Me: Misogyny. Men hating women. Why is there a need for such a word? Is it just to give us a label for a few disturbed deviants? Or is there more to it? We'll find out tonight as three men who have been charged with offences against women take the couch and confess their secrets to a psychiatrist while under hypnosis. And let's start by introducing you to the psychiatrist, Doctor Sheila Blackpoole!
(Applause. Zoom out to show Blackpoole sitting beside me in the guest chair. She nods to the audience.)
Me: Thank you for loaning us this real psychiatrist's couch for our show. I can see what your patients like about it. Once you lie down in it, you never want to get back up.
Blackpoole: Not only that, but it relaxes the mind along with the body. I bet you're feeling very comfortable about opening up and sharing your innermost secrets right now.
Me: Come to think of it, I am feeling pretty relaxed. And I suppose I don't have anything to hide.
Blackpoole: Not even from your childhood?
Me: It was as innocent as the next person's.
Blackpoole: And that must have been when you first developed your dislike of women.
Me: What do you mean? I stick up for women all the time.
Blackpoole: Why else would you make misogyny the focus of tonight's show? (soothing tones) It's all right, David. Lots of grown men still bear childhood trauma. The key is to get it out in the open. Think back to when the girls were bigger than the boys. Was there anyone who may have mistreated you?
Me: In what way?
Blackpoole: Oh, you know, kid stuff: name calling, bullying...
Me: My mind is a blank.
Blackpoole: Maybe someone took your milk money?
Me: (after releasing a long, plaintive howl) CHRISTINE! I HAD NOTHING TO WASH DOWN THAT PEANUT BUTTER SANDWICH WITH! HOW COULD YOU DO THAT TO ME? (I burst into tears.)
Blackpoole: That's very good, David. Now we just need to find your happy place-
(Commercial.)
(I am at my desk. Doctor Blackpoole sits beside me in the guest chair.)
Me: Our first guest allegedly uttered death threats to a woman. Let's get him out here. Tom Wordsworth, ladies and gentlemen!
(Applause. Enter Wordsworth. He is guided to the couch and instructed to lie down.)
Me: He's all yours, Doctor.
Blackpoole: Thank you. How are you feeling, Tom?
Wordsworth: I don't know why I'm here. I didn't say nothin'.
Blackpoole: Now, Tom, I can tell you are upset. I need you to let go of your anger. Take a deep breath. (Wordsworth complies.) Do you feel the warm comfort of the couch? Do you feel its leathery fingers massaging your back?
Wordsworth: I sorta feel somethin'.
Blackpoole: And now the soothing sensation is working its way up to the back of your neck, loosening up those tense muscles. And now it has penetrated your skull. Do you feel it wringing out all the anger in there? Letting it all fall to the floor as great drops of leftover booze? Tom? (Tom has slipped into a trance.) Are you still with us, Tom?
Wordsworth: (in a monotone) I - am - with - you.
Blackpoole: I need you to go back to the night of the crime.
Wordsworth: No - crime. -- Bitch - had - it - coming.
Blackpoole: What makes you say that?
Wordsworth: Bitch - stole - my - beer - money.
Me: She what? She stole his beer money? Well no wonder he was so upset.
Blackpoole: That's still no excuse.
Wordsworth: COME - BACK - HERE!
Blackpoole: Tom, I need you to calm down.
Wordsworth: GIMME - BACK - MY - MONEY! I'LL - KILL - YOU! KILL - YOU - YOU - BITCH!
Me: Doctor, if she stole his beer money-
Blackpoole: David, please stay out of this!
Wordsworth: KILL - YOOOU! -- NEEEEED - BEEEEEEEEER! (His hands reach up slowly, as if to choke an imaginary neck.)
Me: (to camera) Sorry, folks. This may take more time than we thought, but I'm sure we'll get it all straightened out during the commercial break. Tom Wordsworth! (Applause.)
*********************************************
Commercial: Econo-flush Food Recycler
(Grandma's kitchen.)
Grandma: Did you like the casserole, Billy?
Billy: Can we have chocolate cake for dessert?
Mother: Billy! That juice has more than enough sugar for you!
Grandma: No, he's right. But that cake mix is just so darned expensive.
Announcer: Looking for a break in your grocery bill? Research shows that a considerable portion of human waste is recyclable. That's why we developed Econo-flush, the amazing new bathroom accessory that collects edible proteins from your droppings.
(Product installation shot.)
Announcer: Just attach Econo-flush to your toilet and start saving money.
(Grandma's kitchen.)
Grandma: How do you like your chocolate cake, Billy?
Billy: It tastes like shit!
Mother: Billy!
Announcer: Stop flushing your grocery dollars down the drain with the Econo-flush food recycler. Available at the following outlets...
*********************************************
(The couch has been cleared.)
Me: Our next guest assaulted a woman in front of as many as seventeen witnesses at a night club. Mister Sparky Short!
(Applause. Enter Short. He lies down on the couch next to Doctor Blackpoole.)
Blackpoole: Hello, Sparky. Are you all ready to open up to the world?
Short: I got nothin' to hide.
Blackpoole: I still detect some hostility in your voice. I need you to take a deep breath. (He complies.) That's right. Just close your eyes and let the couch take you away. You're not in the studio any more. You're lying on an air mattress, adrift in a vast sea.
Short: Adrift - in - a - vast - sea.
Blackpoole: You can feel the warm ripples gently pass under you. You haven't a care in the world. Are you still with us, Sparky?
Short: I - am - with - you.
Blackpoole: Good. Go back to the night club where you were arrested. Can you see the girl you assaulted?
Short: See - the - girl.
Blackpoole: What is she doing?
Short: Smoking - cigarette.
Blackpoole: And what are you doing?
Short: Telling - her - no - smoking - allowed - in - club.
Blackpoole: Breaking club rules is no excuse for assault, Sparky. And now what is she doing?
Short: Butting - cigarette - on - my - head. - Ah! - Pain! (He puts his hand on his forehead.)
Me: She put out the cigarette on his head?
