Dodo Eggs

Hello again!  We continue our handy guide to running your own television network.  As any consistent viewer can tell you, television’s Creativity Index is at an all time low.  Viewers are slowly being leached away by more interactive modes of entertainment such as the Internet and video games.  Add to that the near suicidal deluge of channels which fragment the pool of possible views and it’s amazing more than five people at a time are watching.  And yet network executives at all six hundred channels continue to pull in six or even seven figure incomes!

Join them!  Remember, “Creativity is NOT a Requirement!”

Today’s topic is, “Crafting your own Comedy.”  No network schedule is complete without at least two evenings filled with a Sit Down for Commercials program or “SITCOM” for short.  These are usually half hour comedies with odd people interacting and causing the laugh track to accidentally activate.

Speaking of that, the first thing any would be TV executive needs is a solid reliable laugh track.  Please, don’t expect your audience to figure out what’s funny on their own…prompt them and prompt them repeatedly!  Just be sure to take turn the safety switch to the “Drunken Buffoon” position to get the best results from the worst writing.

The second step to a successful sitcom is the casting of latently attractive females for all major roles and blatantly attractive females for all secondary ones.  Mothers and coworkers should be attractive in a home grown, “yea, I might have had a chance with her” way which allows the audience to believe this could be a real mom or coworker.  Of course, every other woman is stunning because that’s the other 94% of the world.  This ties in completely with a television basic…NO UGLY WOMEN ON TV!  (Men can be ugly.)

Another cardinal rule…white males should take the comic brunt of any sitcom.  History has shown that white males don’t mind being ridiculed.  Other races and genders can be made fun of as long as they are “covered.”  That means there’s an even dumber white male or if the dolt is a black male there are plenty of competent black males around.

The following is a demographic risk analysis. (100% law suit filed before the pilot is taped / 0% They deserve it.)

We continue to Craft our Comedy in further chapters…

Dear Doc Pokorny,

I’m having a hard time getting my husband, Mark, to do all the things he should.  For example, our porch swing has been making a horrible squeak for the last three weeks and he just won’t seem to take care of it.  When I ask him, he kind of blows me off and says he’ll get to it whenever he feels like it.

And he’s so careless when it comes to using the bathroom!  Sometimes I go in there and it doesn’t seem like he aims at all!  So I told him that I wanted him to sit when he pees.  We women have always done it and it doesn’t seem like too much to ask for Mark to do it just when he’s home.

Like a mature adult, I talk to him all the time about these things.  He just shrugs and blows me off as if he’s heard it all before.  I know he has but what else am I supposed to do!  He just doesn’t listen to me anymore.

I guess where I’m going with this is…how do I get better control of my husband?

I’ve taken his stupid, little video game system and hidden it.  That made him angry but it didn’t accomplish what I wanted it to.  I’ve laid on guilt trips and withheld “affection.”  Until further notice, I won’t wash any of his clothes either.  Daytime television tells me to talk to him so I’m back to that.

He just shrugs.  Should I try a cattle prod?

With Frustration, 

Betty Carpenter

Dear Frustrated,

I’m currently writing a book called, “How to Make Your Husband Inwardly Hate You” and I would love to have you write the forward and design the dust cover.

Making yourself a royal pain in the posterior is not going to work on your husband.  My eyes began hurting as soon as I started reading your letter so I can only assume that Mark can’t stand to hear your voice anymore.  In fact, he’s daydreaming about what his life would have been like if he hadn’t married you…right now.

Do you realize that like anything else, your husband makes associations between things?  How do you suppose your husband would finish the following matching quiz…

Here’s a novel concept…DON’T MAKE IT DIFFICULT TO LOVE YOU!  Make your requests known then leave it at that.  Short of hypnosis, you really can’t control your husband’s behavior anyway.

And if you really did marry a deadbeat, well, it looks like you’re screwed.

Sincerely,

Dr. Pokorny

“Ok, today we’re talking about something extreeeemleeee important.  Please stop texting your love interests and drunken roommates.”

Almost half of the student’s heads turned up to make sure the prof wasn’t speaking directly to them.

“And those of you in the back…yea, I’m speaking to you…you’re not fooling anyone!  Stop surfing the Internet for a while and take some actual notes!”

A quieted voice from somewhere in the back responded, “We don’t say ‘surf’ anymore.”

Dr. Balzag was a short, bearded man with slightly overgrown eyebrows and hard-core bend toward the old fashioned.  He took pride in his tweed suits and bow ties.  Wearing open toed sandals was a bone he threw to the other wacko professors in his department and he still hadn’t been invited to any Friday afternoon faculty meetings!

He began again with a voice that could cleave stone.  “The Law of Diminishing Return states, ‘Some is needed, more is better, and much is for suckers.

Here’s what I mean.  If I were to offer each of you a banana, most of you would eat it since the greasy hair, ball caps, and frumpled sweatshirts indicate most of you rolled out of bed and didn’t stop until you bumped into your desk.   It’s good to eat a banana because it’s good for you and helps fill your stomach.  Eating a second one wouldn’t hurt either.  No doubt, your bodies could use the potassium.  But what if you ate a third then a fourth?  How many could you down before your body began flushing out the potassium without making use of it?  Or just up chuck?”

