Me: I grew up on the border with Quebec. The French had strippers and all-night drinking, but we had farm jobs. If we could have got together, we would have had it all, but the French were too upset about being left out of a sales promotion for a flavoured breakfast cereal. It was typical of the kind of discrimination that Quebecers have had to endure since Montcalm fell in the battle of the Plains of Abraham in 1759. It started with a pancake embargo, followed by a poutine policy, and by the 1970's, junk food exports to Quebec had receded to a trickle. Such cruelties reflect the hopeless barrier between English Canada and its French ancestor, going so far as to divide families like my own. My nephew from Gatineau knows what I'm talking about. Maurice Bouchard-Kowalski!
(Applause. Enter Bouchard-Kowalski.)
Me: Maurice, why don't you ever visit me?
Bouchard-Kowalski: Are you still sleeping on the floor?
Me: You don't visit your English relatives enough.
Bouchard-Kowalski: You don't concentrate the alcohol in your beer enough for me to handle that hillbilly music.
Me: Well at least it stops us from getting into snowmobile collisions in broad daylight on a frozen lake.
Bouchard-Kowalski: Sure. After you gave me the keys and told me it could fly.
Me: Maurice, let's not fight, okay? I wanted you to answer some questions for me.
Bouchard-Kowalski: Go ahead.
Me: Didn't you say 'Bain Oui.' once and doesn't that literally translate to 'Bread Yes'? That must be improper French. And didn't your father say 'C'est bon marchez!' which means 'a good walk' when he was talking about a good deal? That's very confusing. I wish you would speak your French more clearly.
Bouchard-Kowalski: You must be kidding.
Me: No. I'm serious.
Bouchard-Kowalski: English has thousands of confusing idioms.
Me: Like what?
Bouchard-Kowalski: Like when you say 'It's raining cats and dogs' or when you say 'She's in hot water'. Or when you say 'It's across the board'. What board? Do you mean an executive group? Or a piece of wood? Where?
Me: But you people don't swear harshly enough. In English 'sacrament' isn't even a swear word. You need to sink lower so you can pull out words like fuck and fucker and fucked and asshole and-
Bouchard-Kowalski: Fuck is a sex word. French people are less offended by that than by religious swear words.
Me: Yeah, but in English you can join a religious one to a sexual one and say 'goddamn motherfucker'.
Bouchard-Kowalski: We would just double up on a religious one: 'sacrement tabernac'.
Me: What does that mean?
Bouchard-Kowalski: It's sort of like saying 'goddamn church'. What gives you the right to criticize my French anyway? You can't even speak French.
Me: I can read it. That's enough.
Bouchard-Kowalski: Oh yeah? (pulling out a note pad and writing on it.) What does this say? (He tears off a sheet and hands it to me. I look at it for a second.)
Me: We're out of time.
Bouchard-Kowalski: Wrong.
Me: No. We're out of interview time. But thanks for visiting, Maurice. And my sleeping accommodations are much better. I have a carpet now. But even that would probably not be good enough for you. Maurice Bouchard-Kowalski! We'll be back right after this.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Commercial: Save Dave
(A pizza parlour.)
Me: (humbly) Could you just save me the crust?
Customer: You want the crust? Why don't you stand on your head and I'll feed it to you as my friend takes your picture?
Me: Do you think I have no pride?
Customer: Then I'll eat it all.
Me: Go ahead.
(She munches on the pizza slice.)
Me: Yes. That satisfying warmth, that chewy cheese...
(She looks up at me, her jaws still working.)
Me: The saliva glands kick into gear. The mouth is full; the taste buds stroked by tiny gondola pilots, sending happy vibrations of tangy goodness to the brain-
Customer: Turn around.
Me: Aw! (I put my hand up to stem the drool as I reluctantly make a ninety degree turn. She takes another bite. I try to sneak a peak.)
Customer: All the way.
Me: Aw!
Announcer: With no money, Dave got no respect. He's only now learning to put his life back together.
(The parlour. Same group.)
Me: Can I buy you a pizza slice?
Customer: Sure.
(I buy her the slice.)
Me: Where do you want to sit?
Customer: Aren't you eating?
Me: No.
Customer: Well you're not watching me eat.
Me: Aw!
Announcer: He gave you his heart and you won't even let him watch you eat. But what if there was an earthquake?
(Ruins. I rotate a squirrel on a spit over a campfire.)
Customer: Can I have some of that?
Me: (with loving kindness) You can have the tail.
Announcer: Dave knows how to catch rodents. And he'd share with you. We know you can't send him the millions of dollars he deserves, but even if you only have a few fast food coupons, you can still help this tragic victim.
(I arrange a stack of slices, hold it between myself and the customer, and we cheerfully bite off its opposing ends.)
Announcer: Brought to you by the Foundation to Save Dave.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Me: I must have impressed our next visitor from out of province with my tales of going to the corner store for beer when I was in Quebec because he went all the way there to see for himself. My friend, Manfred Ziegler!
(Applause. Enter Ziegler.)
Me: Nice to have you back for a visit. I'm surprised you went over there.
Ziegler: After you told me all about their superior health care and welfare system when I was out of work? After you mentioned their affordable rent the day after I payed my landlord? After you said they had a soft spot for poets when I was trying to write a book?
Me: I didn't think you'd really do it.
Ziegler: You talked me into it, Dave, and I paid the price.
Me: Hey, if something went wrong, don't go pinning it on me. I was just telling you what it was like for me. I have family over there and I drew employment insurance. But they do love poets.
Ziegler: Well that might be true for French poets, but not English devil poets who would threaten cultural integrity.
Me: You didn't go to the corner store for beer?
Ziegler: I didn't draw employment insurance. Why didn't you tell me that before?
Me: You couldn't cash in on the cheap rent?
Ziegler: No. But there's a gang of drifters from English Canada that live in an abandoned railroad tunnel on the city outskirts. We learned how to store the potash in barrels and burn it to keep us warm.
Me: (unsure of myself) And the health care?
Ziegler: My form here used to say 'disability: depression'. There it reads 'disability: english'. You get one polio shot.
Me: So they didn't roll out the red carpet for you.
Ziegler: No, Dave. They swept me under it.
Me: Oh well. I'm glad you made it here tonight. Manfred Ziegler! (Applause)
Ziegler: By the way, I can't catch my ride home until Sunday. Can I crash here for the weekend?
Me: Oh, I don't know. That wouldn't be proper.
Ziegler: Then I guess I'll have to let you roll out your carpet.
Me: You want to stay in my room? Sorry. I don't have the space for a guest right now-
(Applause. Commercial.)
Me: Some provinces have been accused of exporting their undesirables to other provinces. I dislike the use of a term like 'undesirable'. I don't like to see anyone get put in a category. With that in mind, our final guest on the D.S. Show - before we go off the air to develop the new format - just got here from Montreal and is just as normal as anyone else, Gaston Salut!
(Applause. Enter Salut.)
Me: How do you like it here?
Salut: I like the mountains and the woods.
Me: You like it out there?
Salut: It reminds me of my childhood training.
Me: Training?
Salut: In the woods with my father. My father had a lot of weapons. He showed me how to use them in the woods when I was growing up. We would practice on the bears.
Me: You're allowed to do that? I can see how they offer an easy target, but you wouldn't want to miss.
Salut: You don't miss with high explosives.
Me: You know how to use those?
Salut: I know how to make them. Nothing to it. But if you want to take out a larger area, you need to throw some shrapnel in the mix: bent nails, glass shards, you know. You pour some gunpowder out on a table, sprinkle them in, maybe pass the rolling pin over it a couple times...
Me: Why would you want to widen the (pause to gulp) killing zone?
Salut: To get more revenge on the English for turning my people into second-class citizens outside of their homeland.