Short: You - drunken - little - TRAMP! -- GRAB - YOU - BY - THE - HAIR!
Blackpoole: Sparky, that's not how we solve problems.
Me: Doctor, it sounds like she assaulted him first.
Blackpoole: Never mind what it sounds like.
Short: GRAB - YOU - BY - THE - HAIR! -- MAKE - YOU - PAY! (He lurches forward, causing Blackpoole to recoil with a whimper of fear.)
Me: Are you all right?
Blackpoole: Yes, I'm fine. Maybe you should go to a commercial.
Me: (to camera) Oh well. You heard the lady. We'll be right back after this. Sparky Short, everyone!
Short: MAKE - HER - PAY! LET - GO - OF - ME! -
(Applause. Commercial.)
(The couch is vacant. Blackpoole's blouse has been torn and her hair has been tousled.)
Me: Topping off our guest list tonight is a man who actually set fire to a woman's apartment while she was in the act of lovemaking. Boy! This kind of crime takes a real psycho. Would you please welcome Mick Carson!
(Applause. Enter Carson. He smiles and waves to the audience as he lies down on the couch.)
Blackpoole: Are you relaxed enough to speak openly?
Carson: Sure.
Blackpoole: Good. Because we're not having much luck with the hypnosis tonight. Now it says here on your record that you are an artist and a song writer.
Carson: I am.
Blackpoole: That's normally a very sweet, gentle personality type. How did you find it within yourself to commit such a violent act?
Carson: I just lost it. I just thought of all the women who betrayed me in my life.
Blackpoole: How many women betrayed you?
Carson: They must number in the millions.
Blackpoole: Now you're talking nonsense.
Carson: Oh yeah? Ever hear that hit song, Praise?
Blackpoole: Yes. So?
Carson: So, I wrote that.
Blackpoole: Oh, right. I recognize your face now. You're the one who had his hit song stolen.
Carson: And the guy who stole it went out of his way to bang every woman in earshot of me. I can still hear the upstairs girl from my old building crying out his name in bed, waking me up in the middle of the night. Of course, the business gave him the money to do this to me.
Blackpoole: But everyone knows it's your song now.
Carson: Yeah, great, now that I hate everyone. Now that I've gone broke to focus on my music and now that I've been left to get bounced around like a toy by the same women who went to that thief on their knees. But this one chick had me thinking she might help me get over it. It was just the way she smiled at me, you know? So I finally let down my guard and let her know I was interested. And what did I get? 'Oh, you'll just have to wait in line as I make this other guy feel like a man and leave you to listen to it by yourself like a helpless little girl!' I just lost it. All women want to do is use their pussies to stab at my heart! I tell you, I wish to God I'd never shared my music on the internet! I wish I could find the where-with-all to fucking KILL MYSELF!
Me: Doctor-
Blackpoole: I know, David. Please let a professional make the ruling on this matter. Derrick, you could have killed those people.
Me: No one was hurt.
Blackpoole: David, STAY OUT OF THIS!
Carson: So what? Just another phony-ass couple, pretending they're in love! The man looks at the woman and thinks 'she's my slave' at the same time as the woman looks at the man and thinks 'he's my slave'!
Me: Right! There's no love! No sacrifice! It's all just a vicious power struggle!
Blackpoole: Now just calm down, both of you!
Carson: What do you know about it, you tight-assed prude? All you need to do for sex is go find almost any man out there and spread your legs.
Blackpoole: How dare you!
Me: Actually, he may have a point there.
Blackpoole: David!
Me: But we won't know for sure tonight because we're all out of guest time. Thank you all for being here. And thank you at home for joining us. Back with a song after these important messages.
Me: Before I start, I should mention that we've been running short on cash to keep the show going and the producers have decided to give more air-time to our sponsors. If this is what it takes to keep bringing you our quality program, I'm all for it. And I'm sure you won't notice the difference. This evening we'll be hearing from some prominent musicologists. Musicology is the study of music as, among other things, a force in society, and I'm sure our guests will have some very interesting things to say. Let's greet the first of them right now, Professor Felix Raymond!
(Applause. Enter Raymond.)
Me: What kind of music do you like?
Raymond: I find that jazz is the only music that offers enough sophistication for a man of my intellect.
Me: Do you listen to music with your heart or your head?
Raymond: That's a good question, which raises a number of points. In the 1930's when-
Me: I'm sorry, Professor. I'm going to have to cut you off there. We're going to commercial.
Raymond: But I haven't finished answering the-
Me: Professor Felix Raymond! (Applause.)
*********************************************
Commercial: Slobber Guard
(Louise plays fetch with her dog in a park.)
Louise: Oh, look what you've done, Alphie! You've gone and got my blouse all wet.
(Enter Derrick.)
Derrick: Hi, Louise!
Louise: Hi, Derrick!
Derrick: Wanna see a movie with me?
Louise: I'd love to!
Derrick: Great! (Seeing dog slobber on her blouse, he grimaces in disgust.) Uh, I just remembered that I'm sick. Maybe some other time.
Louise: But-
Derrick: Bye!
Announcer: Dog owners, protect your social life from the horrors of dog drool with Slobber Guard, the ultimate dog accessory.
(Louise at home, putting the product on Alphie.)
Announcer: Slobber Guard fits comfortably around your dog's head and comes with patented air holes to help him breathe.
(Louise and the dog are back in the park, playing fetch.)
Louise: What's the matter, Alphie? Can't you pick up the ball?
(Enter Derrick.)
Derrick: Hey, who's fetching that ball? You or the dog?
Louise: (after a fawning laugh) Hi, Derrick!
Derrick: Wanna come to the dance with me?
Louise: Sure!
Derrick: Great! (after checking her blouse) See ya' Friday night.
(Exit Derrick.)
Louise: We did it, Alphie! Alphie? (The dog is rubbing the side of his head on the grass.) Oh, here, let me take that off for you.
(She unhooks the product and is knocked down by a flood of dog spit.)
Announcer: Slobber Guard. Keeping you dry as a bone.
