Best Show Fan Fiction

[Bryon_Scallopini]

Hi Everybody,

All this talk of fictional characters got me thinking: has anyone written any Best Show fan fiction? I thought I'd give it a shot, so here goes:

Tom Learns an Important Lesson

"How do I sound, Mike?" Tom asked.

"Good," Mike said. "But the show just finished."

"I know, you nitwit," Tom said. "I still care about how I sound."

"Well, great show tonight."

"I know!" Tom yelled. "It's always a great show. That's why it's the Best Show. You mutant. You ankle bracelet-wearing, bootleg--"

A large, lone tear formed on Mike's face, streamed slowly past his nose, fell from his lip, and landed in his Coor's Light.

Tom Schrapling always had a certain knack for zingers. Yet ever since he and his comedy partner, Jon Worster, appeared on Late Night with Seth Meyers and he got the biggest laugh, his remarks had been harsher, more relentless, and - in his mind - more than a little deserved.

"Quit your crying, Mike," he said. "I bet Paul Rudd would screen calls."

"I guess I'll be going," Mike said, finishing his tear-infused beer and tucking his copy of Spinoza in his satchel.

"Bye," said Tom.

Tom stared at the cover of Ghettoblaster magazine angrily. "That guy in Barnes & Noble MUST have recognized me. And yet..." He brooded for several minutes, flipping through his magazines, only to be enraged once again by the copy of Rolling Stone which featured the Best Show box set - with Ringo Starr on the cover.

"Eeeeuugh," he said.

His cell phone rang. It was Jon.

"What's up?" Tom said.

"Not much, " Jon said. "I--"

"Goodbye," Tom said, hanging up.

Tom didn't suffer fools gladly. In fact, he didn't suffer anyone anymore, foolish or otherwise, gladly or otherwise.

"Who was that?" asked Dudio.

"No one. Listen: thanks for building the studio, but I'm never going to call you Dudio, and no one with even a shred of self-respect will either."

"Okay," said Jason. "Well, I'm glad you enjoyed Entourage."

"It gave me some ideas," Tom said. "It's about time I have an entourage. A Tom-tourage."

"That's great," said Jason.

"I know! That's why I said it. Goodbye."

Tom stared at Jason, waiting for him to leave. It didn't have quite the same effect as hanging up on someone, but Jason soon got the message and slinked out of the studio.

Alone at last, Tom thought. Just me and my naturally modulated voice.

His phone rang. It was his wife, Terre.

"Hey Tom--"

"I'm going in a sensory deprivation tank," he announced. "I need to hear myself think. And talk."

"Noooooooooo," Terre said, and began fake crying.

"And I might just grow a beard."

"Noooooooooooooooooooooooooo," Terre said, and began real crying.

Tom hung up.

After locking up the studio, he got in his car and looked up directions to the nearest sensory deprivation center. It was half an hour away and almost certainly closed. But Tom was feeling lucky.

When he pulled up at 1 A.M., he heard the muffled strains of a familiar song coming from inside, but the door was locked. Standing on some discarded furniture next to the building, he couldn't make out much, but there seemed to be a figure moving around inside.

What was that song? The Ramones? Something off of Rocket to Russia? Or--

The door opened.

"Hey! What are you doing?" a man yelled.

"I was just seeing--listening--"

"You were peeping. You're a peeper."

"No, no, no," Tom said.

"You wanna see what's inside?" the man asked. "Come with me. And bring that thing you're standing on. We have a dumpster in back."

Tom knew nothing good would come of this, but he had to figure out what that song was. If anything, he could play the song on his radio show and talk about his misadventure for a few minutes. He grabbed the ottoman and followed the man.

Road to Ruin, Tom thought.

They went inside.

"Sugar pie, honey bunch--"

"Eeeeeeuugh," Tom said.

"I just filled up our newest tank, The Abyss, right over there."

The man pointed to what looked like a small pool with an open clamshell on top.

"Why don't you give it a try?" the man asked.

Tom looked at him. He seemed a little too eager to get Tom in the tank. And was there something under the cuffs of his pants? Did he actually have an ankle bracelet?

"--I can't help myself--"

"No thanks," Tom said.

"Fifteen minutes in the tank. It'll change your perspective."

"No," said Tom.

"Don't deprive yourself of this opportunity."

"--No, I can't help myself--"

"Noooooooooo!" screamed Tom and threw the ottoman into The Abyss.

"Oh, God, no," the man said. "Why! Why! Why did you do that? That thing was filthy. I'm going to have flush the whole system and disinfect everything. And cancel all the appointments. It's going to cost thousands! Plus, I'll probably throw out my back pulling that thing out."

Tom had a strange sense of déjà vu.

"--Sugar pie, honey bunch--"

"I'll get it out," Tom said, walking over to the tank.

The ottoman had sunk to the bottom, and was emitting a foul cloud of particles, turning the tank into a lukewarm, putrid cauldron. Sickening little specks began bobbing and swirling around. Were those shrimp?

"Eeeeeeeeeuugh, Tom said, backing away.

"You think it's cute! You're a monster. You're the worst character I could ever imagine. We're going to go out of business because of you."

"Look, I'm sorry," said Tom. They were definitely crustaceans.

"Just leave!"

"--I love you and nobody else--"

So he left. As he walked to his car, Tom realized that maybe he'd been a little too hard on people recently. He realized that not everyone had the advantages he had: his confidence, his connections, and of course, his quick wit.

Unfortunately, he also realized he had locked his keys in his car.

"Motherfucker," Tom said.

Wishing bitterly that he had OnStar, Tom vowed to never discuss these events on the radio.

Just as he was about to call AAA, he heard a honk. Then another, different honk.

A black town car with two horns pulled up next to him.

"You need an entourage?" asked Mike.

"No," Tom said.

"A Tom-tourage?" asked Jason.

"No," said Tom.

"A Jon-tourage?" asked Jon hopefully.

"Stop," said Tom. "I just need real friends. Like you, Jon. And you, Mike. And you--Dudio."

"How's a milkshake sound?" Mike asked.

"That sounds good," said Tom.

[Bryon_Scallopini]

Tom Teaches an Important Lesson

Tom woke up with the worst milkshake hangover of his life. He didn't really drink, but he did slurp from time to time, and he slurped one too many vanilla swirls the night before with Mike, Jon, and Dudio.

He felt bad making Mike wait for AAA when Mike had suggested getting milkshakes in the first place, and for saying that Mike probably had all the tools for breaking into cars in his satchel, but Mike still made it in time to get a milkshake in.

If fact, Mike got more than a milkshake in: Mike got a zinger in.

They were at the bowling alley, slurping away, and Tom confessed everything about his earlier troubles at the sensory deprivation center. And then Tom just kept confessing: about incidents in junior high, high school, college, at work, at Wawa, and in various elevators.

Then Mike said something which haunted Tom:

"Good luck with all thaaaaat." Or was it, "Good luck with aaaaall that"?

In any case, he was clearly quoting Seinfeld.

Tom shuddered. He had always seen himself as the Jerry Seinfeld of his group. Mike was obviously George. Jon, at least in character, was Kramer. And all the bad callers were Newman. After that, there weren't a lot of parallels. But the point was, Tom was the one in charge of put-downs.

Had the tables been turned? Was Mike - armed with all of Tom's bowling alley confessions - now going to be calling the shots on the Best Show?

Sure, Tom would still host - for the time being. But Mike would soon demand sidekick status. And a bigger part in the interviews. And comedy. And music. He'd want to play more of his own songs.

"Eeuuugh," Tom said.

Eventually, Tom would be relegated to sidekick status, then screening calls, and finally - building studios.

Tom needed to act quickly. But he also needed to bide his time, wait for the moment to reassert his authority. So he decided to bide quickly.

He had one last, long slurp of the milkshake he had gotten to go.

"Hair of the cow," he said.

All week, Tom catalogued zingers. He took long strolls in his mind palace, which was packed to the gills with insults and comebacks, many of which Tom had never had the opportunity to use. Or rather, he would have had the opportunity, if only they had come to him a few seconds or days earlier.

"You just screwed yourself, Mike," he said to himself, as he organized his 3x5s.

Tom arrived at Massa's at nine on Sunday night. It was crowded, and Tom got a seat in the corner.

Mike was holding court at the bar.

"And I said, 'What's the difference, Tom? You're their all-time best seller!'" The crowd cheered.

It was worse than Tom had imagined: not only had Mike become emboldened enough to talk back to Tom, he was emboldened enough to invent anecdotes and lift material to do so. In fact, it wasn't so much an emboldening as it was a metamorphosis.

Tom was witnessing the apotheosis of A.P. Mike, and he didn't like it. Furthermore, he didn't want it and he didn't need it.

Tom slinked out of Massa's, but not before hearing Mike say something about shrimp.

Monday was rough. He and Jon were still trying to come up with The Call, and inspiration hadn't yet struck.