(Suddenly we are interrupted by the voice of a police negotiator with a megaphone, accompanied by the beating of helicopter blades closing in.)
Officer: Gaston Salut. We have you surrounded.
Me: Sounds like someone wants to talk to you.
Salut: Who is it?
Me: A police SWAT team.
Salut: Police? Mon Dieu! My brother Sylvain must be at it again. Using my name. He's out of control.
Me: What's that hanging out of your sleeve?
Salut: That? That's just a loose wire - I mean - thread.
Me: Is there a God? I've been fairly open about my faith or lack of faith over the years, but even as an atheist, I found myself arguing in favour of religion. I think we need it. I think it helps us to accept suffering. I think it disciplines our use of power. And while some say it makes no sense to believe without evidence, I find that life makes no sense without God to believe in. My guests tonight are all atheists I've been in contact with online. They'll be asking me the questions on this compelling and divisive issue. We'll start with a guru who has the added advantage of receiving views and comments from his followers. Popularly known as the Crazy Christ-killer, Craig Bilson!
(Applause. Enter Bilson.)
Me: Why are you looking at me like that?
Bilson: Because you're a turncoat.
Me: Come on. Even when I called myself an atheist, I openly defended religion.
Bilson: Then why did you call yourself an atheist?
Me: My life was so bad after I deleted my work from the web that I lost my faith in God.
Bilson: And now you're a Christian again. What makes you think you have faith in God when you had no faith in your atheism?
Me: Isn't that what atheism is? Absence of faith?
Bilson: To me it's faith in the absence of faith. Why does your faith depend on your popularity?
Me: When I'm popular, I need God to prevent me from succumbing to my tyrannical urges.
Bilson: Don't you trust yourself with power?
Me: I don't trust anyone but God with it. Only God is perfect. People make mistakes. And power is too seductive.
Bilson: Yeah. Look what it did to the Reverend Jim Jones. Are you sure your faith is protecting you from corruption?
Me: Jim Jones was dishonest. Faith doesn't work on liars. Real faith in God should remind you that all power comes from above.
Bilson: How can you worship something you can't even see?
Me: I do see him. He was sitting right where you are not long ago. He lives in Wyoming.
Bilson: (laughing) I'm pretty sure that was just an actor. God is all in your mind.
Me: Along with you, this studio, and the sky above. And hopefully I'm in yours.
Bilson: That's because I can see you. I don't see any Supreme Beings floating around.
Me: It demeans God to become visible here among the faithless. But my faith is not even so much about whether or not I can see God. It's about the kind of person it makes me: forgiving, considerate, modest. Most of all, it helps me to accept suffering.
Bilson: I thought you said you lost your faith when your life was bad.
Me: Oh it's gotten much worse since then. But of course, that's not your fault. Thank you for joining us tonight. Craig Bilson, the Crazy Christ-Killer!
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Commercial: Save Dave
(An anvil factory. A stuntman stands in my place alongside a rookie forklift driver, teaching her how to stack a load.)
Stuntman: Now these things weigh ten thousand pounds each, so there is absolutely no room for error. As you can see, we stack them four high.
Rookie: You want me to put that way up there?
Stuntman: Don't worry. The cage will protect you if it falls. Now get under the load. (She drives the forks under the anvil.) Good. (Now tilt up.)
Rookie: Which lever is that one?
Stuntman: (pointing) There. (She tilts the massive load against the mast of the vehicle.) All the way back. That's good. Now lift it up. (Her forks carry the load up out of sight.)
Rookie: Why is it wobbling like that?
Stuntman: Don't worry. That's normal. Now you only need to tilt down and let it slide onto the stack.
Rookie: This one, right?
Stuntman: NO! THAT'S THE ROTATE LEVER!
(The anvil tumbles down, crashes against the forklift, and bounces off camera, leaving the rookie unharmed.)
Rookie: Hey, Dave, you were right! The cage protected me! Dave? DAVE!
(The anvil rests on its side with the stuntman's arm sticking out from under it.)
Announcer: Who says Dave needs to die by his own hand? It could easily happen on just about any of the jobs he is forced to do without the money he is owed by the entertainment business. What if he died today? Where would that leave you?
(Hell. A whip-wielding demon breaks in some new prisoners.)
Prisoner: You want me to push that freight car all the way up that ramp by hand?
Demon: You made Dave do it.
Prisoner: Who's Dave?
Demon: The one you left unpaid for all his music and comedy. You fool, didn't anyone ever tell you laughter was the language of the soul?
Prisoner: But I didn't even know the guy!
Demon: That's because you neglected him all his life! Now get to work!
(The prisoner starts the freight car moving with a heavy grunt. A few steps into his task he starts whistling.)
Demon: (cracking his whip) No music!
Announcer: If Dave dies, there could Hell to pay - or at least Purgatory. Think about it. A message from the Foundation to Save Dave.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Me: Up next is a Marxist who believes that religion is the opiate of the masses. She thinks it is a tool of power to oppress the population. Yvonne Redrumovitch!
(Applause. Enter Redrumovitch in combat fatigues with a red armband.)
Me: Well, go ahead. Let me have it.
Redrumovitch: Why did you defend religion when you were an atheist?
Me: I thought there was a need for it among people who don't study ethics.
Redrumovitch: You mean dummies?
Me: I might have thought of them that way as an atheist, but now I see them more as children - beautiful, innocent children.
Redrumovitch: Not worthless sinners as you once wrote?
Me: In the darkest depths of my blind atheism? No.
Redrumovitch: With you as their parent?
Me: No. With myself as one of them.
Redrumovitch: How can you believe in God without passing judgement on me, which is forbidden by your religion?
Me: I accept atheists as playing a part in God's plan, but my faith causes me to clash with them.
Redrumovitch: And do you also accept the dictatorship of the corporate elite as God's plan?
Me: I'm sure it's better than the dictatorship of Stalin. But any system has room for improvement.
Redrumovitch: Yes. And how can it improve if everyone accepts it as God's will?
Me: By man's will.
Redrumovitch: But doesn't belief in God sap man's will by reducing us to mere pawns in an almighty hand?
Me: An almighty hand that never errs, you mean? On the contrary, my belief in God inspires me to strive for perfection.
Redrumovitch: How can you say it never errs? Think of bloody history! Think of your own trials!
Me: Think of the Saviour's trial. As a flawed human being with shallow vision, I am incapable of passing fair judgement on human history, however horrible it appears to me. I just have to trust in God.
Redrumovitch: Yes. I can see that the drug-like hold that your religious faith has on you is very powerful. But if you shake yourself free of this delusion, you could unlock the full potential of your mind.
Me: People like you are too analytical. Much of the human experience is felt rather than thought. And how is my religious faith any less drug-like than your political doctrine?
Redrumovitch: At least my doctrine is focused on humanity.
Me: And my faith is focused on eternity. But thank you for helping me strengthen it. Yvonne Redrumovitch, people! Coming soon to a barracks near you!
(Applause. Commercial.)
Me: He's one of those scientists who thinks religion obstructs technology. Would you please welcome Professor Gunther Gundlack!
(Applause. Enter the bespectacled Gundlack.)
Me: I'm all yours, Professor.
Gundlack: Yes. How is your music coming along? Have you written any new algorithms -I mean- songs?
Me: I had a fresh inspiration the other night, but I haven't put words to it yet.
Gundlack: I see. (He jots down something in a note pad.) And how about the drawings? Anything new there?
Me: No. I've been catching up with my writing instead.
Gundlack: Catching up with the writing. (He takes another note.) And do you feel ready to perform yet?
Me: I might need to practice a bit first.
Gundlack: Yes, that always helps. (He makes another entry.)
Me: Professor, what are you writing?