Commercial: The Siren Siren
(A couple in bed are roused from their slumber by a passing police siren.)
Woman: Not again!
Man: What time is it?
Announcer: Why should some crime happening in some other neighbourhood disturb your peace? That's why we developed the Siren Siren.
(The couple install the product.)
Announcer: The Siren Siren detects approaching sirens and drowns them out with the sounds of your choosing.
(The couple in bed are roused from their sleep by their Siren Siren blasting out Dancing Queen by ABBA.)
Man: That's the second time tonight!
Woman: (grooving to the melody) I know, but don't you love this tune?
Neighbour: (banging on the ceiling) Hey! We're trying to sleep up here!
Announcer: The Siren Siren. One step ahead of the law.
*********************************************
Me: Our next guest may have been single-handedly responsible for the backlash against punk rock immediately following its arrival in the late 1970's, Professor Zvonee Rastanick!
(Applause. Enter Rastanick.)
Me: Professor, I have a soft spot in my heart for the Sex Pistols because they, like myself, had their music in the charts without getting paid or officially acknowledged for it. Why did you go out of your way to suppress their music?
Rastanick: Because Sid Vicious called me a filthy fucker.
Me: Well that's not very objective. What about their music?
Rastanick: I think it was indicative of a low point in Western-
Me: Thank you, professor.
Rastanick: I beg your pardon?
Me: That's all the time we have for you. Professor Zvonee Rastanick, everyone! (Applause.)
*********************************************
Commercial: Jump-Start Super Non-Drowsy Formula Cough Syrup
(A group of students play volleyball in a gymnasium. Jesse is about to serve.)
Team Mate #1: Think she can do it?
Team Mate #2: She's got the hardest serve on the team.
(Jesse serves the ball weakly. It floats up and falls shy of the net. The opposing team laughs. The coach comes out to talk to Jesse.)
Coach: What's wrong with you today, Jesse?
Jesse: It must be this non-drowsy cough syrup I've been taking for my cold. It's just not non-drowsy enough.
Coach: Sounds like you need a Jump-Start. (The coach runs back to his bag and pulls out a medicine bottle and a spoon.)
Announcer: An effective cough syrup should do more than merely neutralize the symptoms of a cold. It should counter them.
(The coach returns to Jesse's side and spoon-feeds his star player with the syrup. Jesse's eyes open wide and bloodshot as her body quivers with false energy.)
Coach: Are you ready to play?
Jesse: Ready to play, coach!
(Exit coach. The game resumes. Jesse serves forcefully, sending the ball rocketing across the court. An opposing player jumps up to block it and is caught in the chest. He shoots backward until he is pinned to the wall fifty feet or so behind him.)
Announcer: Stay on top of your game with Jump-Start super non-drowsy cough syrup.
Ted: It's packed with nutritious goodness and comes in a can that warms it up for you. Just pull off the lid and (demonstrating) presto!
Doug: I'll have to try that.
(Doug and his wife put away their groceries after returning from a supermarket. His wife pulls out the soup can from one of the bags.)
Wife: What's this?
Doug: That's for my lunch.
(The can slips out of her hand and falls to the floor. She stoops off camera to pick it up.)
Doug: Don't touch that!
(He is too late as she shrieks in pain. She rises to show that her hand is blistered and smoking.)
Wife: Call an ambulance!
Announcer: Atomize your hunger with Atomic Self-Heating Soup.
*********************************************
Me: Our last guest is a woman who thinks that technology has done more harm than good to music, Professor Elaine Falstaff!
(Applause. Enter Falstaff.)
Me: Professor Falstaff, what do you have against technology?
Falstaff: I think it comes between the artist and the listener.
Me: But aren't musical instruments, themselves, a kind of technology?
Falstaff: Yes, it is the enabling technology. But now it's getting to the point where machines are playing the instruments for us.
Me: I see your point. Why do you think this is happening?
Falstaff: For commercial reasons. Music became a commercial product with the advent of recording, bringing on an assembly-line approach to production and-
Me: I'm sorry. I have to cut you off there. It's time for another commercial break.
Falstaff: Just as your show has compromised its content to make more money, the music industry-
Me: That will be quite enough, Professor!
Falstaff: The integrity of the artwork is lost in the blind pursuit of profits and-
Me: Professor Elaine Falstaff! Right back with a song, folks! (Applause.)
Falstaff: How dare you invite me here and rush me off the stage after three questions!
Me: Be grateful anyone's listening to you.
Falstaff: Why, I've never been treated so shabbily in my life! I have a good mind to -
Me: I wanted this show to be about nose pickers, a very broad and clandestine group, but then I remembered that we're heading into another Thanksgiving Day long weekend in my country and thought it would be more appropriate to end our People Week with a nod of appreciation to the homeless. They make almost everyone else feel better about their lives. And what's our attitude about it most of the time? Thankless. Our first guest has been sleeping on the roof of the Metropolitan Plaza since he abandoned his shelter to find more comfortable lodgings. Would you kindly welcome Mister Earl Freemont!
(Enter the scraggly-bearded Freemont in an oversized army coat and a cast on his arm. I get up to shake his free hand and we take our seats.)
Me: Mister Freemont, I have been homeless many times throughout my life, the most recent of which was less than a year ago. I blame myself for often being rather hopelessly disorganized. How did you end up homeless?
Freemont: Well I started out with a promising future in a job that people used to say was secure until retirement. Then they downsized after I'd been with them for twenty-five years and left me to compete with workers half my age for jobs where I'd get bossed around by people two thirds of my age, so I just said 'Fuck it!'
Me: But aren't basic needs like rent covered by welfare?
Freemont: As long as you have a roommate to pay the other half of it. But I need my privacy.
Me: I see, I see. So what went wrong at the shelter? The one I stayed in was better than the room I rented afterwards.
Freemont: Did you stay in a dorm?
Me: Yes.
Freemont: How many beds?
Me: Twenty-eight, I think.
Freemont: How did you sleep through all that awful snoring and burping and farting?
Me: Earplugs.