"What if we...uh...pretend like you're Obama, and I interview you."

"Um..." Jon said. "I"m not sure if I can do the voice."

"You've got 24 hours to figure it out."

"I don't know," Jon said. "What about that other thing we talked about?"

"And then you just lay into Maron. And then you start talking about how you hate all the other podcasts, and you specifically name a bunch of them, and how they're not fit to hold my--"

"I really don't think--"

"Jock," Tom said.

"Eeuuugh," Jon said.

"And then you start going off on Mike. How full of himself he is, and how, for the first time in your presidency, you actually doubted the inherent decency of your fellow Americans. And how upset his song made Malia."

"I'm really not comfortable with this."

"And then you start talking about how this podcast is like his presidency. How it's not a popularity contest, because people are so stupid, and history will be the judge. And you want to appoint me Secretary of P--."

"I really can't do his voice."

"Podcasting. Or the Podcast Czar."

"This doesn't really sound like Obama."

"That's the twist. It turns out it's not Obama. It's his electrician. And when the real Obama walks in, he tries to ele--"

"No," said Jon. "Too far. And we don't have time to do the script."

"Fuck it!" Tom screamed. "We'll do it live! I'll write it and we'll do it live!"

Tom got to the studio early on Tuesday morning. He went over all the scenarios - if Mike brings up the milkshakes, if Mike doesn't, if Mike makes some snide reference to the "Tombrero," if Mike doesn't, and on and on - and Tom realized that he'd been looking at things the wrong way.

If their roles were reversed, Tom had to stop trying to out-Seinfeld him. He needed to out-Costanza him. And what would George do in this situation?

"He can't take over the show if he can't find me," Tom thought.

And so Tom flew to L.A.

Kicking himself for missing the Ant-Man premiere the night before (Paul Rudd had personally invited him), Tom was happy to find someone selling Ant-Man bootlegs on Sunset Blvd.

Just after he took the DVD from the seller's trunk, he heard a stern, authoritative voice:

"Hey! That's an illegal copy. You're stealing money from the people who created it and who deserve to be compensated."

The man belonging to that voice had definitely done voice work. It was Tom's conscience.

"Eh," said Tom, and walked to his car with the DVD.

He then drove to Earwolf Studios to record the podcast. Though he was a bit on edge, his nerves went away as soon as the show started. Patton Oswalt had an unfortunate diatribe against disabled veterans, and Tom accidentally mentioned being "super excited to watch Ant-Man back at the hotel," but both slips were easily edited out.

Tom also edited out Jon's multiple attempts at Obama, until they decided to do the Brother Ron thing they had talked about.

All in all, another great show.

Then Tom turned on his phone: 28 texts from Mike.

crazy night last week! in lacto veritas, ehh?

heading over to the studio. got some new songs i burned. no pressure

what's up? studio locked

are you ok?

show in half an hour!!!

20 minutes till show

10 minutes

one minute!!!!!!

one second

eeuuugh

the show is over an hour late

if i had a key, i could start the show. but you said you would always start the show

ok i just saw your tweet. no live show tonight. thanks for heads up

have fun in la

hey, were you in massas on sunday? thoight i saw you leave

why didnt you say hi? are you mad at me or slmethung?

Mike had apparently opened a Coors Light.

hope you don't feel weird about last rulers day. tuedsay. tuesday

cause i wont mentjon abything

about the tombrero

or the fedora

or the fake piercings

or the involuntary real one

so your secrets r safe...though im not sure about dudio!!!!

jsut kidding

Mike may have had more than one.

anyway glad we hadtbag that conservation

cant believe you said you thioght of us as seinfeld chracters

but i guess i see your point..dudio is totqlly george

i actuakky think of us as being in freunds. friends. your chandler and im--

"Yikes," Tom thought, putting his phone down.

As he sat on Patton Oswalt's balcony looking out at the Hollywood sign, slurping his first whiskey milkshake, Tom decided to call his old friend and let him know how he felt. That neither of them were characters on either of those shows. That their relationship was more complicated but also a lot more real. And that Mike would always be the star of his own show.

It was well past midnight in New Jersey, but Mike picked up the phone on the first ring.

"Get a Life," said Tom.

[johnnynovato]

Enjoying the up-to-the-minute quality of these a lot.

[B_Buster]

One correction: I don't hold court at Massa's at "nine on Sunday night." I hold court at Massa's at "nine on Sunday morning."

[JonFromMaplewood]

There was a huge thread of fan fiction a while back, and as part of a premium years back, Tom put out a CD of him reading some selections. I cannot find the old thread, but I found this text from Omar's "Recidivism" blog.

"The sneaky Weirder Jon from Maplewood calls on the heels of sending Tom a work of Best Show fan-fiction titled Where Turkeys Dare. Jon was hoping it was intercepted by a spam filter or immediately deleted, but Tom read it, laughed repeatedly, and printed it out. He warns Tom that his positive reaction may open the floodgates for future fictions. Tom says he will take them and reads the strong opening to hook listeners for the full version to follow later in the show:

It had snowed that day, and The Hate Pit was frigid. Now evening had descended, and Jeff Garlin was busy looking for twigs to keep the Pit fire lit. Bob Saget looked on, offering no assistance."

http://www.recidivism.org/tbsowfmu/

[Bryon_Scallopini]

Thank you for the correction. Truth is stranger...

[Bryon_Scallopini]

Tom Hears More Voices

Tom pulled down his seat tray, turned on his MacBook, and inserted his Inside Out DVD. That same gruff voice from Sunset Blvd. chastised him for buying another bootleg, but he ignored it once more as he flew back to New Jersey. Tom had always listened to that voice, and had a certain contempt for those who didn't, but there was something about Los Angeles that made his inner voice a little easier to ignore.

When the movie ended, Tom had an epiphany: for a long time, he had only been listening to one voice in his head: disgust. Disgust at all the creeps and jerks in the world, disgust at the people who didn't get his jokes, and disgust at the podcasters standing on his shoulders.

Disgust had served him well. But those four other emotions - joy, sadness, fear, and anger - too often took a back seat. Well, anger had his time in the driver's seat, and sadness too, but Tom's joy, as Patton Oswalt put it, tended to just rollerblade away.

Tom got off the plane determined to give equal driving time to each of his emotions.

Terre was waiting for him by the luggage carousel.

"What are you wearing?" she asked.

"A bowler," said Tom joyfully. "Patton gave it to me."

Terre pulled the bowler off.

Tom grabbed the hat and put it back on angrily.

"How long since you've shaved?" she asked, taking his bowler off again.

"Five days," he said fearfully.

"Well, you're not going six. Give me that."

The voices in his head were in pandemonium. So what if he wanted a new look?

"Okay," he said sadly, handing over his bowler.

"And that," she said.

Tom gave her his umbrella in disgust.

Despite his brief, belittling call after Mike's text message meltdown last week, Tom was really looking forward to seeing his associate producer, soothing any hurt feelings, and then zinging him again. So he was a little surprised when Mike didn't show up on time at the studio on Tuesday.

So Tom texted him.

HEY MIKE, GET OVER HERE   

I MEANT THE SHOW GET A LIFE SORRY IF I WASNT CLEAR 

SERIOUSLY MIKE I CANT DO THE SHOW WITHOUT YOU!!! 

IVE GOT COORS LIGHT 

YOU BETTER HAVE A GOOD EXCUSE OR I NEVER WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN!!!!*^&@#%&!!!@! 

The voice of joy was telling Tom to take a deep breath, relax, and not assume the worst.

"Shut the fuck up," he said to himself.

Just as he was about to fire off a volley of disgusted texts, Mike walked in.

"You're late," Tom said, pointing to the clock. It was five after.

"Oh, sorry," Mike said. "I was hanging out with some Best Show fans I met at Massa's Sunday morning."

"That's a little braggy," said Tom. "Wait: morning?"

"Yeah. I heard you were there Sunday night. Sorry I missed you."

Tom was confused. If Mike worked mornings, who was that holding court on Sunday night?

"Double shift," Mike explained.

"Well, that still doesn't explain why you sent me all those texts," Tom said.

"What texts?"

Tom showed him his phone.

"I didn't send those," Mike said. "And I didn't get the ones you just sent. Let me look at your contacts. Hmm. It looks like someone switched my number with..."

"Dudio!" Dudio said, waltzing into the studio.

Now, anyone who knows Dudio knows what a prankster he is. And while most of us can appreciate a good practical joke, sometimes Dudio takes it a little too far. This was one such case.

"I'm really not happy about this," Tom said sadly, realizing that he had suddenly lost all leverage he thought he had over Mike.

"Where are the cashew clusters?" Mike asked.

"I'll get them!" Tom screamed angrily.

Tom went to his car, and when he came back, there was something wrong with the studio.

"Who moved all the furniture?" Tom said, disgusted.

Dudio smirked.