Gundlack: (looking up) I believe our agreement was that I should ask the questions for this interview. (He produces a rubber mallet.) Could you lay your right hand flat on the desk for me?
Me: Why?
Gundlack: Please.
Me: (complying) I don't see what this has to do with God.
Gundlack: Does this hurt? (He whacks my fingers with the mallet, causing me to groan.)
Me: Of course! Professor, what are you doing?
Gundlack: Yes, that's good. You've retained your sensitivity. (He scratches out another note.)
Me: Why wouldn't I? Professor- (Gundlack pulls out a remote control device and flicks a switch that sends me into a trance.)
Gundlack: Now listen up, G-5. Mission code-named Operation Burnout is on schedule. Guitar-based Headphones Algorithms have been transmitted to all units. Prepare to receive programming for upcoming world tour by satellite beam commencing in three - two - one! (A piercing whine is accompanied by flashing lights for a few seconds.) G-5, are you ready to rock? Repeat. Are you ready to rock?
Me: (monotone) Affirmative.
Gundlack: Excellent. Then I'll take you off standby. (He flicks his remote and I assume a normal posture.)
Me: Oh hello there. Aren't you the scientist that thinks religion is obstructing technology?
Gundlack: Not any more.
Me: Oh. Well then I guess that concludes our discussion for the evening. But stay tuned for an algorithm -I mean- a song after these messages.
Me: The word consumerism has a derogatory ring. But in a land overflowing with goods and services addressing every need from abdominal gas relief to zero-emissions, it's only natural for a person to fall under the spell of the advertising mantra - or should I say, jingle. As a youngster, I used to love to turn the pages of my Sears catalogue and eye the team jerseys. I would imagine myself in those jerseys, looking so good and smelling like ink. And I would dream of outfitting an army of boys in the logo of my team, with matching North Star sneakers. And we would have wars with other boys in different jerseys and sneakers. And we would win because they didn't look as cool as we did. I've long outgrown my sports jerseys, but I still can't overcome my passion for those white leather North Star sneakers with the blue stripes. Kicking off tonight's program is a woman who may be able to tell me just how hopelessly enslaved I am to my childhood programming. She's a marketing analyst with a prominent advertising firm, Doctor Penelope Brainstorm!
(Applause. Enter Brainstorm.)
Me: Give it to me straight, Doctor. Am I doomed?
Brainstorm: If you're referring to the programming that you received in your childhood, I'm afraid it went in deep.
Me: So I'm always going to be a 70's kid? There's no way out of it?
Brainstorm: That's how you were moulded.
Me: Phew! What a relief! I'm safe inside my little world of eight-track cassettes and laughably oversized, gas-guzzling vehicles.
Brainstorm: Well, not entirely. There are some mitigating factors in your case.
Me: Oh-oh. Like what?
Brainstorm: Well, of course, your personality was forged through the mid-to-late 1960's, which was a time of tremendous social upheaval, when resistance to the mainstream was pioneered by popular artists, musicians, and activists. Then in the years that followed, comprising of your earliest memories, non-conformity itself became the mainstream.
Me: And the music rocked. But if everyone is a non-conformist, doesn't that still hold them together in an exploitable group?
Brainstorm: It does, but we don't want our consumers thinking too independently.
Me: Gotcha. But people still went out and bought a lot of useless junk like they were supposed to.
Brainstorm: Yes. They simply questioned their decision before they bought it.
Me: Is that all I need to worry about?
Brainstorm: No. The other barrier to your programming is your creativity. You're an artist, which means that your mind does not respond to commercials in the anticipated way.
Me:Â I think I know what you mean. I used to get Big Mac attacks from watching Sesame Street. Those life-sized muppets made me think of H.R. Puffinstuff, which, in turn, made me think of Mayor MacCheese and the Hamburgler.
Brainstorm: Actually, that's what was supposed to happen.
Me: It was?
Brainstorm: Yes. That's a normal association. But as you know, I'm friends with your sister-in-law, and she will never forget how you went crazy at the age of six from the sound of her wedding guests tapping their wine glasses with their spoons. She said you even assaulted one of her guests.
Me: So? I just don't like it is all.
Brainstorm: Why?
Me: It sounds... stupid.
Brainstorm: Really. That's very interesting. (She produces a wine glass and a stainless steel spoon.)
Me: What have you got there? (She starts tapping the glass with the spoon.) Don't do that! (She persists.) Stop! That's enough, now! (More tapping.) I said that's enough! (With an anguished cry, I spring from my desk, pounce on a cameraman, and start slapping him out.) You son of a bitch! I'll kill you!
Cameraman: Help!
(Brainstorm stops tapping and I cease hostilities.)
Me: What happened? Sid! Are you all right?
Brainstorm: Fascinating.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Commercial: Save Dave
(Me in 2008. I take the stage and start performing my song, Free. A few bars into it an audience member nods to the sound man. The sound man returns the nod, flicks a switch, and my music falls silent. I continue playing, looking like a fool, as the onlookers boo me.)
Announcer: When they pulled the plug on Dave, they didn't just clear the way for a bunch of unworthy shams to take his place; they turned him off of performing.
(A venue. A couple watch King Shit rattling off words to the predictable rhythm of a drum machine.)
King Shit: I'm the king of the shits! I'm full of myself! And nothing's more cool than my fame and wealth! And if you don't care to be in my place, I'll flush myself all over your face!
Man: Who did he say he was?
Woman: I don't know. But he looks like someone who can't sing, can't play a musical instrument, and probably can't draw or write comedy either.
Man: You're right. Let's go home and put on some Dave videos. Maybe he's even posted a blog with more than ten percent content that hasn't already been squeezed dry by television and advertising behind his back.
(The couple at home, listening to Free.)
Woman: That sounds so much better than that band. Why won't he get up and play? Lack of confidence?
Man: Dave faced the world with his own work, unlike those superstars who needed to steal from him.
Woman: Then why?
Man: Because the show biz racket won't let him. Not only did they punish him unjustly, they left him unpaid, so that he probably now feels like he'd only be condoning their mistreatment of him by going out and performing.
Woman: Well isn't there something we can do about it?
Announcer: Yes, there is! (Stop music. The couple turn their heads to the camera in amazement.)
Man & Woman: (in unison) Tell us, mystery voice.
Announcer: First you need to go to the grocery store and stock up on vegetables...
(The venue. Same performer.)
King Shit: I'm the king of the shits and I got the groove to get your blocked up colon on the move...
(The woman nods to the sound man. He returns the nod and cuts King Shit's sound.)
Woman: (reaching into a grocery bag) Get off the stage, you arrogant little shit! (She pulls out a tomato and fires it at the performer. It misses.)
Man: Yeah! Clear the way for a real artist! (reaching into the bag) We want Dave! (An egg is pulled out and drilled at King Shit's head, forcing him to duck.)
Patron: Hey, that looks like fun. Can I try?
Woman: Help yourself. (She holds open the bag and the patron pulls out a can of tomato soup.)
Patron: We want Dave! (She launches the soup can, hitting the performer in the leg and causing him to howl in pain. Other patrons join in and drive him from the stage with a hail of groceries and angry shouts of 'We want Dave!')
Venue Owner: (shaking his head) Looks like we're not going to make it without Dave.
(The venue. I complete the last few bars of Free and the audience cheers.)
Announcer: Throw your support behind Dave - by throwing something at someone else. Brought to you by the Foundation to Save Dave, in conjunction with Lucky Food Stores.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Me: My next guest is a consumer advocate who fears that commercial advertising is atomizing the population along the lines of self-interest. Paul Warner!
(Applause. Enter Warner.)
Me: Mister Warner, I'm delighted to have you here. I've seen every one of your interviews.
Warner: You mean where I plug my books? Have you read any of my work?