Freemont: Well, like I said, I'm a man who needs his privacy. I got the roof of that plaza all to myself. And I get plenty of open air.
Me: Ah yes, the roof. What gave you the idea to sleep up there?
Freemont: I was working there with some roofers for a day-labour assignment when I noticed this little alcove with a heating vent. And I figured it would be private since we workers were the only ones who were shown how to get up there.
Me: You don't mind sleeping outdoors in the winter?
Freemont: No. I put my sleeping bag over the vent and it keeps me warm.
Me: Well, that's quite the story. I'm sorry you have to suffer so much. And I see you hurt your arm, too. How did that happen?
Freemont: Rolled over in my sleep.
Me: Earl Freemont, everyone! Let's give him our thanks!
(Applause. Commercial.)
Me: Up next is a man who has carved out a home for himself in a tree. No, he's not Bilbo Baggins, he's Chester Groves!
(Applause. Enter the scraggly-bearded Groves, wearing a hunting jacket. Greetings.)
Me: So. There once was a man who lived in a tree.
Groves: That's me.
Me: Do you have enough room in there?
Groves: Sure. I only use it for sleeping.
Me: Lying down?
Groves: Yes. It's one of those big old redwoods.
Me: The animals don't bother you?
Groves: Most of them. The chipmunks put up a fight though. I never knew they could be so territorial.
Me: And it must be great for spying.
Groves: Yes. I've seen some pretty shocking things.
Me: Like what?
Groves: One time I saw these guys taking a leak.
Me: That's not weird in a park that size.
Groves: Into the same styrofoam cup? Without it tipping over?
Me: That's a little weird.
Groves: And I'll never forget this ritual I saw.
Me: You mean like one of those Satanic ones?
Groves: Yeah. It was real creepy. A group of these well dressed men, real upscale types. And they had a child with them, a young girl. They all changed into these faggy gowns and formed a circle, with the child lying down in the centre, blindfolded.
Me: How old was the girl?
Groves: I don't know. Maybe eight or nine. Anyway, one of them pulled out a scroll and read from it and it was the most blasphemous load of shit I ever heard in my life. And then he took out a dagger and approached the child.
Me: Good heavens! They didn't sacrifice her right in front of you, did they?
Groves: No. The little girl got up, pulled off her blindfold, and said, 'How dare you speak that way about the Lord!' and kicked the guy with the knife right in the balls. He went down and she took his knife and stabbed the next man in the leg. The rest of them turned and ran and she chased them out of sight. Man. What a bunch of wimps.
Me: (pausing to think of a comment) Happy ending, at least.
Groves: Yeah, I guess.
Me: Did you help the guy who got stabbed?
Groves: No. I let him bleed to death.
Me: Good for you! Chester Groves, everyone! Let's give him our thanks for that remarkable tale! (Applause.)
*********************************************
Commercial: A-WEL Weight Loss Plan
(An office.)
Boss: (handing parcel to a chubby man) We need this sent priority post.
Man: (extending arms out like wings) What for? I can get it there faster in the bat-copter! Come on, Robin! We have work to do!
Announcer: Are diet pills making you batty? Lose weight the natural way with A-WEL, the Artist's and Writer's Weight Loss Plan.
(Product shot.)
Announcer: A-WEL comes in book form, to help accelerate your weight loss as you learn secrets hitherto known only by history's most devoted artists, such as
(The man at home with a guitar, scratching out a word on his notepad.)
Announcer: Week One. It doesn't cost anything to write a song - and it doesn't pay anything either.
(The man, visibly thinner, eating a styrofoam cup.)
Announcer: Week Two. With enough imagination, any chewing action can substitute for a real meal.
(The man at work, now skeletal, quitting his job.)
Announcer: Week Three. No paying job is worth your soul.
(The man collapses on the sidewalk. An ambulance stops and the attendants put him in a stretcher.)
Attendant #1: This guy's light as a feather.
Attendant #2: He must have gone A-WEL.
(Close-up of the man's face as they roll him into the vehicle. He comes to and smiles at the camera with pride.)
Announcer: Don't give the ambulance attendants any more to blubber about. Go A-WEL today!
*********************************************
Me: She's been homeless ever since her father died in a tragic polo accident. Miss Tiffany Shields!
(Enter Shields, who bears an uncanny resemblance to Holly Go-Lightly. We hug.)
Me: You look very sophisticated for a homeless person.
Shields: Thank you.
Me: So how do you pass the time in your bleak life?
Shields: It's awful. I must spend all my time in the shopping centre.
Me: Yes, a lot of homeless people use shopping centres for shelter. And where do you sleep?
Shields: I haven't had a bed to call my own since my father died.
Me: That's so sad.
Shields: And the servants in my cousin's mansion don't respect me.
Me: Servants? You're staying in a mansion?
Shields: Yes. It's a real step down from my father's castle.
Me: Did the bank repossess it?
Shields: The bank already possessed it.
Me: And they still let you live there?
Shields: It was my father's bank.
Me: Then why did you have to move out?
Shields: To make room for the workers as they remodel it for me.
Me: You poor thing!
Shields: Life is cruel.
Me: Well, I'm sorry about your father, at least. And that wraps it up for People Week on the D.S. Show. I'll be right back with a song to wish you a great Thanksgiving Day long weekend.
Me: I'm excited about today's instalment of People Week because we're going to be talking about my very own people, artists. They are a group that draw both love and hate from the population. The love is for their work and the hate is for them. And now, to help us get this intriguing discussion started, would you all please welcome Jacqueline Japeski!
(Applause. Enter Japeski. Greetings.)
Me: Thank you so much for being here tonight.
Japeski: My pleasure. I'm surprised you asked me.
Me: Why?
Japeski: Because I'm not a rich and famous artist. I'm just a talented one.
Me: That's exactly why I wanted you here. Being an artist essentially has nothing to do with being rich and famous.
Japeski: But all the great ones made it big.
Me: Only God knows who the real talent is.
Japeski: I suppose that's true.
Me: May I ask what you do for money?