"Can we hold off on the jokes until the show starts," Tom said, trying to sound joyful.

"I doubt it," said Dudio, and began working on getting the stream ready.

"Play this on the show tonight," said Mike, handing Tom a CD with the words Blood Trail scrawled across it.

Tom felt a growing sense of fear. Mike was re-emboldened, if he'd even been de-emboldened in the first place, and Dudio was getting very lippy. If they teamed up -  worst case scenario - they might be able overthrow the Best Show. Mike had the motive, Dudio had the means, and every Tuesday was another opportunity.

Was it too much to ask that they just pushed the right buttons and didn't push his buttons? To do his bidding without a bunch of back talk? Apparently so. His underlings were restless.

The show started off a little rocky, with some technical issues Dudio swore were not pranks. Tom had his doubts, but decided the best course was abject flattery.

"We've got Dudio in the house...painting with technology," Tom said joyfully and a little fearfully. "And if the stream isn't back up soon, you'll be Screwedio," he thought angrily, disgustedly, and sadly.

Soon enough, the stream was up, the show was rolling, and Tom's negative emotions evaporated, or at least melted.

Then Jon called. There was something uncanny about Jon's calls - some alchemy between their two personas - which still sometimes amazed Tom. As Bryce's Grateful Dead story unfolded into further and further absurdity, Tom forgot about the voices in his head and played along with the voice on the line, half-believing in the world they were creating. It was gold.

Then it was back to the calls. Someone suggested the Phillie Phanatic as one of the worst characters of all time.

"There's something joyous about the Phillie Phanatic," Tom said meditatively.

"What about Cathy?"

"Cathy...just makes me sad," he said.

Tom had really taken Inside Out to heart.

Then Charley Morgan called, and soon enough, the Best Show's status as a place for wholesome entertainment was thoroughly deflowered. To be fair, it was already missing quite a few petals, and Tom knew that Mike was loving it. All that was left was for Tom to acknowledge his Waterloo, play Blood Trail, and say good night. And then take unscreened calls for half an hour.

After the Half Hour of Power, Tom was in a reverie, slowly poring over the "menu of his mind," as he put it. Dudio had gone home after making some ominous comments about "next week's biiiiiiiiig echo problem," and Mike was savoring the cashew clusters.

"Do you ever hear voices in your head?" Tom asked.

Mike looked a little disturbed.

"Telling you what to do?"

"Yeah," Tom said.

"Well, Socrates talked about his dæmon - this mystical voice which told him--"

"Not a demon, you weirdo."

Mike pulled his worn copy of the Apology from his satchel.

"No, I mean--"

"No apology necessary," Tom said. "I mean, like the five voices from Inside Out. I've been hearing them all week."

"Ah," said Mike. "I guess I saw it as a metaphor for how our emotions get more complicated as we grow up. And all those memory balls represent--"

"Can you please not use that expression?"

Mike was tired of being cut off.

"I bet you've got a lot of green memory balls, Tom. And some really red memory balls. And as for this Goofball Island of a--"

Tom was tired of not cutting Mike off.

"Get out!" he yelled.

Mike grabbed his things, and the remaining cashew clusters, and slinked out.

Tom noticed a small, faint smudge on the coffee table. It had been several days since he had let his disgust do the driving.

"Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuugggghhhhh," he said, feeling like himself again.

When he got home, he and Terre talked about going to a movie on Friday.

"What do you feel like seeing?" Terre asked.

After the rollercoaster of emotions he had gone through this week, and all the trouble at the studio, Tom knew exactly what he wanted to see. Something to remind him of how things could be, if he just played his cards right and stopped listening to every little voice. Something to help him deal with Mike and Dudio.

"Minions," said Tom.

[Bryon_Scallopini]

Tom Has an Important Meeting

Tom did not like Minions at all. In fact, he despised it. And them.

"Each one was worst than the last. And why are they so eager to work for a supervillain? They're sick. They're evil."

"I thought they were funny," said Terre.

"You know who the Minions would really love? Hitler. Biggest villain there is. The Minions would be wearing brown little overalls, rounding up--"

"Let's get something to eat," suggested Terre.

Tom had worked himself into a lather of indignation, and had built up quite an appetite.

"Sonic sounds good," said Tom.

They walked over to Sonic, but when they got there, the restaurant was cordoned off and there was a crowd gathered around the perimeter.

"I knew it," Tom said. "Shut down by the Health Department. That was plasma I saw in the bag."

"Action!" someone yelled.

A car pulled up to the drive-thru.

"Cut!"

Tom couldn't believe his eyes: he had stumbled onto the shooting of an actual Sonic commercial.

Two guys got out of the car and walked to their respective trailers.

"That's a wrap. Good work, people!"

Tom hadn't been so disappointed since he saw Minions.

"That's it?" he asked a woman sitting in a fold-up chair which said "DIRECTOR."

"We're just getting exteriors here. We'll shoot the rest on a backlot, loop the dialogue, correct the color, and fix it in post."

Tom had no idea what she was talking about.

"I know what you're talking about," he said.

"Well, if you're ever looking to get into directing, here's my card," she said.

The next morning, Tom got an email from PodcastSurvey with the preliminary report on the demographics of his audience, and it was very positive. The average Best Show listener was between 18 and 44 - the "key demographic" - had at least a Bachelor's degree, earned over $100,000 a year, spent at least $300 a month on ticketed entertainment, electronics/gadgets, pet food/supplies, and dining, and primarily listened to the Best Show either at the gym or while doing long distance travel.

In other words, listeners to the Best Show were exactly the kind of people advertisers covet. And with the $100 Amazon gift card offer, PodcastSurvey was getting a big mailing list of Best Show listeners to market to directly.

On Sunday night, Tom got an urgent call.

"Tom, this is Pete from PodcastSurvey. Listen: we've been digging into the numbers, and we're running into some issues. Where do I start? First of all, the average listener is between 18 and 44, but the vast majority are either 16 or 46."

"I'm 46," Tom said.

"That's exactly the problem."

"What about education? They have degrees."

"They did do four years of college, but most attended...let's see...Universal University, the Institute for Success, the Institute for Advanced Success, WARP University, Rev. D. O. Ockiya College of Theology and Management Sciences, Trump U, College of Accreditation, University of Infinite Multitudes, University of Endless Solitude, University of American Samoa, Thomas Jefferson School of Law, Thomas Jefferson School of Business, Thomas Jefferson School of Information Technology, and the University of Florida."

"So what? They have disposable income."

"Yes and no. While respondents reported spending at least $300 a month on entertainment, electronics, pet food, and dining, after cross-referencing the emails they provided with easily available consumer spending data, it turns out that most of the entertainment dollars were spent on live wrestling matches. Or pay-per-view. Unfortunately, there was also a lot of overlap on the pet food and dining expenditures."

"At least they're improving themselves. They listen at the gym."

"Best Show listeners were honest about listening at the gym. Unfortunately, this is because a disproportionate number of Best Show listeners are incarcerated. There's not a lot to do in prison, so they lift weights and listen to podcasts."

"But you said they also travel."

"Those are the ones who've escaped. Or are breaking parole."

Tom pictured the average Best Show listener.

"Eeeeuuuuugh," he said.

"There is good news," Pete said. "They didn't lie about their incomes. The average listener does make well over $100,000. Unfortunately, that's because one of your most loyal listeners is Joaquín Loera. He throws the average off."

"Who?"

"Oh, I forgot. You probably know him as 'El Chapo' Guzmán. The billionaire drug kingpin. Big Best Show fan. Currently cooling his heels--"

"He escaped," Tom said.

"So he's listening on the road," said Pete.

"What about all the others? How much are they pulling in?"

"It varies from state to state. Up to $1.15 an hour. Most make a lot less. Your listeners in Texas are forced to work without pay. But they are learning valuable job skills that will help them on the outside."

"Then how are they buying all this stuff?"

"Credit cards. Not their own, obviously."

"So my fans are either in jail or on the run, committing credit card fraud? Listening from the prison gym or wherever there's free Wi-Fi?"

"El Chapo probably has broadband. But the rest are in libraries, Starbucks, or culverts near libraries and Starbucks."

"Great," said Tom, "just great."

"Well, we've got some options we'd like you to consider. Would you be willing to work with record labels and advertise current music?

"Yes!" Tom said.

"There's this Latin group you might be interested in. They have a new album. Yo La--"

"I love Yo La Tengo!"

"No, it's Yo La Estranguló. From Tamaulipas, Mexico. They do narcocorridos. Songs about drug smugglers. We think you could easily sell at least--"

"No," said Tom. "Those guys are actual supervillains. And I won't be a Minion."

"Then you won't like option two. Selling bootleg narcocorridos."

"No!" said Tom.

"Then there's option three. Transferring the Best Show to a podcast network. I would suggest Nerdist or perhaps Feral Audio."

"No!!!" Tom said.