Me: I got the gist of them from the interviews. I'm sure they're brilliant. Now why do you have such a problem with an atomized population? It seems to run smoothly enough.
Warner: Because it gives power the option of acting irresponsibly without fear of effective reprisals. Everyone is trapped in their own little world and no one can gather more than a few dozen people to their cause.
Me: But I regularly see public protests over this or that in the news.
Warner: And they are generally unpopular because they obstruct the traffic of consumers who are trying to pay for their cars and homes and God knows what else.
Me: But isn't this atomization a necessary compromise for our high standard of living?
Warner: What do you mean?
Me: I mean that where there is wealth, there is division. Why take a crowded bus to work if you can take your own car?
Warner: I suppose the buses can get crowded, but look at road rage. Catering to self-interest is getting out of hand. If it continues at the rate it's going, it will destroy us all.
Me: And you blame advertising.
Warner: I do. Much of a modern consumer's world is made up of unscrupulous advertisements, I'm afraid.
Me: You're right. Pitiful. I'm just glad to be standing outside of this evil mindset.
Warner: You? (chuckling) That's a laugh.
Me: What's so funny?
Warner: I saw that commercial on the monitor before I came out here. The Foundation to Save Dave? You must be joking.
Me: That happens to be a non-profit organization.
Warner: Dave, don't bullshit me, all right? Never in all my years have I seen such flagrant self-aggrandizement.
Me: Well then maybe this next commercial will be more to your liking. Paul Warner, everyone. He might care about social justice, but he sure doesn't care about Dave.
(Applause. Commercial.)
Me: She's a woman who knows what she wants, and you better not be standing in front of her when she's trying to get it. Mrs Penny Farthington!
(Applause. Enter Farthington.)
Me: Mrs Farthington, you are prolific shopper. They have a plaque devoted to you down at the mall.
Farthington: I try to do my part.
Me: Why do you love shopping so much?
Farthington: It gives me a purpose in life. And its fun!
Me: And you never return items for refund, I'm told.
Farthington: Why buy it if you're just going to take it back?
Me: But how can you be so sure of your decision before you've had a chance to take your purchase home and try it out?
Farthington: That's easy. The voices.
Me: The voices? Whose voices?
Farthington: From the products, silly!
Me: The products talk to you? What do they say?
Farthington: They usually just say 'Buy me.' But if I come across something good, it'll say 'Take me home, Penny Farthington!'
Me: The items in the store don't really talk to you out loud.
Farthington: Yes they do. Why don't you believe me?
Me: Oh I don't know. Because they don't have mouths?
Farthington: They don't need mouths. They have ESP.
Me: Of course. Well thanks for being here, but I can barely hear the muffled voice of my guest chair telling me that it's quitting time. Penny Farthington, folks! And you'll be hearing my voice singing a song for you - right after this.
Me: They are the visionaries. They stand over their scaled down models of shopping centres and high-rises much the same way as Adolf Hitler once did with Albert Speer, pretending to be giants whose fists can squash whole armies. I speak to you of urban planners. We'll be joined by three of them tonight, each of whom has a monumental mark to leave for posterity and all of whom deem public washroom facilities as some kind of eyesore. We'll begin our discussion with a man who thinks that today's structures are too monolithic and may be taking a toll on our humanity - whatever that is. Would you please welcome Joseph Gravelton!
(Applause. Enter Gravelton.)
Me: Mister Gravelton, when I went to Europe, I was immediately struck by the beauty of their cityscapes. Their buildings have age and character and their roads tend to wind, rather than all running in a straight line within a dull matrix pattern. Are these the kinds of things you think are missing in modern urban layouts?
Gravelton: Actually, so much of Europe had to be rebuilt after the bombings of World War Two that its warm complexion is largely an illusion.
Me: Well it sure fooled me.
Gravelton: It's a step in the right direction. But Europe still fails in my books.
Me: Why?
Gravelton: Because they use those cursed bricks. And if they're not using bricks, they're using blocks. What is it with builders today? They all seem determined to turn the whole world into some kind of giant Lego-land.
Me: What about those old cathedrals built out of uncut stones?
Gravelton: Too disjointed looking.
Me: Well then, what's left?
Gravelton: Good old fashioned slabs.
Me: Slabs? You mean make the whole wall out of one piece of stone?
Gravelton: Exactly. One slab for each of the walls and one more for the roof. Punch some holes for the door and windows, get some animal skins for the drapes, maybe hang a picture of a sabre-toothed tiger, and you're all ready to start living right.
Me: Uh - I used to operate heavy equipment and I'm not sure there are many machines that could handle that kind of a workload.
Gravelton: Yes, I have a problem with heavy machinery. It's what's making everything around us look so artificial.
Me: Certainly you're not suggesting we labour by hand to build such homes.
Gravelton: Of course, not.
Me: Then how?
Gravelton: With dinosaur power, my boy! An adult brontosaurus could more than handle the load!
Me: (after a long pause to study my guest) And when we're all done, we can call it Bedrock, right?
Gravelton: Don't think so small. New Rock City!
Me: Of course. How pedestrian of me. Well. I'd love to hear more but I wouldn't want you to miss your pterodactyl flight home. Joseph Gravelton, folks! (Applause.)
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Commercial: Save Dave
(The future. I haven't killed myself yet and I sit at a table to sign first editions of my best selling book for my fans. A young mother approaches me with her preschool-aged child.)
Mother: Dave, my husband and I are your biggest fans.
Me: Thank you!
Mother: (holding out book) Could you please include my son in the autograph?
Me: Sure. What's the little gaffer's name?
Mother: Dean.
Announcer: The injuries inflicted by intellectual property thieves can last a lifetime. We can't go back in time and undo the harm they cause to their victims. But we can take steps to protect artists in the present.
(The mother at home in her kitchen, listening to jreamer1's Leg It Up on her transistor radio. She has her hands on her child's arms and is making him move in time to the music.)
Announcer: Before you surrender your heart and/or your money to a new industry favourite, stop.
(A needle scratch terminates the music. The mother looks at the camera with a serious expression.)
Announcer: Ask yourself what makes them think they can sail past Dave when he still hasn't been paid for his stolen music. Ask yourself how the industry found the money to push these upstarts while they've left poor Dave to pay his own way out of a crumby welfare cheque.
(The mother on the phone as her child sits on her lap.)
Announcer: Then get on the phone to all your family and friends and organize a protest.
(The mother makes a picket sign alongside her finger-painting tot.)
Announcer: Write catchy slogans onto picket signs in enormous letters that say things like NO BROOD FOR SPOILS! or GIVE DAVE A CHANCE!
(The protest group at large.)
Announcer: Then get together and surround the offender's headquarters or satellite office. There you may hold up your signs to passing cars as you loudly voice your support with repetitive chants like 1-2-3-4! WHAT IS DAVID WAITING FOR? Keep a supply of rocks handy to throw at the motorists who disagree with you.
(A reporter shows up to cover the event.)
Announcer: If your civil action makes it onto the news, the Foundation to Save Dave will show you how to make your very own authentic I SAVED DAVE pin with a piece of cardboard, a felt marker, scotch tape, and a safety pin.
(The book signing. I catch sight of a crudely lettered cardboard pin on the mother's coat that reads 'I SAVED DAVE' and smile.)
Me: I'd be happy to do that for you. And what is your name?
Mother: Crystal.
Announcer: Dave went to Hell for merely deleting his own work from the internet. Don't let the business make him delete himself over it. Only you and everyone you know can save Dave!
(I sign the book while slowly shaking my head with incredulity.)
Announcer: Brought to you by the Foundation to Save Dave.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Me: Our next guest has devoted herself to the problem of how to cut down on the cost of building materials. Kathleen Carter!
(Applause. Enter Carter.)
