimmick? He pretends to bite the head off a live one at the first meeting he has with just about everybody. But you can see he swaps it out for a fake one at the last second. White chocolate.
INUIT: Huh. I didn't know that.
ORANGE: What? About the sheep being white chocolate or that he bit the head off them to impress people?
INUIT: Both, actually. Probably the second, moreso, since I still haven't gotten my head around that one to even start thinking about the white chocolate bit.
ORANGE: Hey, is it true you have something like thirty seven thousand words for 'snow?' Or is it 'cold?'
INUIT: What? No, not me, personally. Despite my bio, I actually grew up in Pasadena. My dad was a dentist. I don't know what that has to do with anything. [INUIT turns and throws a grin and a shrug at the television camera.]
ORANGE: Oh, man, is that ever a disappointment. I had some snow at home I wanted analyzed. Oh well, I'll try Oprah out next week.
INUIT [starting and shifting uncomfortably back around to his guest]: Right. So. Oprah. Be sure to give my love to her. Not literally, of course. Just sort of nod to her and say, coolly, mind you, "Hey Oprah. Brad says 'what's up.' That's all. I don't want to seem overbearing. At any rate. Oprah, the circuit. You're making it. Because of your book. Sorry, movie. What's it like?"
ORANGE: Well, it's good. You know, lots of tender scenes. And I pretend to kiss a plum at some point. I'm not sure why the director put that in there, but there you go, obviously people were clamoring for me to kiss a plum, or we were paid by the Plum Farmers of Chile or something, and there you have it." [glancing offstage] "Umm, right, and I don't pretend to kiss the plum. I actually do kiss it. No stunt double, even though I think I may be allergic to plums. Definitely not a stunt double. Anyway, I believe you have this clip?"
INUIT: Yeah, no. Sorry, we forgot about that one. And I'm afraid we're out of time, here... next week, tune in: we've got someone who's wrote a book!
[INUIT and ORANGE shake hands and move their mouths without saying anything, presumably this will be filled in later by computer graphics, as well.]
disclaimer:
And yet once again, we're gonna plug our favorite book in the whole entire world: Fenway Fiction. Go out there, buy it, love it, treat it to dinner and a movie. Give it to your kids, your kids' kids, and then make them go out and buy their own copy, too. I have to put food on the table, you understand. Buy a copy for your dog. Or your birdcage. I don't mind seeing it lining a bird's cage, so long as that bird is well cared for and healthy, so if a friend comes by and looks in your bird's cage and says, "Hey man, what's that in the bottom of the cage?" and you say, "It's Fenway Fiction," and then they go, "Oh wow, that's such a healthy looking bird, I'm gonna need to go out and get that for my bird!" And off they run. Sorry to make your houseguests run off like that, but we're just trying to do a decent sell job on this Red Sox book. Especially as they're probably doomed to enter three thousand years of misery because they're such a bunch of drama queens. And speaking of drama queens, if you live in the greater Boston metro area and happen to see a Boston sportswriter (with the possible exceptions of Chris Snow and Russ Conway), feel free to kick the living crap out of them, as it's that little known Chinese year of the "kick the crap out of a Boston sportswriter because they're a bunch of miserable hacks who deserve getting kicked." Hell, fly out to the greater Boston metro area if you don't live near there; it's bound to be a good time.
And on to other matters. You're going to think we've gone terribly commercial, here at Sane Magazine. I mean, first we push this book, that you have to pay for. We do this for a couple of weeks. We're perhaps getting a bit obnoxious about it. You tell yourself we'd probably shut up about it if you just went out and bought the damn thing already. But still, for some reason, you resist. Tell yourself it'll have to end eventually. And then, then, then, we come out with this one. The thing we haven't even mentioned yet.
The thing we're gonna mention right now.
Here goes.
Now it's not a big thing, you understand. It's just. Well. The janitor, he's got this kid now, you see, and he expects to be paid, like. By us. Which, sure, is a bit hurtful, after all we've done for him. But still. We've got to comply, otherwise we're going to have a real mess on our hands, and most of us really hate tidying up.
So. What we have.
We have, like, this store, you see. It's a small one. Where you can buy stuff. I know, what were we thinking, anti-commie-anti-pinko b**tards. But listen, it's not all just taking your money and running, it's not, honest!
Because, when you give us some of your hard earned cash you will be getting hard spun shirts and baby things and coffee mugs and stickers in return! With clever, Sane Magazine-like sayings on them! For example, never get mistaken for a porn site ever again! Let everyone know you get all the babes. In the royal 'we', no less! Ask for your trousers back (well, more like demand, but hey). Or just say, "Hey man, I dig Sane Magazine." People will even think you might work for us. Which is sure to increase your standing in society.
So click on over to http://www.cafepress.com/sanemagazine/, or click the lovely graphic over to the left, there, underneath the other thing you can click and from which you can buy things. Make sure our janitor might get paid.
Thank you.
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