"There's one more option. A reverse studio mortgage. You can keep your studio for as long as your podcast lives. You'll even get a small monthly check. And when your podcast eventually--"

"What about option three? Working with Nerdiest."

"Don't call us that. Them. Don't call them that. Show some respect."

"Wait," Tom said. "Who is this?"

"Pete from PodcastSurvey."

"Pete who?"

"Pete Holmes. You might have heard my podcast, You Made It Weird. Currently number 13 on the iTunes comedy charts. Yours is...let's see...well, my browser doesn't scroll down that far."

"Go fuck yourself," Tom said.

"Listen, you've got a great thing going, Tom. I want to help you make it even greater. I'm hearing a lot of talk about this associate producer of yours. Mike?"

"Mike," Tom said with resignation.

"You should bring him on more. Let him have more of a voice. More control over every aspect of the show. Anyway, I've got a lot more ideas."

"Are you speaking for Nerdist or PodcastSurvey?"

"Both. Nerdist owns PodcastSurvey. And Feral Audio. And one day we will own Earwolf. You can fight us, or you can join us, Tom. And again, if you join us, you get to stay in your studio."

Tom was entirely weirded out, and he didn't know what to do. But he knew one thing: he would never join Nerdist.

"I'll think about it," he said, and hung up.

Then he called Jon.

"We've got 24 hours to record the best damn Sonic commercial in the world."

Tom and Jon spent all Monday working on the Sonic radio spot, and it was like watching two of the greatest athletes of all time performing at their peak. Tom was Michael Jordan, passing and dunking comedy basketballs, and Jon was Sachin Tendulkar, smashing his comedy cricket bat. Their styles weren't meshing very well, unfortunately.

In order to concentrate on the ad for Sonic, Tom canceled the Best Show on Tuesday. After a second day of fruitless attempts, they took a break.

Tom turned on his MacBook and looked at Google News. The top story was about the New Horizons probe flying past Pluto. He and Jon sat in awe as they looked at the images of the dwarf planet, so far away, and yet, through the magic of technology, as close as the moon.

"Makes you think," Jon said.

"Yeah," Tom said. "We're like the two guys in the Sonic commercials. I'm the driver. You're the passenger."

"You're the passenger," said Jon. "You're the one with the puppet."

"Maybe you're a puppet. The point is, we'll never be as ironic as they are, so why even try?"

"Yeah," said Jon. "What if we were just, like, completely sincere about why we eat at Sonic, and say so in our own words? We wouldn't even need a script."

"I have an idea," Tom said, pulling out the business card the director gave him.

The next day, Tom and Jon caught a plane to Oklahoma. As they sat in the conference room at the headquarters of Sonic, Tom stared at a copy of USA Today with a big picture of Pluto.

Soon the executives filtered in.

Jon stood up.

"I'm going to be bold and say that no one in this room knows more about the Sonic customer than Tom Schrapling. He's visited 20 restaurants in nine states and interviewed hundreds, and is obviously uniquely qualified to craft this modern campaign. Here to tell that story is Tom."

Tom stood up, holding the USA Today.

"That’s a lot to live up to," he said. "Because--"

"On second thought," said Jon, taking the newspaper, "I've got this."

Tom sat down, stunned.

"And I certainly can’t tell a better story," Jon continued, pointing to the picture of Pluto, "than the one we saw last night. I don’t know what was more miraculous, the technological achievement that put our species in a new perspective, or the fact that all of us were doing the same thing at the same time. Sitting in this room, we can still feel the pleasure of that...connection...because I realize now, we were starved for it."

"We really were," said Tom, standing up and reaching for the newspaper.

"And yes," Jon said, still holding the paper, "we’ll feel it again, when they all return, safely."

"And yes," said Tom, grabbing the newspaper, "the world will never be the same in some ways. But tonight I'm going to go back to New Jersey, and I'll go back to my apartment, and find a ten year old boy parked in front of my MacBook, eating dinner."

Jon grabbed the newspaper back.

"Now," he said, "I don’t need to charge you for a research report that tells you that most MacBooks are not more than six feet away from the dinner table. And that dinner table is your--"

"Battlefield," said Tom, taking the newspaper.

"And your prize," said Jon, taking it back. "This is the home your customers really live in, this is your dinner table. Dad likes the Rolling Stones. Son likes the New Pornographers. The MacBook is always on. Afghanistan playing in the background. The news wins every night. And you’re starving."

"And not just for dinner," said Tom, wresting the newspaper from Jon. "What if there was another table, where everybody gets what they want, when they want it. It’s bright, and clean, and there’s no laundry, no cell phone, and no MacBook."

"And we can have the connection that we're hungry for," said Jon, struggling for the newspaper.

"There may be chaos at home," they said together, each clutching part of the paper, "but there’s family supper at Sonic."

The executives looked at Tom and Jon in amazement.

"Who's returning home safely?"

"The astronauts, hopefully," Jon said.

"There aren't any astronauts. It's a probe."

"What Jon meant--"

"Where have I heard that speech before?"

"It sounds like Don Draper," said one executive.

"No, It's Peggy," said another.

"If they'll steal dialogue, what else will they steal?"

Tom put the Sonic pen back.

"Thank God we have a real marketing team."

"And our TV spots are testing off the charts."

"Who even listens to radio commercials?"

"I always ignore them. But I never ignore television commercials."

"I think these gentlemen have wasted enough of our time."

"If you'll see yourselves out."

Tom and Jon slinked out.

"Hope you return safely," someone said as the door closed.

Back home, Tom mulled over the future of the Best Show. If the fans weren't going to step up to support the show with their own credit cards, how long could he keep going? He didn't need a ton of money. Just enough to pay the bills, eat at Sonic once in a while, and hopefully have a little left over for ticketed entertainment. Hell, he'd settle for a small sign from the universe at this point.

He turned on his MacBook and checked his email.

There was a message from PodcastSurvey. He had won the $100 Amazon gift card.

"Best Show for Life," said Tom.
 

[olliegrind]

I don't have a call written out line by line, but I was thinking the other day about a call from Andreas Larson (Sheila Larson's father (yeah I know Roger is her biological father)). The call would reveal that he actually has 10 daughters, all named Sheila Larson, which is why it seems that she has so many guys wrapped around her finger.

[Bryon_Scallopini]

Tom Reads a Book

The Kindle was a no-brainer. And because it was on sale for Prime Day, Tom still had money left over on his Amazon gift card. There were three things he had wanted for as long as he could remember: a rock tumbler, one of those glass balls with purple lightning you can touch but not get shocked, and a robot capable of friendship.

The rock tumblers were too expensive and the robots were way too expensive, and still not that friendly, so Tom settled for a plasma globe.

On Monday, Tom received his Kindle and his plasma globe. After putting the Kindle in a drawer, he plugged in the plasma globe. Suddenly it came to life, with quivering little bolts of lightning darting around the globe. He reached out to touch the glass.

"Fuck!"

Somehow the lightning went through the glass and gave Tom quite a shock. (He had bought the globe used from Warehouse Deals.)

Tom touched the glass again and the same thing happened, along with the same expletive. After the third time, Tom stopped touching it, and just stared at the lightning, mesmerized, muttering expletives.

Suddenly a plasma globe went off in Tom's mind: what if he devoted himself to understanding how the thing actually worked? Not only would it be a good brain workout - for a while now, Tom had mostly been reading magazines, liner notes, and blurbs - it would give him something Mike and Dudio didn't have: a fundamental understanding of electricity. And even if Dudio already knew how electricity worked, Tom would know a lot more about plasma globes.

Tom took the Kindle out and began searching for books on electricity.

"Too specific, too advanced, too basic, too expensive, too many pages," he said as he scrolled through the books.

"That's the one!" Tom said when he saw On Electricity by Nikola Tesla.

Now, anyone who knows Tom knows what a big fan of Nikola Tesla he is. Obsessed probably isn't putting it too strongly. Being a radio person, it's natural that Tom would be interested in one of the inventors of radio technology. But sometimes Tom takes his interest in inventors too far, and this was one such case.

There's not a wild claim that's been made about Tesla that Tom hasn't fallen for hook, line, and sinker at some point. So, to clear up some misconceptions:

No, Tesla didn't invent Alternating Current. As Tom's science teacher pointed out, the first hand-cranked AC generator was invented by Hippolyte Pixii in 1832.

No, Tesla didn't invent so-called "Free Energy." Tom's physics teacher explained that Tesla's patent to collect radiant energy was no more a "free energy" invention than a solar panel.

No, Tesla didn't invent an earthquake machine which could "split the Earth like an apple.” MythBusters did an episode about this. To Tom's dismay, the myth was thoroughly busted.

No, Tesla didn't invent a machine which created exact copies of people for use by a magician in order to one-up his rival. This was the plot of The Prestige, a completely fictional movie, and Tom should have known better.

And no, Tesla didn't invent a death ray. He invented a death beam.