Me: You transferred into urban planning from another field. Is that right?
Carter: Yes. I started out as a set designer for a film production crew.
Me: Why the change?
Carter: I thought my skills would be better applied to real settings, rather than imaginary ones.
Me: And your competitors say you've revolutionized construction in terms of cost cutting. How did you do it?
Carter: I guess I just looked at the problem from a distance.
Me: And what did it tell you?
Carter: It told me that expensive new properties were going to waste with virtually no people inside them.
Me: So you found a way to make them more accessible to people.
Carter: No, I found a way to make them less expensive. I figured that as long as no one was ever going to live or work in these structures, they might as well not cost so much.
Me: You mean you design them without any thought to their occupation?
Carter: It's called thinking ahead.
Me: But how do you get around all the safety inspections and fire inspections?
Carter: By giving them nothing to inspect. We simply prop up a full scale billboard image of a completed project and move on to the next one.
Me: (after a pause) How two-dimensional of you.
Carter: It saves money.
Me: Great. Say hi to Simon for me the next time you're passing through the Land of Chalk Drawings, will you? (to camera) Kathleen Carter! She looks at the problem from a distance.
(Applause. Commercial.)
Me: He's one of Tokyo's foremost urban planners. All the way from the islands of Japan, Mister Kooky Jakoozi!
(Applause. Enter Jakoozi, carrying an attache case. He bows low. I bow lower. He looks up and sees that I'm bowing lower and lowers himself more. I fall to my knees and kiss his shoes. He laughs. I stand up. He bows again, causing me to bow again. We come out of our bows at the same time and bump heads. We go to our seats, rubbing our noggins.)
Me: Mister Jakoozi, thank you for coming so far out of your way to be here with us tonight.
Jakoozi: (speaking Japanese with English subtitles) It is an honour to be here.
Me: What do you think makes a good, sound design, in terms of urban planning?
Jakoozi: Well, a good design takes into account three vital attributes: style…
Me: Yes. Your cities are certainly attractive.
Jakoozi: Economy-
Me: Right. I've noticed how your people have even broken down chests of drawers into sublet units.
Jakoozi: …and transformability.
Me: Transformability? (touching my earpiece) Did the translator get that right? Don't you mean adaptability?
Jakoozi: No, I mean transformability. A good design should be able to transform itself into something else.
Me: I'm not sure I follow you.
Jakoozi: Here, let me show you. (He flips open his attache case on his lap and a model of a man on horseback unfolds with a hydraulic whir.)
Me: Well would you look at that! Isn't that clever, the way it unfolds from nothing. Who is it?
Jakoozi: This is a scaled down model of a five-hundred-foot-high statue of Paul Revere - a birthday present for the Americans. It's scheduled to be shipped by helicopter, one piece at a time, to Washington D.C. There it will be assembled and unveiled on their next Independence Day.
Me: How thoughtful!
Jakoozi: Yes. Room inside for a full brigade of skilled military technicians.
Me: Why do you need those?
Jakoozi: For this! (He pushes a button and the model transforms into a little Godzilla.)
Me: Good God! (reaching into my shirt pocket for my cigarette pack and opening it with shaky hands.)
Jakoozi: No, it's Godzilla.
Me: I know what it is. (I pull out a smoke and put it between my lips.)
Jakoozi: Need a light? (With another push of a button the mini-monster leaps onto my desk, walks over to me, and lights my cigarette with its fiery breath.) When we let its full sized version loose on the streets of Washington, those damn Yankees will know they should have had a more positive attitude about Pearl Harbour.
Me: (blowing smoke out my nostrils) I see. I guess they did go a little overboard on the payback. But we don't have to worry about that in this country.
Jakoozi: Not until the following year when on Canada Day a small statue of Terry Fox turns into a giant, axe-wielding Big Joe Muffaraw that shoots poison gas out of its rear end and embarks on a trail of destruction through downtown Ottawa! That'll teach you Canadians to unjustly imprison your Japanese civilians during wartime!
Me: You're insane! You'll never get away with it! Especially now that you've exposed your evil plot!
Jakoozi: Yeah right! On this show? Who's watching? (He succumbs to laughter.)
Me: Kooky Jakoozi, folks! (Applause. Jakoozi smiles and bows his head to the camera.) Hoping to make work for the construction trade on this continent for years to come. Back with a song after this.
Me: I once had a friend who was wise beyond his years. He said that people believe what they want to believe. He couldn't have been more right. I proved my artistic talent in school. I went on to establish myself as a songwriter with my band in Toronto. Then I demonstrated my literary ability on the internet from the public library in Vancouver. It added up to about twenty-seven years of work before it was all wiped out by one line of malicious gossip that no one bothered to share with me until the damage to my heart and my brain was permanent. I've never had the privilege of assassinating someone else's character because I live such a solitary life. Instead I've been left as a wide open target for the slanderous accusations of talentless social climbers and their eager supporters. But tonight I'm fighting gossip with gossip against guests who think they are here to talk about their popularity. Let's bring the first one out right now. He's a popular musician who has had everything handed to him all his life, Coolguy Thrashright!
(Applause. Enter Thrashright in fancy clothes and sunglasses. The girls scream.)
Me: You got your big break from the guy who stole my music.
Thrashright: So? He had good taste.
Me: So I'm still waiting for my big break.
Thrashright: I thought I was here to talk about my stardom.
Me: Of course. Sorry. Yes, you certainly are a hit with the teens.
Thrashright: Well that's who counts. They buy the new music.
Me: Spoken like a true salesman - (under my breath) and non-artist.
Thrashright: What was that?
Me: Tell me, are you sure your music is new?
Thrashright: I guess I've had it out for a few years.
Me: Really. From what I heard, it's been out for a few decades.
Thrashright: What's that supposed to mean?
Me: It's supposed to mean that you lifted every one of your melodies from bands that are safely before your gullible fans' time.
Thrashright: I'll have you know that I penned all those lyrics myself.
Me: I know. I can tell. They're the most feeble-minded effort at filling in the blanks to someone else's inspiration that I've ever heard. Honestly, I'd sooner hear the Beatles playing Doctor Robert than you with your Doctor Hubbert. And the Kinks' Dedicated Follower of Fashion has meaning, whereas your Educated Swallower of Ashtrays is pure nonsense. In fact, you have a lot of nerve, ripping off that Kinks song. It was meant to put down pompous, pretentious little posers, not to make stars out of them.
Thrashright: Oh yeah? Well, at least I'm a musical success.
Me: You're a musical sham. Everyone, listen up! Before you hear one more note from this glorified parrot, I want you to track down and study the music of the British Invasion in the 1960's. Then see if you ever want to buy anything from him or his record label again. And I'll tell you something else he wouldn't want you to know. (pushing a button on my desk) He wets his pants.
Thrashright: (rising to his feet and exposing a soaked crotch) That's a lie! (multiple camera flashes)
Me: (pointing) See? You heard it here first! (after a sigh) Not much hope for this generation, I'm afraid. The blind leading the blind - just the way Satan likes it. Anyways, time for a commercial. Coolguy Thrashright! (Applause.)
Thrashright: I'll kill you!
Me: Now don't get tough on me or I shall be forced to give you a wedgie in front of all these nice people.
(Applause. Commercial.)
Me: He's a real live TV star, Randy Redeye!
(Applause. Enter Redeye. The girls swoon.)
Me: You got your entire first season from my old blog after I deleted it.
Redeye: I've moved into my own territory since then.
Me: I was never paid.
Redeye: I thought I was here to discuss my greatness.
Me: But you weren't always great, were you?
Redeye: Sure I was. It just took some time for others to see it.
Me: Right. And a trip to Martinique with your gay agent.
Redeye: Where did you hear that? It's a lie! I made it on my own! The industry knows a good thing when it sees it!