Japeski: I work in a laundromat.
Me: Of course. She can paint circles around her art teacher, so they stick her in a laundromat. What do your parents think about your job?
Japeski: Oh, they're just glad I'm working at a real job because they think painting is just a hobby.
Me: Do either of them paint?
Japeski: Dad painted our kitchen cupboards, but neither of them knew how to paint photographic looking portraits from a live model.
Me: I'm so sorry you got stuck with such Philistines for parents. Usually parents believe in their children's talent.
Japeski: I heard that your parents didn't believe in your talent either.
Me: Please, let's not go there.
Japeski: (laughing) And I heard that when you were little your father used to make you hold nails for him as he drove them in with his hammer. And sometimes he missed.
Me: Jacqueline, please.
Japeski: (laughing) And I heard that your mother threw out the art school application you gave her to -
Me: I SAID I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT THAT! (Silence.) We'll be right back after the commercial, folks. Jacqueline Japeski! (Applause.)
*********************************************
Commercial: The Rocket
(A night club. A man tries to make contact with a woman as she stares at a guitar virtuoso performing on the stage.)
Man: Hi there!
Woman: Can't you see I'm busy?
(He walks away with his head down in defeat.)
Announcer: Don't let all the chicks go to some jerk with more talent. Get the Rocket, the amazing new self-playing guitar.
(The man at home with his new Rocket.)
Announcer: Just plug the Rocket into your stereo and let it record your performance for you. Just like that, you're ready for the stage.
(The man on stage, playing a guitar solo as the girls swoon.)
Announcer: And if you cause enough of a sensation with your Rocket, don't worry. The music business doesn't care if you really know how to play.
(The man plays a stadium gig in front of a gigantic monitor.)
Businessman: I said to keep the camera away from his hands!
Technician: Sorry!
(After the show, the man meets his all-girl entourage.)
Announcer: The Rocket. Blast off to the life you deserve.
*********************************************
Me: I think I'm over the emotional trauma caused by my last guest. I'm sure she meant me no harm. So, on with the show. Up next is a sculptor who has organized a support group for people of talent. Would you kindly welcome Marcel DuMaurier!
(Applause. Enter DuMaurier. Greetings.)
Me: I absolutely love your work.
DuMaurier: Thank you! What do you like about it?
Me: I love your sketches. Brilliant. Such mastery of pen and wash.
DuMaurier: The sketches? What about the sculptures?
Me: They look just like your sketches. Very impressive. Can I ask how this support group of yours is coming along?
DuMaurier: It's at the end of its rope.
Me: That's too bad. Have you run out of funding?
DuMaurier: No, I mean that most of our members have hung themselves.
Me: How terrible! Still, I'm not surprised. You're born with all this talent and people just rub your nose in it all your life, telling you that if you were any good, you'd have money, as the money guys leave you to rot. You can't relate to anyone around you because your mind doesn't work the same way. You end up rejected by family, friends, work mates, everyone.
DuMaurier: I heard that you had some close friends that took their own lives.
Me: Yes, I don't care to discuss that.
DuMaurier: And one of them let you borrow his car and you got in an accident and damaged it.
Me: I'd rather not think about that.
DuMaurier: And one of them even told you he was going to do it and you told him to quit being such a baby.
Me: I SAID I DON'T CARE TO DISCUSS THAT! NOW LOOK WHAT YOU'VE DONE! (I break down into fitful sobs.) Reggie, I didn't mean it! Reggie, we all miss you! Oh God! (handkerchief covering my face, waving my free hand) Go to a commercial!
(Commercial.)
Me: Once again I've managed to regain my spirits enough to carry on with this deeply personal topic. I'm going to ask you to try to be open-minded about my next guest. He's a conceptual artist and they tend to be the most misunderstood. Would you please welcome Jim Slim!
(Applause. Enter Slim, who turns out to be of medium build.)
Me: You make art out of automotive parts. Is that right?
Slim: Best in the business.
Me: Do you make sculptures out of them?
Slim: Sort of. I sometimes have to do some body work.
Me: Yes, that is a lot like sculpture.
Slim: But my real talent is for painting. I mean, how I paint the -uh- sculpture.
Me: Is that important?
Slim: Very important.
Me: I know you conceptual guys are always pushing the boundaries, but doesn't what lies under the paint job of a sculpture actually define it?
Slim: Yes it does. And that's why it needs to be hidden by a nice fresh paint job.
Me: (after pausing to examine my guest more closely) Wait a minute. I know you! You were on the news last week. You're wanted on over three hundred counts of grand theft auto!
Slim: And I thought you were open-minded enough to see that I'm an artist just like you.
Me: You're a rip-off artist! And the authorities have been alerted.
Me: Tonight's program, in keeping with People Week, is about a very common personality type, the underachiever. I've got three men backstage who were supposed to reach for the stars and ended up instead being featured on this show. The first of them is proud to call himself the chief superintendant over at Riverview High, Mister Tom Starsky!
(Applause. Enter Starsky. Greetings.)
Me: By all accounts, you were a brain in school. How did you end up in such an ordinary occupation?
Starsky: I guess there's just not many job opportunities for geniuses. And, of course, everyone thinks they're more entitled to those jobs than you are.
Me: But you still carry on your work in your own time.
Starsky: I sure do. I've learned to look at it the same way my parents did. They used to say that writing is just a hobby. I guess they were right.
Me: And what have you been able to come up with?
Starsky: Not much lately. But I did stumble on a very compelling theory a long while back.
Me: You did? Please tell us about it.
Starsky: Well it has to do with language. If it's true, it would be a huge step forward for the science of linguistics.
Me: Always room for progress in that field.
Starsky: My theory is that the building blocks of language are innate; that a child is born with a kind of language template that only needs to be filled in with the words of his culture.
Me: Wow! That's a real breakthrough.
Starsky: Yes. The potential for development is limitless.
Me: You sure it's your theory?
Starsky: Absolutely.
Me: Have you ever heard of Professor Noam Chomsky?