Tom clicked the 1-Click button and successfully downloaded his first e-book. And the best thing was, it was free! Within seconds, he was reading Tesla's words from 1897:

"I have scarcely had courage enough to address an audience on a few unavoidable occasions, and the experience of this evening, even as disconnected from the cause of our meeting, is quite novel to me. Although in those few instances, of which I have retained agreeable memory, my words have met with a generous reception, I never deceived myself, and knew quite well that my success was not due to any excellency in the rhetorical or demonstrative art."

Get to the point, Tom thought, happy to see that there were only "13 mins left in book."

"Nevertheless, my sense of duty to respond to the request with which I was honored a few days ago was strong enough to overcome my very grave apprehensions in regard to my ability of doing justice to the topic assigned to me. It is true, at times - even now, as I speak - my mind feels full of the subject, but I know that, as soon as I shall attempt expression, the fugitive conceptions will vanish, and I shall experience certain well known sensations of abandonment, chill and silence. I can see already your disappointed countenances and can read in them the painful regret of the mistake in your choice."

If he were a caller, Tesla would be so GOMPed by now, Tom thought. Somehow, after a Herculean effort, Tom made it through the first page of Tesla's turgid prose, and swiped the screen for the next page.

"26 mins left in book."

Tom used an expletive once again. He now began to feel judged by his Kindle, and redoubled his efforts in order to get past the second page.

"These remarks, gentlemen, are not made with selfish desire of winning your kindness and indulgence on my shortcomings, but with the honest intention of offering you an apology for your disappointment. Nor are they made - as you might be disposed to think - in that playful spirit which, to the enjoyment of the listeners is often displayed by belated speakers."

"Get off my Kindle," Tom thought. But he soldiered on, and somehow made it to the third page.

"26 mins left in book."

Tom realized that his task was not so much Herculean as it was Sisyphean. But instead of a boulder, Tom was pushing an interminable essay into his brain, and his brain was pushing back.

Just as he was about to fall asleep, Tom read something which startled him awake:

"When wireless is perfectly applied the whole earth will be converted into a huge brain, which in fact it is, all things being particles of a real and rhythmic whole. We shall be able to communicate with one another instantly, irrespective of distance. We shall be able to witness and hear events - the inauguration of a President, the playing of the world's finest music, the mayhem of an earthquake, or the mirth of a two-man comedy team - just as though we were present. These events will necessarily be recorded on cylinders or wire spools for replay minutes or months or even years later. These previously recorded broadcasts, or 'precodcasts,' will be available for instantaneous listening by the masses via what I have dubbed 'spooling.'"

He couldn't believe his eyes: Tesla invented podcasting in 1897! Exactly 100 years before Rock, Rot, and Rule. Was there anything this guy couldn't invent? Tom raced through the essay, and when he got to the last page, it was with mixed emotions that he saw he had only one minute left in the book.

Tom put down the Kindle, wanting to savor the imminent conquest of his brain over a book. Perhaps "conquest" is the wrong word. Tom loved books, and now he was on the verge of consummation. Why had he waited so long? Unlike Philly Boy Roy, Tom had held plenty of books, but this time was different.

Tom decided to scrap the 100 worst characters of all time theme for the next show, and instead do a show on the 100 best inventors of all time. Of course, he already knew who was #1, and what he'd say if someone suggested Edison.

"Edison? The guy who electrocuted an elephant? We're not doing the worst inventors of all time!"

Tom reflected on his own nemesis.

"I'd love to see Pete Holmes touch my plasma globe," Tom thought. "It'd shock him out of his--"

Tom paused.

"Jock," he concluded.

And then Tom got an idea. He called Mike and Dudio for an unscheduled meeting at the studio.

They showed up just as he was about the finish the book.

"Guys," Tom said, "check this out."

He turned on the plasma globe.

"Cool," said Dudio.

"Yeah, cool," said Mike.

Tom didn't like his tone.

"Just don't touch it," Tom said, remembering a little trick he'd learned in psychology class.

As Mike touched the globe, all the little strands of lightning converged into one big bolt, shot out of the globe, and zapped him. Mike was thrown back against the wall and lay on the floor, twitching.

"Mike!" Tom shouted. "I'm sorry! It was a prank!"

Mike's eyes were closed and there was a faint burning odor.

"Too far," said Dudio.

"Wake up, Mike! Open your eyes!"

Mike mumbled something that sounded like "bye-bye."

"No!" Tom screamed. "Don't say bye-bye. Don't give up. Don't do it."

"I'm sizzling," said Mike.

"You're going to get out of this... you're going to go on and you're going to make records and watch them grow and..." Tom trailed off.

"I can't feel my satchel," Mike said.

"Eeeeuuuuuugh," Tom said.

He handed Mike his satchel, and a large textbook on electrical engineering fell out.

"I love that book," said Dudio.

"Mike, listen to me. Listen. Winning that ticket was the best thing that ever happened to me."

"What ticket?" asked Dudio.

"I won the lottery," Tom said. "Twice."

He looked over at Mike. He had stopped sizzling, and began doing some sort of stretching exercises, wearing nothing but--

"Tom! Tom! Wake up! We have a meeting!"

Tom woke up with the strangest mix of relief and disappointment. He looked at his Kindle. There were now over two hours left in the book, and Tom realized that there might as well be a hundred years left. He was never going to finish it. And he was never going to understand electricity.

He then looked at the plasma globe. The lightning was pulsating menacingly. As tempting as it was to play a prank, Tom unplugged it.

"I just had the strangest dream. You were there, Mike, and you were there, Dudio."

"You were quoting Titanic," said Mike.

"I thought you said you've never seen Titanic," said Dudio.

"I might have seen part of it once," Tom said.

They looked at him sternly.

"All of it," Tom said. "Twice."

"What else have you been lying about not seeing?" asked Mike.

Tom briefly considered slinking out.

"Nothing," he said.

They gave him a stern look again.

"Shawshank Redemption. It was beautiful."

"What else?

"Nothing! I swear to God."

They gave him a long, stern stare.

"Chappie," said Tom.
 

[Bryon_Scallopini]

Tom Gets an Important Phone Call

Tom and Jon were like brothers. Or at least brothers-in-law. And like all brothers-in-law, they occasionally had their differences. And like some brothers-in-law, these differences sometimes escalated into major emotional slugfests, exposing years of bitterness and resentment. But unlike most brothers-in-law, only one of the two brothers was ever aware they were fighting.

Needless to say, it was Tom. He had a finely developed sense of animosity.

It all started in Oklahoma City. Actually, it all started years before - backstage at a My Bloody Valentine concert on June 19th, 1992. Everyone knows the story of their famous first meeting, bonding over their shared appreciation of obscure music trivia and the TV show Get a Life.

What not everyone knows is that, at that point, Tom had never actually seen Get a Life. Trying to interview Superchunk for his fanzine, Eighteen Wheeler, Tom had ingratiated himself the best way he knew how: by making clever observations about pop culture and educated guesses where there were gaps in his knowledge, and always shifting the conversation back to safer waters: ever more arcane musical lore.

Someone nearby happened to tell someone else to "get a life," and Tom was off and running. Jon had never seen Get a Life either, but he played along and the seeds of their comedy partnership were planted. To this day neither of them has made it past the first two episodes of Get a Life, which is a shame, because the show really was ahead of its time.

Even though Tom and Jon bonded over their shared awareness of the existence of Get a Life, Tom still nursed a bit of a grudge: he asked everyone in Superchunk to sign his fanzine, and everyone but Jon, their soon-to-be drummer, signed it.

It was all due to a misunderstanding. Jon thought Tom asked him if he'd like to buy his fanzine. To this day Tom is is still mystified and miffed by Jon's response to his autograph request:

"Oh, thanks, but I already have one. It's really good."

Despite the misunderstanding, and the mutual lie at the foundation of their friendship, they still became practically brothers, and eventually formed the legendary comedy duo of Schrapling & Worster.

But the autograph thing had been gnawing at Tom on and off ever since. Earlier this year, he was at Earwolf Studios with Jon, and after they recorded the Best Show, the guys from Earwolf asked them to sign their desk.

"Oh, thanks," said Jon, "but I already have one. And I don't think it would fit on the plane."

"No, could you sign the desk?" they said.

"Oh, sure!"

Tom fumed as Jon signed the desk.

"Will you sign it too, Tom?"

"No," Tom said.

"Oh, come on."

"Not now. Not ever."

"Why not?"

"Because..." Tom struggled for an answer, eventually saying something about feeling self-conscious.

He wasn't about to give Jon the satisfaction of telling everyone the real reason: that he was furious Jon was more willing to sign some desk than his fanzine.

Various versions of this had happened over the years. Whenever anybody asked for his autograph, Jon was all too willing to give it. Yet whenever Tom mentioned his old fanzine missing Jon's signature, Jon just said he already bought one.