Me: Did he make you beg for it? Did you get down on your hands and knees and suck-
Redeye: I said I made it on my own!
Me: Sure, sure. (pause) The women are excited that you've separated from your wife.
Redeye: Naturally. I'm a free man again.
Me: Why did you split up?
Redeye: Just ran out of passion, I guess.
Me: Ha! That's one way of putting it.
Redeye: Putting what?
Me: It's nothing to be ashamed of, Randy. A lot of men suffer from impotence. But with the right therapist-
Redeye: I am not impotent!
Me: That's not what your wife said.
Redeye: Impossible! I have a court order silencing her.
Me: Now why else would you need to do that? (turning to camera and shrugging my shoulders) I rest my case.
Redeye: (getting up) I'm never coming back on this show again!
Me: You know, you shouldn't tease those girl fans with that hot temper of yours. You'll only disappoint them.
Redeye: Fuck you and fuck your show! (Exit Redeye.)
Me: Tsk! Tsk! Classic overcompensation. Randy Redeye! Let's show him we're behind him! (Applause.)
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Commercial: Save Dave
(A soup line. Jreamer1's Friendship plays instrumentally on the high end of a piano.)
Announcer: Are you enjoying tonight's program? Do you recall any of its content from television or radio in the last few years? If so, it's because Dave shared his work in 2007 only to see most of it fall into the hands of thieves.
(Closeup of me in the soup line.)
Announcer: The perpetrators have been punished, but Dave and his favourite charities have been left unpaid. How is he supposed to have hope? How are the poor people who line up for handouts with him supposed to have hope?
(Continue sad music. Me at home, fashioning a noose with which to hang myself.)
Announcer: They can afford lawyers. They can afford spies. Why can't they afford fairness? Maybe it's because he won't beg them in the way they are used to. But Dave doesn't want anyone begging him for anything. He just wants what's rightfully his. And you can help.
(Cease music. You in front of the TV with a pen and paper.)
Announcer: The next time you see a television program that profited from Dave's work, write down all the products being advertised in that time slot.
(You at the computer, typing.)
Announcer: Then go to your computer and send an email to the makers of those products asking them why they support intellectual property crime. Explain to them that you can't feel good about buying from them until Dave has been paid for his work. You can do the same thing to the sponsors of any radio station that played Dave's songs without paying him. It doesn't cost a thing and it will teach the entertainment business to play by its own rules.
(Jreamer1's Cheer starts playing. A white limousine pulls up at the soup line. A chauffeur gets out, opens the door for me, and beckons me in. An old bum tries to follow me into the vehicle but I stick out my leg and kick him away.)
Announcer: When honesty is allowed to triumph over greed, there is hope - not just for you but for future generations. Parents, let your children know you care. Children, let yourselves know that you care. Everyone, save Dave!
Me: Since long before Sir Thomas More wrote the book, people have been dreaming of Utopia. With modern technology lengthening lifespans and relieving physical burdens, some think that we are progressing towards such a world. Others argue that science is leading us astray. Still others, like my first guest, believe that a restructuring of the economy will be necessary to bring about the perfect state. Would you please welcome Victor Toadstool!
(Applause. Enter Toadstool in a straw hat and denim coveralls.)
Me: So you have founded a colony that has done away with money.
Toadstool: I have. We are over a hundred settlers strong and growing.
Me: What's it called?
Toadstool: Toadstoolia.
Me: Right. And what do you and your fellow Toadstoolians have against money?
Toadstool: I guess we're all fed up with compromising our spirits for ultimately worthless pieces of paper with numbers on them. And we want to protect our children from being turned into slaves.
Me: But without money, what incentive is there for you to work?
Toadstool: Our incentives are pure and simple. We work the land.
Me: Beautiful. I have always had a problem with how the money system lets one group be better off than the others. By focusing on working the land for food, you and your people have done away with the evils of ambition and created a state in which true equality can be enjoyed by all.
Toadstool: And flowers.
Me: What?
Toadstool: We work the land for food and flowers.
Me: It must be a very peaceful and colourful place.
Toadstool: It was until the hill people came.
Me: The hill people?
Toadstool: They were envious of our gladiolas. Showed up one night and burned down all our gardens.
Me: That's terrible!
Toadstool: Nothing we Toadstoolians can't handle. My brother works in a chemical plant. Right now he's loading my pickup with the most powerful herbicides known to man.
Me: Well it sounds you still have a few bugs to work out, but you're well on your way. Victor Toadstool!
(Applause. Commercial.)
Me: Of course, there are myriad ways to approach the problem of how to build Utopia, and many of them reject the technological approach favoured by the modern mainstream. But our next guest has instead taken this approach one step further. He has established a community based on the writings of Isaac Asimov, a scientifically advanced biosphere that calls itself the Foundation. Professor Bartholomew Pitt!
(Applause. Enter Pitt in a white lab coat.)
Me: Professor Pitt, Isaac Asimov's Foundation, as I recall, was intended to provide a safe haven for technology through the Galactic War. Do you view yourself as a guardian of science?
Pitt: No. I just hate football and modern dance.
Me: Your biosphere reminds me of a football stadium.
Pitt: One in which civilization may flourish.
Me: You offer a very high standard of living in there, from what I hear.
Pitt: Machines have taken over all of the heavy labour. Our citizens are free to develop their minds. The air is filtered and its oxygen content carefully balanced. Breeding is strictly recreational and hassle free.
Me: Recreational?
Pitt: We genetically engineer our young and hatch them in nurseries, in keeping with Huxley's Brave New World.
Me: So it's not all based on Asimov.
Pitt: No.
Me: And I understand that you've added decades to the human lifespan with your medical discoveries.
Pitt: Indeed, I have.
Me: How do you address the problem of overpopulation?
Pitt: For that I took my inspiration from Logan's Run.
Me: Logan's Run? Isn't that about a machine-driven society that kills every citizen past the age of thirty? Then what's the point of adding length to the human lifespan?
Pitt: It offers a legal loophole to exempt researchers from termination.
Me: You're over thirty.
Pitt: Fifty-five next month.
Me: (after a pause) Good thinking.
Pitt: Of course.
Me: Professor Bartholomew Pitt! Hey, why play football when you can play God?
*********************************************
Commercial: The Mask
Wife: Did you get the job?
Husband: No, they said they'd call.
Wife: I'm sure you'll find something, honey.
(He turns to the camera to reveal his shockingly unusual face.)
Husband: Not with mug like this!
Announcer: Need help blending in? Maybe you need the Mask.
(Husband pulls the product over his head in front of the mirror.)
Announcer: The Mask fits neatly over any head and softens up those sharp, distinguishing facial features.
Husband: I got the job!
Wife: I knew you could do it! What did they hire you as?
Husband: A ski instructor!
Announcer: Find yourself with the Mask.
*********************************************
Me: Closing off tonight's discussion is a man who believes that we should do away with technology and modern medicine and get back to basics. Jonathan Boils!
(Applause. Enter Boils. I greet him with a handshake and he embraces me with a hug.)
Me: I wasn't expecting that.
Boils: What?
Me: The hug.
Boils: Well I'm kind of isolated out on that island. I guess I'm just grateful for any human contact.
Me: What about the other settlers?
Boils: Gone.
Me: Gone? You mean they all gave up and moved out?
Boils: No, I mean they're all dead. But they died beautifully.
Me: How did they die?
Boils: Suicide.
Me: Tragic.
Boils: Yes, it is. They just couldn't stand their leprosy any longer.
Me: Leprosy! Isn't that infectious?
Boils: It does seem to get around.
Me: Well for God's sake, why did you have to hug me like that? I'm sorry folks, we're going to have to cut the show here. I'm going straight to the hospital for a booster shot. You'll have to make do with a video of tonight's song. (Applause.)