Starsky: No. Who's he?
Me: Let's just say he's a man who would agree with your theory. When did you come up with this?
Starsky: Oh, it was way back when I used to be the janitor over at MIT. I remember discussing it once with one of the teachers there. Nice guy.
Me: Open minded?
Starsky: Yes, very open minded.
Me: Well thank you for coming on the show. Tom Starsky, everyone! He may be less of an underachiever than we thought.
(Applause. Commercial.)
Me: Next we would like to introduce you to a man with a 200-plus IQ who works in children's entertainment, Garth Chandler!
(Applause. Enter Chandler. Greetings.)
Me: You claim to be an inventor.
Chandler: I am.
Me: But you work as a clown for children's birthday parties.
Chandler: Someone's got to do it.
Me: Why haven't you had any success with your inventions?
Chandler: I guess I'm too far ahead of my time.
Me: In what way?
Chandler: Well, for one thing, I can envision a world where mating with artificial women is a reality.
Me: I see. And how does this drive your creative process?
Chandler: A long time ago, when I was just a boy, I thought of a way of modifying little girl's dollies to make them look more sexy and grown up. I called it the Booby doll.
Me: (Pause.) Blonde?
Chandler: Oh yeah.
Me: About yay high?
Chandler: That's Booby!
Me: Are you sure you are not confusing yourself with Ruth Handler?
Chandler: Who the hell is that?
Me: She's the inventor of the Barbie doll.
Chandler: I can't imagine where she got the idea. Does that doll look like the work of a woman? And the only one I showed it to was this little girl in the schoolyard back in the 1950's. I just wanted to show her that my doll was cooler than her doll. Funny thing. It went missing shortly after.
Me: Well the important thing is that you have made countless little girls happy with your invention.
Chandler: Little girls? That doll was just a scaled down prototype for a life-sized model intended for single men! Where does this Handler person live? Maybe I need to go over there and straighten her out!
Me: Let's hear it for Garth Chandler! (Applause.) Coming soon to a birthday party near you!
Chandler: What are you doing? We've just uncovered a huge ripoff!
Me: Calm down! You're not here to talk about your success!
Chandler: But -
*********************************************
Commercial: Cart-in-a-car.
(A woman is exhausted in her search for her car in a full parking lot.)
Announcer: Why park your car? It just means you have to walk all the way back to it again. Get yourself the new cart-in-a-car.
(Her car is fitted with the product.)
Announcer: Cart-in-a-car fits around your drivers seat. It's easy to install and affordably priced for a mere eight thousand dollars.
(She parks next to a man with a limp. He gets out and walks as she whizzes past him.)
Announcer: Don't let them laugh at the goofy way you walk. Stay seated with cart-in-a-car.
(She gets to a doorway with steps, activates her jets, and flys offscreen.)
Announcer: And for an extra nine thousand dollars, we'll send you a jet engine to help you navigate those nasty stairs.
(She watches TV in her living room while still in her carseat.)
Announcer: Once you sit down in your new carseat, you'll never have to get out again.
(A shot of the product.)
Announcer: Cart-in-a-car. Driving for perfection.
*********************************************
Me: I know our last two underachievers may have disappointed you, but this one can't miss. He's an assistant plumber's assistant, all the way from his mother's basement in Cow-Pie, Wyoming, Mister Allan Mighty!
(I look over to see that Mighty is already in the guest chair.)
Me: How did you do that?
Mighty: Neat trick, eh?
Me: So, Mister Mighty -
Mighty: Please, call me Al.
Me: Thank you. Al, I really hope you aren't going to spoil my show by laying claim to some monumental achievement. You really are an assistant plumber's assistant, right?
Mighty: Right.
Me: And that's all you do, right?
Mighty: Right.
Me: So why did you settle for such an ordinary life?
Mighty: I just felt that I had nothing to prove.
Me: And why is that?
Mighty: Because I already created the universe.
Me: Now look! I'm starting to lose my patience.
Mighty: What's wrong?
Me: You're not the Almighty!
Mighty: I'm not? Then how did I get into this chair without you seeing?
Me: I'm going to need a lot more proof than that.
Mighty: I'd be careful if I were you, David. Thou shalt not put the Lord thy God to the test.
Me: Bullshit!
Mighty: Don't make me angry. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry.
Me: Don't make you angry! How do you think I feel about losers like you getting on my show?
(A storm cloud gathers over our heads and erupts into a thundershower.)
Mighty: Now you've done it. You should really be careful what you say to people. You never know who you're talking to. (He disappears in a blinding flash. The raining stops.)
Me: Wait! Come back! I'm sorry, Lord! I didn't mean it! Oh, damn! (I look up with fear, covering my lips.)
Me: On Day Two of People Week, we're going to learn about the forgetful, a group that has been braving winters barehanded, getting rained on without umbrellas, and tearing rooms apart in searches for missing keys since the dawn of civilization. Tonight we'll be interviewing three such chronic 'losers'. The first is a woman who has had to replace her driver's licence a staggering ninety-three times, Madeline Mayhew!
(Applause. Enter Mayhew. We hug and sit down.)
Me: So why did you have to replace your licence so much?
Mayhew: Twice isn't that much, is it?
Me: I thought it was ninety-six times.
Mayhew #2: Excuse me.
Me: Yes?
Mayhew #2: Yes, I'm Madeline Mayhew. I was just waiting backstage when this impostor came out of nowhere.
Mayhew: I beg your pardon?
Mayhew #3: You're both impostors! Hi, Dave. I'm Madeline Mayhew. I'm sorry I missed my cue.
Me: Well this dispute is easily enough resolved. Can I see some ID?
Mayhew #3: Sure. How about a driver's licence?
Mayhews Spokesperson: We all have driver's licences, too!
Me: Who are you?
Mayhews Spokesperson: The Madeline Mayhews. We're a cheerleading team whose members are all named Madeline Mayhew.
Me: (after a pause) I think I'm beginning to see what happened here. You're all illegal immigrants applying for passports with the same fake driver's licence! Don't worry people. We'll get rid of these flimflammers during the commercial break.