Tom and Jon were both stars in their own right. But sometimes Jon seemed to be a red giant, whereas Tom gave off more of a white dwarf vibe. Sometimes Tom's ire even went supernova, quickly forming a black hole, inexorably sucking everything, including light, into his singularity of spite.

The final straw was in Oklahoma City. Tom and Jon had worked on a pitch to do commercials for Sonic on the Best Show, but their off-mic competitiveness spilled over into the meeting room, and their presentation devolved into an unseemly spectacle.

Tom was actually half-relieved, because he was having serious second thoughts about helping promote a fast food restaurant. As a near-vegetarian (he still couldn't resist jerky), Tom wasn't sure he wanted the Best Show involved with all of the ills associated with fast food. Plus, he had a feeling they weren't going to offer him and Jon as much as the Sonic guys.

Taking their seats on the flight back, one of the flight attendants came up to Jon.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said, "but do I know you?"

"I'm not sure," Jon said. "I'm on this podcast--"

"What's that?" he said. "No, I saw you on TV. You were giving an interview about a flight that got delayed. All the passengers were being total munches, and the flight attendant lost his temper, and he was eventually removed from the plane."

"Oh, yeah," said Jon.

"American Eagle flight 4607. You stood up for the poor guy. That guy was me."

"Jose?"

"It's because of you I was able to keep my job. Just let me know if you need anything."

"Wow," said Jon, "thanks a lot."

Tom watched helplessly as Jon was showered with free drinks, snacks, adulation, and inevitably, an autograph request.

"I have to buy this napkin?" he asked.

"No, could you sign the napkin?" Jose said.

Jon complied, as always, while Tom stewed in the middle seat, hungry and thirsty. In fact, much of the plane was hungry and thirsty, because Jon was getting so many free refreshments. Each time Jon received a "care package" from his flight attendant fan, the exasperated sighs from fellow passengers grew louder, until Jose was finally restrained by air marshals.

Perhaps Jon had had one too many drinks, and Tom definitely had one too few, when Jon took off his complimentary in-flight entertainment headphones and said, "Sorry, did you want anything, Tom? I still have some Pringles--oh, no I don't."

Tom sighed more angrily than ever.

"Wait, there's some stuff at the bottom of the can."

"Eeeuuuugh," said Tom.

"Here, hold out your hands," said Jon.

And then Tom lost it:

"Fuck you, you comedy cunt!"

Tom was soon restrained and seated next to Jose. When the plane landed, Tom and Jose were escorted off the plane, along with the two people who had been impersonating air marshals. The TSA, embarrassed by the incident, declined to press charges, since all the offenders "sort of canceled each other out."

Tom made his way to the baggage carousel, plotting revenge. And he knew just how to get it: the silent treatment. However, Jon had already left the airport several hours earlier. When Tom finally got home, he was more determined than ever to shun his comedy partner.

Which makes last week's epic Philly Boy Roy/Donald Trump/El Chapo call all the more incredible. It turns out that Tom got an idea from Charley Morgan, son of the actor Harry Morgan, from M*A*S*H and Dragnet. As Charley Morgan revealed, Harry and his partner on Dragnet, Jack Webb, often recorded their scenes separately and they were edited together for the show. What if Tom and Jon could pre-record their lines separately, splice them together, and then just press play when it was time for The Call? They could still be a comedy team, they just wouldn't have to interact with each other.

Mike loved the idea, but perhaps not for the right reasons.

Dudio, however, had doubts.

"It seems like it's going to be hard to get the levels right. And it won't have, you know, the spontaneous feel."

"Ninety percent of it's scripted," said Tom. "The other 10 percent is Jon dropping his wallet, seeing a mouse, or one of us saying something completely unplanned and inspired. Let's cut it."

"Okayyyyy," said Dudio.

As Dudio predicted, there were a lot of problems with the levels, but he somehow managed to get them reasonably live-sounding. And the sound effects with all the car horns were a great touch which would have been difficult to pull off live. Plus, Jon actually did drop his wallet, and spent several minutes looking for it, so it was nice to be able to edit that out. Overall, it was a big gamble, and it paid off.

They say the worst thing that can happen to someone who goes to a casino for the first time is to actually win. And Tom, emboldened with Dudio's studio trickery, decided to gamble a little further.

"What if we do a call and it turns out that it's from inside the studio?" he asked Dudio. "And Jon has a chainsaw. And he tries to go after me. But I take it away and then I saw him up. Real slow. Lots of screaming. And then I stack up the parts like cord wood?"

At this point, even Mike began having doubts.

Then Tom's phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Hey. This is Jon."

"How're you doin' tonight, Jon? Where are you calling from?"

"Brooklyn," said Jon.

"Which neighborhood--"

Tom realized he wasn't on the air. "What do you want?"

"How come you want us to pre-record the calls now? We had a really good thing going."

"It's just more efficient," said Tom.

"Doing it all in one take is pretty efficient," said Jon. "Plus it's more fun."

"Let's face it," said Tom. "You've been trying to thwart me ever since I got the biggest laugh on Seth Meyers."

"Wait, whaaaaaaaat?" said Jon. "I thought I got the biggest laugh."

"No," said Tom. "I had Dudio analyze the levels. Mine were several decibels higher."

"But you were quoting Spike," said Jon, "so he actually--"

"Don't bring Spike into this, you--"

"Hey. Calm down. Remember what you said on that Best Show Gems podcast? That I was the funniest guy in the world? I wouldn't be half--"

Tom had been waiting 23 years for this moment:

"You're not even the funniest drummer in Superchunk."

There was silence on the line. And then what sounded either like muffled sobs or the search for a wallet. Then then call dropped.

Tom looked over at Mike and Dudio. Dudio was pretending to adjust levels. Mike was pretending to adjust his satchel.

Jon came by that afternoon with a fresh can of Pringles, and he and Tom had a long heart-to-heart. Tom admitted that even with all of the success of the Best Show, he still sometimes feels like that slightly insecure 20-something Superchunk fan meeting Jon for the first time. And Jon acknowledged that he should be better about sharing his snacks.

Tom said he knew it was his calling to play the straight guy and let Jon get most of the laughs.

"It's like that song, 'I Make the Dough, You Get the Glory.' Except I'm losing dough!"

"Oh, hey, did you see the video? They actually got Marty McSorley to play hockey in it."

"Yeah," said Tom. "I guess he'd just had a hip operation, but he really wanted to be in the video."

"It's so great," said Jon.

"I know," said Tom.

Neither of them had seen the video.

"Anyway," said Jon, "would some cash help with the show? I won a couple small lotteries last week."

Tom contemplated the unfairness of the universe.

Jon wrote Tom a substantial check to assure the continued operation of the Best Show ($6,000), and they agreed to record the upcoming call live, and to tone down the chainsaw stuff.

After Jon left, Mike asked how it went.

"Great," said Tom. "Jon's really stepping up to support the show."

"What did he give you?"

"His autograph," said Tom.
 

[Bryon_Scallopini]

Tom Sends a Message

Tom is a very spiritual person. He doesn't like to talk about it, but he has always been a seeker, casting his net far and wide for answers. Incorporating both Eastern and Western religions into his belief system, as well as the traditions of Native Americans, Tom's philosophy is an intricate patchwork quilt:

From The Old Testament, Tom learned the Golden Rule.

From The New Testament, Tom learned to avoid judging others.

From Buddhism, Tom learned to live in the moment and not dwell on the past.

From Taoism, Tom learned that darkness and light - yin and yang - are interconnected and interdependent.

From Hinduism, Tom gained an abiding belief in karma.

From Islam, Tom learned tolerance.

From Native American teachings, Tom discovered his animal spirit: the noble buffalo.

From Paganism, Tom learned camping.

From evangelical Christianity, Tom learned broadcasting.

From Bahá'í, Tom learned to accept all religions as true and valid.

From Atheism, Tom learned skepticism.

From Rastafarianism, Tom rediscovered his new spirit animal: the mighty lion.

From Mormonism, Tom embraced abstinence from drugs and alcohol.

And from Catholicism, Tom obviously learned the importance of confession.

The one downside of Tom's open-mindedness is that he has at various times exposed himself to some pretty wacky beliefs. Most of them have been relatively harmless, but every few years Tom has found himself washing his robes, dashiki, or Nikes, expecting the imminent end of the world, and wondering why his guru won't call back.

But now the tables were turned, and Tom found himself becoming a guru of sorts. Hardly a day passed when he didn't get recognized somewhere and told by someone how much the Best Show meant to him or her. And it was sincerely flattering. But Tom began wondering if there was more to life than fame. Did he also have a shot at fortune?

Tom stared at the $6,000 check given to him by Jon, debating whether to cash it, and wondering what would be the best use of the money. To invest? To pay the bills? To buy 6,000--

He saw something on Google News which shocked him, and soon all the patches of his spiritual quilt began to fray: someone had senselessly killed one of the most beautiful and endangered creatures in the world: HitchBOT, the hitchhiking robot from Canada. It had made its way across Europe and Canada, but was cruelly murdered in Philadelphia, of all places.