Me: I took a bus across the country a few years back and shared the last leg of my journey with a High School senior - no less a personage than the class president. She was a sweet little thing, who didn't mind my endless lecturing about the school system and how it tends to teach conformity more than anything else. While a certain level of conformity is necessary to hold society together, I believe that it is getting out of hand in the early twenty-first century. Tonight I've invited three guests to discuss this threat. The first one is a High School principal. Would you please welcome Mister Doug Enis!
(Applause. Enter Enis - same 'e' sound for both words.)
Me: Mister Enis, if you were to split it into percentages, how much of what children receive in the classroom today is education and how much is simply social conditioning?
Enis: Well, we do love our children, David-
Me: I know. I'm just trying to help.
Enis: -and we try to take a balanced approach to their upbringing.
Me: So fifty/fifty?
Enis: I suppose it depends on the students. If they reject their studies, that would lessen the educational side of your figure.
Me: And could they make up for the deficiency from the social conditioning side of it?
Enis: How do you mean?
Me: Oh, I don't know, being extra well behaved, showing extra respect to the teacher...
Enis: You mean sucking up?
Me: Let me tell you, I broke my back to learn the JavaScript programming language in college. I went out and bought the textbook and struggled and made myself understand it. But the teacher gave a higher mark to another student simply because of my position on the conflict between Netscape and Internet Explorer at the time. The other student, an exceptionally well behaved and affable fellow, told me with pride that he forgot every lesson by the course's end, whereas I still know how to write my own programs.
Enis: That's too bad. But teachers are people like everyone else. Maybe you should have kept your opinion to yourself.
Me: Maybe I shouldn't have had an opinion at all. I just don't see how you can expect it of a thinking student.
Enis: Isn't it the same on any job? Don't the promotions generally go to the employees with the best personal relationship with their superiors?
Me: Isn't it wrong? Why do we work around a broken system instead of fixing it?
Enis: There's a point where we must simply face the reality.
Me: You mean the slavery. (pause) I guess I'm a freak. If I were the boss, I would want my best worker to get the promotion, even if I disliked the person.
Enis: You are a freak, David. I've had a look at your record and-
Me: Very good of you to be with us today! Principal Doug Enis! (Applause.)
*********************************************
Commercial: Primetime Polly
(A schoolyard.)
Girl 1: Did Susan break up with Brad?
Girl 2: She caught him in bed with Theresa!
Girl 1: No wonder.
Girl 3: (breaking in) Hi, girls! What's up?
Girl 1: Did you see Townhouse last night?
Girl 3: Uh - sure!
Girl 1: You did? Why did Susan break up with Brad?
Girl 3: Uh - because he forgot her birthday?
Girls 1 & 2: (derisive laughter) Nice try, geek!
(Girl 3 turns away with her head down in disgrace.)
Girl 1: She looks like Lucy when she got her eviction notice!
Announcer: Are you feeling left out from not watching enough television? Primetime Polly can help!
(Girl 3 places mechanical bird in front of TV set, turns set on, and goes off camera.)
Announcer: Just perch Polly in front of your television and feel free to do something challenging and stimulating.
(The schoolyard. Girl 3 has Polly on her shoulder. She approaches girls 1 and 2 with a smile of confidence.)
Announcer: Then keep Polly on your shoulder to keep you one step ahead of the in crowd.
Girl 3: Hi, girls!
Girl 1: What did Rachel do to her hair last night?
Girl 3: (leaning head in close to Polly) Dyed it purple.
Girl 1: Right!
Girl 3: Great! Can we be friends now?
Girl 1: I don't know! As long as you're wearing that parrot, why don't you make friends with Long John Silver?
Girls 1 & 2: (derisive laughter)
Announcer: Primetime Polly. She's the only friend you need.
*********************************************
Me: She's the editor of Grapefruit, an online magazine with tremendous influence on the music and fashion industries, Miss Gabby Hayseed!
(Applause. Enter Hayseed. I rise to greet her and we take our seats.)
Hayseed: You're tall!
Me: Who me? I'm six-foot-one. Average height for a tall man.
Hayseed: I heard you were short!
Me: I heard that one, myself. We're in trouble when people believe gossip over the evidence of their own eyes.
Hayseed: Your music's groovy!
Me: Is that fashionable again? I wouldn't know. I just try to be myself. And it's more of a struggle than it should be because no one else seems to be doing it.
Hayseed: Plus you can draw portraits! That's so cool!
Me: People wiped their feet on my drawings when I was unpopular - at the same time as they flocked to a guy who draws two-dimensional rocket ships.
Hayseed: Your eyes are innocent.
Me: Miss Hayseed, I'm glad you like me, but I need you to answer a question now.
Hayseed: Go for it!
Me: Why did your magazine tell everyone I was a half-witted, untalented, evil dwarf with a fetish for preteen girls?
Hayseed: (after a pause) That was just a misunderstanding.
Me: It almost got me killed.
Hayseed: (after a pause) You're tough!
Me: All right, I can see where this is going. Gabby Hayseed, everyone! (As the audience claps, I turn to Hayseed and ask in a discreet tone:) Wanna get together after the show?
Hayseed: You're funny!
Me: That means 'yes', right?
(Applause. Commercial.)
Me: Our final guest has been helping unpopular politicians to win elections for over twenty years. Please welcome public relations expert, Mister Kevin Warmtongue!
(Applause. Enter Warmtongue.)
Me: That's an unusual name you have there.
Warmtongue: It used to be Wormtongue, but I changed it.
Me: Good for you. Well, I know you P.R. people play an important role, but isn't all this manipulation of the public mind making a mockery of the democratic process?
Warmtongue: We don't forbid people to think for themselves.
Me: But you know that they work hard, are pressed for time, and would rather have someone else do the thinking for them.
Warmtongue: Actually, our approach tends to bypass the conscious, rational process altogether. We aim for people's hearts. For instance, if we know that hunting is popular in a state with swing voters, we dress our man in a hunting jacket. Works every time.
Me: (grimacing) Geez! What a farce!
Warmtongue: What do you mean?
Me: You don't think it's a little dishonest? Even the gentlest S.P.C.A. volunteer looks like a hunter in a hunting jacket.
Warmtongue: Our aims are ultimately benevolent. We have faith in our client.
Me: Yeah, I know. Because he pays you gobs of cash. This has been going on for way too long. Who put Adolf Hitler on the cover of Time and called him the 'Man of the Year'? I'll tell you who. The same ones that later made propaganda cartoons depicting him as a short man. He wasn't short. He was five-foot-eleven.
Warmtongue: Get outta here!
Me: He was! And I got into an argument with a former friend over it and he never spoke to me again. He thought I was sticking up for the bastard. I was only sticking up for the facts. Hitler was a mass-murdering son of a bitch. His height was irrelevant. You kind of people think you are doing good by lying about an evildoer's height. But when you lie, that makes you the evildoer. God gave Hitler those five feet and eleven inches. Who do you think you are, taking them away from him?
Warmtongue: I see your point, but these techniques have proven to be the most effective way to reach a target group. If we don't use them, someone else will.
Me: Nuclear missiles are the most effective way to destroy a target, but we seem to know better than to use them. At any rate, thank you for being here tonight. Mister Kevin Warmtongue!
(I sit in the captain's chair of what looks like the bridge of the original starship Enterprise with a naval officer standing next to me. Crew members steadily man their posts around us.)
Me: I thought we'd step outside the studio for tonight's episode, not just to offer a little visual variety to our viewers, but to help create the proper atmosphere for our theme of extraterrestrial encounters, with respect to my fear of flying. And we couldn't have found a better location than the deck of this submarine, the HMCS Fantasize. Beside me is her captain, Captain Warren Blaine. Captain, this layout bears a striking resemblance to the bridge of the United Spaceship, Enterprise - at least, the one used for the original Star Trek series.
