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!
(The limo drives off. It's rear licence plate reads 'THANKS MAN'.)
Announcer: Brought to you by the Foundation to Save Dave.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Me: Her latest photo spread in Shorts Illustrated is truly making a splash, Miss Daphne Fairweather!
(Applause. Enter the tall, willowy Fairweather. The boys whistle. We hug and take our seats.)
Me: You dated that guy who stole my music.
Fairweather: That was just a one-night-stand.
Me: Well I never dated a supermodel. Haven't even had a girlfriend for years and years.
Fairweather: I thought I was here to discuss my popularity.
Me: Years and years and years. Getting more and more withdrawn. Feeling the slow decay of my body...
Fairweather: Excuse me!
Me: Oh! How thoughtless of me. Yes, I saw your photo spread in the swimsuit issue of… (pause) What is that?
Fairweather: What?
Me: On your face there.
Fairweather: Where?
Me: Those blemishes on your chin and forehead. Is it acne?
Fairweather: (touching her face) I don't feel anything.
Me: The makeup artist must have missed it.
Fairweather: I don't know what you're talking about.
Me: (to camera) Acne, folks. Trust me. Not nearly as impressive in person.
Fairweather: I do not have acne!
Me: Boy! It's amazing what they can do with modern image editing software.
Fairweather: I'll have you know that I didn't need any image editing to win the beauty pageant in my home town!
Me: Uh-huh. Where your father was the mayor. Big surprise.
Fairweather: My father died when I was ten! Look! If this is how you're going to treat me, I'm leaving! (She starts to get up from her chair.)
Me: Don't you want to tell us about your charity drive?
Fairweather: For the animal shelter?
Me: A noble cause.
Fairweather: (sitting back down) Well, for each picture of me downloaded from my web site, one dollar will be donated to the S.P.C.A.
Me: Isn't that beautiful? (Applause.) What made you choose the S.P.C.A.?
Fairweather: I love dogs.
Me: Right! I remember learning that.
Fairweather: Oh! Did you read my profile?
Me: No. We had a guest here a couple weeks ago who lives in the park. He says you especially like male dogs.
Fairweather: Why does he say that?
Me: He saw you having an intimate encounter with your German Shepherd.
Fairweather: What? I don't have a German Shepherd!
Me: You don't? My mistake. Sorry.
Fairweather: That's more like it.
Me: Once you have Black Lab, you never go back, right?
Fairweather: That does it! I'm leaving! (She rises and exits in a huff.)
Me: Miss Daphne Fairweather, ladies and gentlemen! Adding new meaning to the word, bitch.
(Applause. Commercial.)
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