Tom has a complicated relationship with robots. On the one hand, he idolizes and idealizes them: it's no coincidence that he can't stop talking about movies featuring robots and artificial intelligence. On the other hand, whenever Tom has come face-to-face with an actual robot - from the Armatron claw he got as a teenager to the animatronic presidents in Disneyland - Tom has recoiled in horror at the gulf between real intelligence and the unconvincing simulacrum before him.

Granted, HitchBOT didn't have human emotions; it might not have been capable of friendship, much less love; and it couldn't even use semicolons. But it was, as far as Tom was concerned, just as much a part of Gaia as anybody and anything else. It deserved the respect and even reverence that the Native Americans granted the buffalo.

And then Tom read something which infuriated him. While browsing the sports website Deadspin, he found an article entitled "HitchBOT Was A Literal Pile Of Trash And Got What It Deserved." It contained the following poisonous paragraph:

If our guileless, simpleton neighbors to the north wish to draw faces on their buckets and treat them like friends, the sparse population density of their pine-fresh taiga wilderness makes this a sad but understandable choice, but the United States is not a receptacle for twee Canadian garbage. It is a grownup land where the humans know each other and do not ameliorate the loneliness of car trips by picking up roadside litter and befriending it.

"Eeeuuuugh," said Tom.

He was disgusted not just by the attack on an innocent robot, but on a country he had learned to love and even feel a part of.

Tom's relationship with Canada is anything but complicated. The music, the health care, the earnestness - he can't get enough. But perhaps what Tom likes most about Canada is Toronto. That's where he once witnessed the most clear-cut case of karma possible. While Tom sat in a cafe, this guy on the street was going after another guy with a baseball bat, and somehow the guy who was getting clobbered managed to take the baseball bat. And soon the clobberer became the clobbered.

The creep who wrote this essay needs a clobbering, Tom thought. And he was tired of turning the other cheek. So he closed his eyes and entered soon entered a trance - or what Aboriginals call "Dreamtime." He pictured an animal with fierce yellow eyes, sharp claws, flashing teeth, and a fury for justice.

Tom became that animal. When he awoke, that great spirit was still inside him, so he created a Deadspin account and posted a message in the comments section.

To Whom It May Concern:

I may be a guileless simpleton to the north, but I would like to remind the writer of this highly offensive commentary that while we Canadians are famous for our politeness, even we have our limits, you jerk. HitchBOT was not simply a bucket with a face - he was created, just like man, in God's image. And just as man has set sail and explored the wine-dark seas, HitchBOT merely sought to explore the open road and maybe make a few friends.

That I never got a chance to meet HitchBOT is something I regret bitterly. These Philadummies - to coin a phrase - slaughtered HitchBOT in cold blood. And I would be willing to bet a loonie that, like the buffalo killers before them, they didn't even use all parts of the robot. What happened to the Golden Rule, Do Unto Others? (Leviticus 11:29). Have we learned nothing from Chappie?

Far be it from me to judge others, but frankly, I can't stand you stupid Americans. And that's another thing! The whole continent is America, not just your country! Duh. Not to dwell in the past, but have you ever thought that maybe your country's history of imperialism has something to do with your bloodlust, your brutality, your need to attack defenseless hitchhiking robots? Well, as they say, karma's a bitch. The world is sick and tired of all your darkness, your negativity - your yin. Get ready for some yang.

Sincerely,

Disgusted in Manitoba

Tom sent the message, knowing it was the first of many he would be sending. And he decided that rather than sit by and wait for karma to take its course, Tom would use his podcast to promote the cause of justice. And the first ones to face his comedic claws of comeuppance would be those who committed showbiz crimes.

Mike walked into the studio.

"What's that on your satchel?" Tom asked.

"Oh, it's a silkscreen of Cecil."

"Who?" asked Tom.

"That lion in Zimbabwe."

"What?"

"The lion who was illegally killed by the dentist. It's been a big story."

"Haven't heard about it," Tom said.

"Well, the guys at Massa's were pretty worked up. We're all putting our money together to donate to the sanctuary."

Tom thought about the $6,000 check in his wallet. And about all the endangered lions. And about his newfound commitment to both cosmic and earthly justice.

"Who gives a fuck?" he said.

"I thought the lion was your totem animal. That as King of the Podcasters--"

"No, no, no," said Tom. "I don't believe in that stuff anymore."

"You don't believe in totems?"

"Oh, I do. I just have a new one."

"What is it?"

"The rabid squirrel," said Tom.

[Bryon_Scallopini]

Tom Watches T.V.

Tom didn't like to think of himself as a deviant. However, several events over the last week caused him to second-guess his whole self-conception as a family-friendly radio host. Was it possible that Tom, unbeknownst to his friends, family, and fans - and even himself - was actually, deep-down, a bit of a shock jock?

It all started with the Republican debate last Thursday. Tom had been cutting down on his hate watching, and felt he deserved a little treat for all his good behavior.

"I'll just watch the opening statements," he told himself.

Two hours later, Tom had completely gorged himself on the ugly spectacle.

"Oh, I hate you so much," he said to all the candidates after it was over. The pandering, the fear-mongering, the glib idiocy of it all made Tom sick.

There was one person Tom was sort of impressed by, though: Megyn Kelly. Tom almost never watched Fox News, because of all the hate calories, and had thought she was just like all the other empty-headed talking heads.

But she was actually asking tough questions. Tom knew how hard it was to moderate a debate after the Newbridge Mayubanatorial fiasco, and he had to hand it to her: she was the one person he didn't hate. The God stuff at the end was weird, but overall, she did a pretty good job.

Then on Friday, Tom completely went off his hate watching diet to see Donald Trump interviewed on CNN.

Don Lemon asked him, "What is it with you and Megyn Kelly?"

Trump answered:

"Well, I just don't respect her as a journalist. I have no respect for her. I think she's highly overrated. But when I came there, you know, what am I doing? I'm not getting paid for this....And I didn't know there'd be 24 million people. But I knew it was gonna be a big crowd. I get ratings. They call me the ratings machine...She gets out, and she starts asking me all sorts of ridiculous questions. And you know, you could see there was blood coming out of her eyes, blood coming out of her...wherever."

If there was a scale which measured hate, Tom would have broken it.

Did Trump actually just say what Tom thought he said? Was Trump actually implying that Megyn Kelly was acting aggressive because she was on her period?

"Eeeeeeeeeeuuuuuuuughhh," he said.

"What's wrong?" Terre asked.

"Did you hear what Trump just said about Megyn Kelly?"

"What?"

"That's she's...that it's...her...you know." There were certain words Tom avoided.

"What!" Terre said.

"I think he was referring to...her...menstruation." He wasn't crazy about that word either.

"I don't think so. And you don't have to pronounce the u."

"Come on," Tom said.

"I think he just meant nose, and then he got on with his thought."

Tom called Mike to get his opinion, but his phone went to voicemail. So he called Dudio to see what he thought.

"Yeah, I think he just meant nose. Then he got on with his thought."

Tom hung up, still feeling a little heavy from all the hate.

On Saturday, just as he expected, there was a firestorm over Trump's comments. And of course, Trump didn't apologize. In fact, on Twitter, he echoed Terre and Dudio's take: "Re Megyn Kelly quote: 'you could see there was blood coming out of her eyes, blood coming out of her wherever' (NOSE). Just got on w/thought."

Tom was willing to accept that there was some ambiguity to the whole "wherever" debate, and no one could know for sure. By Sunday morning, he had practically forgotten about the whole thing. Then he decided to sneak some hate watching to see Trump interviewed by Jake Tapper on State of the Union.

First they played a clip of Jeb Bush calling on Trump to apologize.

"Mr. Trump, your response to Jeb Bush."

"Well, I think it's amazing, because three days ago he was talking so negatively about women's health issues. And I thought it was disgraceful, frankly...So now he's telling me or telling you about what was said, well, let me ask you: what was said? She was very angry because I bested her with her question that was a very unfair question, so she was very angry, and when I was speaking about it, on a CNN show by the way, which was interesting, but I was speaking about her, I said, 'Blood was pouring from her eyes,' or out of her eyes, which a very common statement, and by the way, I said the same thing about Chris Wallace, and nobody said anything--"

"That's right, you did. But then you said that she had blood coming out of her 'wherever.'"

"No, I said, 'And blood was pouring from...wherever.' Because I wanted to finish the sentence. Because I wanted to get off of the whole thing and get back onto the subject of jobs or whatever we were talking about after that. So I didn't even say anything 'cause I didn't even finish the thought. I was going to say, 'nose and/or ears.' Because that's a very common statement. Blood pouring out of somebody's nose. It's a statement showing anger. She had great anger when she was questioning me..."