(Commercial.)
Me: Next in line is an octogenarian. We all know how much aging can impair the memory. Let's hear it for Ernie MacGuff!
(Applause. Enter MacGuff. Leaning heavily on a cane, he slowly makes his way over to the guest chair.)
Me: Mister MacGuff, at roughly what time in your life did you begin to notice that your memory was failing?
MacGuff: I can barely remember anything past my forty-sixth birthday. But who says my memory was failing?
Me: Well if you can't remember anything past the age of forty-six -
MacGuff: Maybe I didn't want to.
Me: What do you mean?
MacGuff: I mean that I don't need to clutter my brain with a lot of useless shit!
Me: But so much has happened since then.
MacGuff: Like what? Hippies that wouldn't fight for their country? If my generation were like that, we'd all be speaking German right now, instead of American!
Me: But what about all the new technology?
MacGuff: It's all crap. I counted thirty-eight buttons on my remote control. I only need four of them. And the TV's break when you kick them now because they're all made of cheap fucking plastic instead of being built solid like in the old days. And if you wanna call and complain about it, you end up talking to Roberta the Robot. They fly all the way to the moon. What for? So they can plant a flag and make home movies of themselves playing golf.
Me: But what about all the history?
MacGuff: What history? Nothing big's happened since they dropped the big one on Hiroshima, except that they should have kept going and nuked those Commie bastards while we still had the advantage!
Me: Actually, those countries have switched over to free-market economies.
MacGuff: I thought it was more of a free-money economy with all its damn social programs and handouts! In my day people earned their pay!
Me: The music?
MacGuff: Don't get me started. Even without my hearing aid I could still hear your sound check.
Me: You didn't like it?
MacGuff: You sound like a goddamned gorilla.
Me: So your memory loss is all deliberate.
MacGuff: That's right. And if you keep forcing me to remember things, I'm going to have to crack you over the head with this cane.
Me: Well that won't be necessary because it's time to go to another commercial. Ernie MacGuff, folks!
(Applause. MacGuff smiles and waves to the camera.)
*********************************************
(A group of transit users wait at a bus stop with a 'No Smoking' sign. One of them lights a cigarette and goes around blowing smoke in the faces of the others.)
Smoker: Ha! How do you like that?
User #1: Stop it! Can't you read the sign?
Smoker: (blowing smoke in her eyes) What sign? Ha! Ha! Ha! A-ha! Ha! Ha!
Announcer: We care about you. That's why we've implemented a final solution to the problem of smokers.
(Troopers in brown shirts with red arm bands that display the 'no smoking' symbol appear at the bus stop and surround the smoker.)
Trooper #1: What do you think you are doing?
Smoker: I was just going to put it out.
Trooper #1: Let me do that for you. (He takes the lit cigarette and butts it out on the smoker's forehead.) You're coming with us. (They seize him and remove him from the scene.)
Announcer: We've converted all the old schools that were condemned for an asbestos hazard into concentration camps.
(A flag with the 'no smoking' symbol flutters atop a converted elementary school. Barbed wire has been added to the fence, which opens to let in a paddy wagon.)
Announcer: If your children didn't learn anything in them, maybe these smokers can at least learn some manners.
(Smokers all sit in a classroom, smoking away as their instructor stands before them in a gas mask.)
Instructor: And can anyone tell me the effect of smoking on an unborn child? Melissa? You ought to know.
Melissa: (six months pregnant, cigarette in mouth, putting her hand on her womb) It makes them kick harder if you cut off their supply of nicotine.
Announcer: And since they seem to want to shorten their lives, there's nothing wrong with helping them do it.
Instructor: And can anyone tell me one of cigarette tobacco's most toxic ingredients?
(The camera pans out to show that the smokers have all died in their desks.)
Instructor: That's right! Cyanide!
Announcer: Pretty soon there'll be no more smokers left to interfere with your healthy lifestyle.
(Show a cyclist riding down a roadside.)
Announcer: Then we'll start picking on cyclists for you.
(A vehicle bumps the cyclist off the road.)
Announcer: Breathe easy. A public service announcement from your loving government.
*********************************************
Me: He's a songwriter who posted over a hundred songs on the internet and then forgot every last one of them! Ladies and gentlemen, Jason Ashley!
(Applause. Enter Ashley. Greetings.)
Me: How could you forget all your songs?
Ashley: I guess it's because I'm not on the receiving end of the music. I'm on the giving end.
Me: But when they tested you a year and half later, they played your own recordings to you.
Ashley: I know. Can you remember everything you said and did on May 2, 2009?
Me: Why do you think you forgot them?
Ashley: Because they were my bitterest expressions drawn from my most painful experiences.
Me: But you didn't really forget them because you have since reconstructed most of them.
Ashley: No, I was forced to relive them.
Me: And in the meantime, countless strangers helped themselves to the bulk of your work. How did that feel?
Ashley: Ever seen the film, A Clockwork Orange?
Me: Yikes! And I hear they're still holding back all the money they made from your work.
Ashley: Yes they are. And as long as I have to walk the streets, people are going to assume that there is something gravely wrong with me for not being allowed to have my money. And every minute that I have to wait is going to feel like eternity.
Me: It must be tough to plan ahead when you feel that you can't trust anyone.
Ashley: Not really. I'm writing a will that says no one can profit from any of my music or writing after I'm gone. It is to be used strictly for charity if it is used at all.
Me: A will? Isn't that a little final?
Ashley: What's planning ahead without any thought to the glorious afterlife?
Me: Good point. His background might be spotty but his future is entirely sound! Jason Ashley, everyone!
Me: This week is People Week right here on the D.S. Show. We'll be looking at classic personality types and inviting living examples of them to come out here and tell us more about their fascinating lives. Tonight I thought we'd get things rolling with a personality type that tends to favour men, the 'superstud'. And with us, to share the secrets of his astonishing success, the dynamic, the procreative ... Chet Chalmers!
(Applause. Enter Chalmers. Greetings.)