Blaine: Yes. That may have something to do with its age. We bought it from the Americans when that show was first broadcast. Apparently Star Trek was popular with warship designers.
Me: Not with uniform designers, though, as I see from your somewhat overdressed SONAR officer.
Blaine: Actually, we had to modify Lieutenant Awuku's uniform because she kept catching a cold every time we had a mission in arctic waters.
Me: Too bad. Well thank you for letting us come on board tonight and letting me have your chair for the duration of this show.
Blaine: Just be careful not to touch any of those buttons on that armrest console.
Me: No problem. I'll just cover it up with my ashtray here.
Blaine: No!
(Red flashing lights and a wailing siren accompany a mechanized voice announcing 'RED ALERT ... RED ALERT -' as the crew jumps to action.)
(Commercial.)
(I remain at the captain's chair and my guest is seated in a lawn chair beside me. My armrest console has been duct taped over.)
Me: Basil McDermott says his cows have never been the same since his farm was visited by a UFO in the 1970's. He is with us now to tell us about it. Mister McDermott, please tell us your incredible story.
McDermott: It was late August. I was on my tractor, trying to pick up the last of the hay before the sun went down, when I heard this engine noise coming from above me. I looked up and saw that a huge flying saucer was landing in my field.
Me: That must have been terrifying.
McDermott: No. They must have used some kind of hypnotizing ray on me because I was totally calm. And they communicated to me.
Me: How? With music?
McDermott: No. With telepathy. I could hear their voices telling me not to be afraid, that they meant no harm to me.
Me: Amazing! How did you know it was their voices?
McDermott: Cause they sounded like Marvin the Martian, you know? They had that squeaky, nasal tone.
Me: Right.
McDermott: And then I heard my cows talking to me. They were saying that I better watch it because they knew what I was up to and were getting ready to form an alliance with the pigs and the other animals and start a revolution.
Me: How did you know it was your cows talking to you?
McDermott: Just the way they lingered on the m's as they spoke. Like one thing they said was 'That mmmmmilk's gonna cost you mmmmore mmmmoney!'
Me: I see. And then what happened?
McDermott: A door opened in the saucer and some kind of tractor beam sucked in my prize heifer. Then it blasted off, leaving behind a big ugly crater.
Me: Did anyone else see this?
McDermott: No. The nearest town is miles away.
Me: Well, true or not, it's a great story. Thank you for coming here and sharing it with us.
McDermott: Can I get paid now?
Me: No. I'm sorry. We can't afford to pay our guests.
McDermott: That's too bad. My chickens' contract is up for renewal and that gourmet feed they like is getting out of my price range.
Me: I'm sure you'll be able to reach a new agreement with them. Basil McDermott!
*********************************************
Commercial: Vengisil Irritating Powder
Husband: Why aren't you dressed for the tournament yet, honey?
Wife: I really don't feel like it today.
Husband: Why not? (Spotting an opened bottle of Vagisil) Oh. Well you can't cancel out on all our friends just because of that!
(Female) Announcer: Men have no sympathy for a menstruating woman. But you can teach them to respect your cycle by using Vengisil irritating powder.
(Show wife opening chest of drawers, pulling out all her husband's underwear, and covering them with powder.)
Announcer: Vengisil causes swelling and bleeding that can last up to a week and penetrates the bloodstream to cause uncomfortable hormonal changes.
Wife: I thought you were going to mow the lawn today.
Husband: I don't feel like it.
Wife: Why not?
Husband: Because I'm bleeding from the asshole.
Wife: Well that's no excuse.
Husband: What do you mean, that's no excuse!
Announcer: Don't suffer alone. Let him take a powder with Vengisil.
*********************************************
(I remain in the captain's chair. McDermott still occupies his seat on one side of me. On the other side, a woman sits on a large plastic pail which has been turned upside down.)
Me: Wendy Taylor took some time off from her job in the hair salon to tell us about her run-in with a UFO. Wendy, how long ago did this happen?
Taylor: It was the summer of '98, when I was hitchhiking through the Northwest Territories.
Me: Not many people up there.
Taylor: Not many Earthlings, you mean.
Me: So what happened?
Taylor: I'd waited on the roadside all day for a ride to pick me up without a single car passing by. I got desperate and decided to use my flare gun to signal for a rescue. That's what gave my location away to the aliens.
Me: So instead of being picked up by a helicopter, you were picked up by a spaceship.
Taylor: That's right. Within minutes a ship was hovering over me and a beam was pulling me in.
Me: Wow. So you met them face to face. What do they look like?
Taylor: Pretty much like the drawings of them in the National Enquirer. They're small and hairless. They have big heads with huge black eyes. And they all walk around naked. Disgusting.
Me: What did they want from you?
Taylor: It was plain to see that it was an all male crew, and a horny one at that. Disappointing for a race of superior intelligence.
Me: Oh no! Did they assault you?
Taylor: No. They were civilized enough to offer me wine, soften up the lighting, and put on some romantic music, but I wasn't in the mood.
Me: Then what happened?
Taylor: It looked like they weren't going to take 'no' for an answer, so I had to take control. They may be mental giants, but they are physical wimps. It was almost too easy to overpower my guard and grab his gun. I then went over to the one I took to be the pilot and held it up to his head and ordered him to take me to Yellowknife. We were there in a flash and I baled out. And that was that.
Me: Incredible! And did you keep the gun to help prove your story?
Taylor: I sure did. Here it is. (She produces a plastic water pistol and holds it up.)
Me: Uh - my nephew has one of those. It's just a water pistol, isn't it?
Taylor: Water kills them. Our planet must be an important source of ammunition for them.
Me: And pretty ladies.
Taylor: Thank you!
Me: Thank you for being here tonight. The charming and independent Wendy Taylor!
(Applause. Commercial.)
(The makeshift stage has reached full capacity. A man in his fifties stands beside Taylor.)
Me: His best selling book, Probing for Truth, offers evidence to show that aliens have been in contact with our planet all through history. Mister Edwin Keyes! Mister Keyes, I'm sorry we ran out of chairs.
Keyes: That's all right. I don't mind standing.
Me: I read your book and I found it fascinating. You've done a fine job explaining those ancient hieroglyphic drawings.
Keyes: Thank you. I don't know why their meaning eluded us for so long. Perhaps it was too obvious.
Me: And you say that even some of the Bible scriptures may be-
Blaine: (breaking in) I'm sorry, Dave. I'll need my chair back.
Me: Can't it wait a few more minutes? I'm almost done.
Blaine: I'm afraid not. Yeoman! Come and pull the duct tape off of this console.
(I begrudgingly surrender the chair to Captain Blaine. He flicks a button on his console.)
Blaine: (echoing) All hands, assume battle stations. Target range is twelve nautical miles. Bearing zero zero niner. Arm torpedoes. This is not a drill. Repeat. This is not a drill.
Me: What's the problem, Captain? I thought this was a peacetime patrol.
Blaine: We've sighted an unidentified floating object in our waters. Looks like an aircraft carrier escorted by five or six destroyers.
Me: Well shouldn't we be hightailing it back to base?
Blaine: Not as long as I'm Captain.
Me: Captain, you're mad! They'll sink us before a single torpedo gets near them!
Blaine: Now listen up, sailor! (I snap to attention.) That's not the kind of attitude that wins wars! Now get back to your post before I have you courtmartialed!
Me: Aye-aye sir!
(A depth charge explodes nearby. The lights go out as the shock waves send us all tumbling.)
Me: (whimpering) Why did I say no to the jetliner?
McDermott: (raising hand) Does this mean we're all going to die?