"Well, Mr. Trump--"

"All I was doing was referring to her anger. I said nothing wrong whatsoever. And let me just tell you this: only a deviant would say what I said was what they were referring to. 'Cause nobody could make that statement. You almost have to be sick to sort of put that together, I think."

Tom turned off the TV, disgusted with Trump and with himself. After swearing that he was going to start watching his hate, Tom had basically been been binging for the last three days, and now he needed to purge. And what was all that stuff about Tom being a deviant just because he assumed Trump was talking about Megyn Kelly's monthly cycle?

He wasn't a deviant. Was he? So he decided to swing by Massa's to see what Mike made of the whole Megyn Kelly menses kerfuffle.

Just like most Sunday mornings, Mike was holding court. But when Tom walked in, he noticed that the crowd was bigger and and louder than usual. In fact, it looked like Mike was holding a kangaroo court.

Mike was reading from a notebook:

"...Chapter Six: Helsinki Deviations. As the sun went down over the Suomenlinna, the sea fortress originally built in the second half of 18th century and controlled by Russians from 1808 until the end of World War I, when Finland gained independence, and now a UNESCO World Heritage site, something else was about to go down--"

Mike saw Tom and stopped reading. The crowd turned toward Tom and suddenly hushed.

"Hey, Tom."

"What are you reading?"

"Nothing," Mike said.

The silence gave way to snickers. Tom had a flashback to high school, when he made the mistake of working on his dream journal in the cafeteria.

"Let me see that!"

Tom grabbed the journal and opened the first page. In familiar handwriting was scrawled "The Amatory Awakening of Adrian by T.J. Schrapling."

He continued where Mike left off:

Helga, a buxom supermodel who had just finished doing a swimsuit photo shoot at the Messukeskus Expo and Convention Centre, looked obsessively at Adrian. Adrian looked compulsively back.

"Where do you want to eat tonight, Mr. Monk?"

"Wherever," he said, disorderly unzipping--

"Eeeeeeeeeuuuuuuuuuugh," Tom said. It was one of those weeks.

"Fan fiction?" said Mike.

"I didn't write that!"

"The handwriting looks very familiar."

"That's because it's..."

"Dudio!" said Dudio, walking in.

Tom was at a loss for words.

"Fuck you, Dudio!" he screamed, quickly finding words.

"It was a prank. You know, you can dish it out, Tom, but you can't--"

"Spoon this!" Tom said, and punched Dudio in the face.

Soon blood was coming out of Dudio's wherever (NOSE), and Tom realized he had just started his first bar fight.

"You're suspended from the Best Show," he said.

"Oh yeah? Who's gonna run your computer? Who's gonna fix your trackpad the next time you--"

"Pat Byrne," said Tom.

Dudio slinked out.

Mike smiled.

The patrons began talking among themselves.

"Hey Mike," Tom said. "What did you think Trump was referring to, when he said Megyn Kelly was bleeding from her 'wherever'?"

"When I heard that, I instantly knew he was talking about her period," said Mike.

"Damn it."

"What?"

"We're both deviants," said Tom.

[Bryon_Scallopini]

Tom Has Rights

A lot of people have been wondering if Tom still keeps a dream journal. Well, sorry, he doesn't. And even if he did, it would be a complete violation of Tom's privacy to post any such window, however illuminating, into his subconscious. So please stop asking. Thank you.

[Bryon_Scallopini]

Tom Has Dreams

Tom does talk in his sleep, however, and when you do that, you really have no expectation of privacy. This is the transcript from last Monday night/Tuesday morning:

"All right, Mike, no more guy callers. Ladies only. Guys have been duds. Total snoozefest. From now on, only ladies...We're only taking calls from ladies...Hello, who is this? Yes, you're on the air. Yes, you. The person who's hearing this. Hello? Goodbye. Mike, only female callers from Canada. The lady callers from America have been duds too. Line one. Hello? What? Who is this? Gargflarg? No? Barbara. Your phone is not great, Barbara. Where are you calling from? Canada, great. What's happening tonight? Nothing? Goodbye. Mike, only callers from major cities in Canada. Man, these callers are drinking cough syrup. Wait: what am I saying? They're drinking maple syrup. Lady callers only. From major cities in Canada. Line two. Hello. Whoa. Slow down. Kelly in Vancouver. What's going on in Vancouver tonight, Kelly? Not much? Goodbye. Mike. Toronto ladies calls only. There's got to be somebody in Toronto - ladies only - who has something interesting to say. Line three. Who's this? Jessica? Do you have anything for the topic? No? Just calling to say you're from Toronto? Goodbye. All right, Etobicoke lady callers only. It's a neighborhood in Toronto, Mike. Etobicoke ladies. Anyone? Anyone? Okay, back to Toronto. Ladies from Toronto who have something for the topic. Mike says line one. Hello? Who is this? Jefferton? I specifically said females from Toronto. Mike, how did--yeah, I know he didn't sound like this when you talked to him. Well, Jefferton, at least you have something for the topic. You don't have anything for the topic? Goodbye. Bye, bye Miss American Pie. Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry. And them good ole boys were drinking whiskey and rye. Swingin' in the living room. Swingin' in the kitchen. Most folks don't 'cause. They're too busy bitchin'. Swingin' in there 'cause she wanted me to feed her. So I mixed up the batter. And she licked the beater. She's my cherry pie. Raspberry, strawberry, lemon and lime. What do I care? Blueberry, apple, cherry, pumpkin and plum. Call me for dinner, honey, I’ll be there. Saddle me up my big white goose. Tie me on her and turn her loose. Oh me, oh my. Love that country pie. Put on your night shirt Mama, and your morning gown. Well, you know by night I'm gonna shake 'em down. Your custard pie, yeah, sweet and nice. When you cut it, Mama, save me a slice. I'm weaker than a man should be. I can't help myself. I'm a fool in love ya see. Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch. You know that I love you you and nobody else. Hold the elevator! Hold the elevator! Thank you, Patti! Question: back in the day, did you ever see Humble Pie? Before your time? I'm falling, falling, faaaaaaalllllllllling. Thank you! You rescued me! Thank you, Chappie. You know, I've always stood up for robot equality. It doesn't matter if you're made of skin and bones or metal and...wait a second, Chappie. I thought you were metal. Did you get an upgrade? When did you learn Spanish? Why do you--ouch! ¿Por que tiene un machete? No es necessario. No soy su enemigo. ¡No, no, no, no, no! ¡Señor Chapo! No me gusta, no me gusta. ¡Ha! ¡¡¡Ahora yo la tengo!!! ¡Voy a matarlo! ¡¿Esta listo para morir?! Un momento. Mike? Are you okay? I'm sorry, I thought you were...nevermind. Where are we? Massa's? This doesn't look like Massa's. Since when was Massa's at my high school cafeteria? Why do I still have my dream journal? Hey, put it back, Chad. Put it back! So what if I dream of being a rock star? Rock'n'roll dreams'll come through. I'm working on the title. You wait. I'll be on stage one day. Singing my heart out. Medleys. No, not doing comedy. Doing music. Maybe musical comedy. Ha! I got it! Run, Mike, run! Stick my journal in your satchel. Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeuuuuugh. FMU, you're on the air. Hello? Hello? Nobody's there. Just dead air. Okay, I'll play a record. Just a second. I'm having trouble reaching the button. I've almost got it. It's soooooo close. But I can't reach it. This shouldn't be happening. I'm a pro, not a piker. For fuck's sake. Oh fuck, I can't say fuck. Fuck me, I'm so fucked. Oh, fuck the FCC. There! I reached the button. The record's playing. Hmm. I didn't know I could play GG-- fuck! Now the button is even farther away. The turntable is falling, falling, faaaaaaalllllllllling. Oh, there it is. Right where it should be, in my studio overlooking the Pacific. Dudio? Why is it so cold? I thought the Northwest would be warmer. Oh, thank you. That scarf does feel good. But it's a little tight. Okay, that's enough. Dudio, stop, pulling! Mike, can you help? No! Don't pull the other end. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhh. Okay, okay, okay. Dudio, the suspension is over. Mike, I will treat you with all the respect you deserve. Whew. Can I keep the scarf? I think it actually looks pretty good on me. Whoa. Where am I? On stage! My dream came true! The spotlight! The crowd! What do I say? Where's my script? Where's Jon? Oh, here he is. What do you mean, 'crack a dresser much?' Oh, God. It don't look like I do."

"Did you have a bad dream, Tom?"

"It was a nightmare, Terre."

"Bad callers?"

"Terrible callers. Mike was clearly trying to thwart me. Dudio too. And Chappie, but he was actually--nevermind. For a while, I was at Massa's, but it was...different. And then I was on stage. And I hadn't memorized my lines. Jon tried to help, but it was too late. Everyone was staring at me."

"Why?"

"I was only wearing a scarf."