Me: You have racked up quite an impressive record from what my research team tells me. How did you become so successful with women?
Chalmers: I guess they like the way I treat them.
Me: So how do you treat them?
Chalmers: Like bitches that need training.
Me: Bitches?
Chalmers: That's right. Women are like dogs. They're loyal to their masters. They like to be petted. They like going for walks in the park. And as long as it's in private, they don't mind a friendly game of fetch or eating from a dog dish with no knife and no fork or being dragged around the floor naked on a leash.
Me: They like that?
Chalmers: They always crawl back for more.
Me: And if you treat them with respect?
Chalmers: They trample you. One of my new pets broke up with her fiance to spend the night with me. He gave her a box of chocolates. I ate the candy and made her sit up and beg for a Milkbone.
Me: So that macho stuff really works, eh?
Chalmers: It does for me.
Me: What kind of work are you in, by the way?
Chalmers: I'm one of those guys that has to put on a protective suit and let police dogs have their way with me.
Me: Sounds rough.
Chalmers: It is.
Me: But the women love you for it.
Chalmers: Yeah, but I still can't find a woman who can offer any real sympathy for the work I do.
Me: Are you sure about that? They sound pretty sympathetic to me.
Chalmers: They don't to me.
Me: Why not?
Chalmers: (after a contemplative pause) I just don't hear it in the way they bark.
Me: Too bad. Can't have it all, I guess. But thank you for being on the show. Chet Chalmers, everyone!
(Commercial.)
Me: Our next guest is a man who invented his very own love potion. Professor Glen Philistein!
(Applause. Enter Philistein in a white lab coat.)
Me: Professor, I'm not out to give you a hard time, but if this love potion of yours is as effective as you say, why isn't it available in a pharmacy near me?
Philistein: Not at all. Glad you asked. It's because it isn't ready for public consumption yet. It only works on me.
Me: Oh. Will you be developing one for the mass market?
Philistein: I'm not sure.
Me: Why not?
Philistein: Because I don't want to lose my competitive edge over other men.
Me: But you'd make a fortune.
Philistein: To spend on what? Women? (He laughs.)
Me: No, you wouldn't need it for them. All right then. How does this potion work?
Philistein: Well, the science behind it is rather complex. It is an airborne neural stimulater which finds its target in an attractive woman's olfactory receptors.
Me: (after a moment to comprehend his words) Perfume?
Philistein: Yes!
Me: I'm not smelling anything now.
Philistein: I neutralized it for this program, so our interview wouldn't be constantly interrupted by excited young girls.
Me: Neutralized it? You mean you showered?
Philistein: It doesn't wash off.
Me: Then how do you neutralize it?
Philistein: I smear my skin with animal faeces.
Me: (after pausing to think of a question) Dog? Cow?
Philistein: Bat. It's more potent.
Me: Why can't I smell it?
Philistein: Neutralized by the sweet smell of my potion.
Me: (sniffing curiously) Yes, it must be sweet.
Philistein: Detectable by sexy women at a range of up to fifty yards.
Me: Let's hear it again for the very cultured Professor Glen Philistein! (Applause.) The perfect date for an evening at the beach - in a large body of water that is at least neck deep.
*********************************************
Commercial: The Jizz Jar
(A creepy looking man in a playground draws suspicion from a young mother.)
Mother: What are you doing here?
Man: Are you married?
Mother: No, but what does that -
(She screams as he lunges forward and tries to lick her. Park attendants in reflective vests appear and drag him off.)
Announcer: Don't let your progeny depend on obsolete pick-up methods. Get with the times, and get the all new Jizz Jar!
(Show man with product, reading instructions.)
Announcer: Made of one hundred percent American plastic, the Jizz Jar has all it takes to sustain the continuity of your ancestral line. It's sterile, mailable, and even comes with one of our finest erotic magazines to help you get in the mood.
(The man has returned to the playground. The young mother is there with a child who bears a creepy resemblance to the man. He tries to greet the child, but the mother screams and runs away.)
Announcer: The Jizz Jar. Get it while you're hot.
*********************************************
Me: Our last stud this evening is a highly decorated combat veteran who says the ladies love his broad shoulders, thick forearms, and clean, masculine face. Let's all welcome Punky Martin!
(Applause. Enter the scrawny, effeminate Martin in a denim jacket. I get up to greet him and make an awkward show of my much greater corporeal mass as the camera catches us standing side-by-side for a second. We go to our seats.)
Me: You are much smaller than I imagined.
Martin: Why?
Me: Why? Did you not hear the introduction? From the description you gave us I was expecting someone with a decidedly more Herculean bearing.
Martin: (smiling) Yes, your people must have misunderstood me. I'm a poet, so I often speak in metaphors.
Me: Metaphors. Gotcha. I often have the same problem. So you're not a big, tough soldier; you're a slight, sensitive artist.
Martin: The kind that chicks dig.
Me: Right. Those women just love a man with strong language skills. Could you treat us to one of your well thought out pick-up lines?
Martin: Sure. Wanna hear the one I coined for the honeys on the public transit system?
Me: Please.
Martin: I move in close, look her in the eye, and say 'I know you want me.' Then I dismiss her reply and say 'Because of the absolute bliss that I can bring to your body, the warm waves of pleasure starting in your little doorbell and ringing, yes, ring-a-linging out across your tender form to the very tips of your extremities, slowly, firmly overtaking you until you find yourself willingly locked in throbbing starfish ecstasy.' (Pause.) What do you think?
Me: Kinda long.
Martin: Oh? Perhaps it's too sophisticated to be understood by a musician.
Me: What's that supposed to mean?
Martin: Can't you figure that out either?
Me: Listen you little twerp, you better mind your tone or I'll show you a pick-up line that ends with you being hurled out that window! (to camera) Back with a song after these important messages, folks!
Martin: You're not strong enough.
Me: Oh yeah? How much do you weigh?
Martin: A hundred and ninety pounds.
Me: Bullshit! That's five pounds heavier than I was before I started writing again! What kind of -