Another weak voice from the back said, “The same goes for tweed grandpa.”

Dr. Balzag pulled a small, toy car out of his pocket.  “Take a car for example.  For $12,000 dollars you can buy a reliable, new car to get you where you need to go.  Throw in another $10,000 dollars and maybe you’ll get there with a little more comfort but that last $10,000 isn’t accomplishing nearly as much as the first $12,000 did.  And for those who buy a $60,000 automobile, they are essentially taping the last $30,000 to the outside of their car just for others to take note.”

“Don’t be hating on my pimp sled, doc.”

A quick rub of the temples and the good professor finished his point.  “Alright, you split one pitcher of beer and you feel good, two and your just additionally drunk, and three…” Dr. Balzag scowls and gives the thumbs down.  “…three and you’re passed out completely.  You’ll miss your good time completely.”

There was silence for a moment before, “But I’ve got enough money for three.”

Part 1 – My brothers and I were driving down a North Alabama highway with small groups of trees pushing toward the sky alongside tall bulletin boards.  The dirty structures of small businesses were planted every few hundred yards breaking the landscape on either side.  The auto body shops and small hardware stores sat about like the pulled entrails of some scattered municipality.

“So where it the Lactose Queen anyway?  I’m really looking forward to that delicious blend of smooth, cold soft serve and delicious chocolate bits.”

Nate turned down the assaulting sounds of his Christian heavy metal.  “People in the back seat aren’t allowed to talk.”

A second later the music returned to its previous volume and I was left to the landscape again.  I began reading the billboards accepting the messages of beer induced good times and overeager bail bondsmen (it’s nice that some people can get all the information they need in life neatly plastered to the sky).

And yet, one billboard confused me completely.  It had a yellow background with a T-shirt to one side and…well…I couldn’t read the rest!  As our vehicle approached, I had a long opportunity to study it and could in no way shape or form make out what it was saying.  Someone was investing ad dollars and put up something that could not be read!  

Let’s hope he was trying to sell to birds.

Part 2- If I could make one suggestion to cereal makers it would be…Frosted Bran Flakes!  What’s the draw back?  It seems like the perfect approach.  Real, honest bran flakes with all the nutrition and fiber complimented with a slight dabbing of sugar.

Toni the Tiger has made frosted corn flakes into an institution.  Why not crank it up a notch?  Listen, if breakfast burritos (If you’ve ever eaten one, I have bad news.  You’ve hit rock bottom.) can find a niche then bran flakes should be a hit!  Maybe the mascot could be a stern looking medical doctor wearing a red nose and rainbow colored wig.

I’m just kidding.  When I was in college, the Kroger chain of grocery stores carried a generic version of frosted bran flakes.  They were better than mom’s homemade yeast rolls hitting your tongue while driving an inherited luxury car in route to your wedding.  They were grrrrrrrand!  I liked them so much that I bought up the last few boxes Kroger had and ate them even after finding small flies near the bottom.  Well…I ate most of it.  The flies were dead after all.

Can I have some more, please?

Part 3- I coached middle school football for four years as a condition for getting a teaching position.  Except for walking into a middle school locker room (a biological hazard on so many levels…listen, just throw the bleach and run) and the evening hours involved, I didn’t mind doing it. 

Normally, a side effect of putting on football pads is an over inflated sense of toughness but that isn’t always the case.

After a scrimmage with one of our school’s rivals, the team marched back to the bus for the return trip.  I leaped triumphantly up the steps and gave my team the best Macarthur impression I could conjure.

Then one of my running backs looked me with a face covered in dust and grime and asked, “Hey coach, do you have any lotion?”

“Say what?”

It happened and there was nothing I could do to stop it.  We walked into the house together with me making final adjustments to my plastic, poorly constructed smile.  There was a steel pole keeping my posture ridged.  Melissa said my outfit was nice and almost wrinkle-free with all bodily smells completely under control.  I wasn’t going to get any better looking.

There was no telling what topics would come up in conversation.  With crossed fingers, I hoped it would center on the weather, my plans for the future, and the video game I was currently playing.

Melissa and I had dated for almost a month and we had reached official “You’re my boyfriend right?” status.  That meant a casual visit with her family.  The occasion was a birthday party for one of Melissa’s small cousins.  We strolled in together with me opening the door (standard procedure) and holding hands (a bit of a risk for this staunchly traditional crowd).

I understood that the interaction would be stilted at first, probably uncomfortable later, and finished off nicely with everyone swinging their gavel in judgment.

The men immediately kicked my tires.  “So do you like to hunt?  (“No, not really”)  How about cars?  Do you change your own oil?  (“And do what with the old stuff?”)  Ever been in the military?  (“No, but I had toy soldiers when I was young.”)”

So far…not so good.

“So Matt, you’re from where?  Canada, some type of Dakota?”

Good, they finally threw an underhanded question to me.  This one would be easy.  “I’m from northern West Dakota…I mean western North Dakota but you can call it Canada if you want to.”

“Oh, so you’re a Yankee.”

My eyes went a bit cross-eyed.  “No, you’re somewhat mistaken.  I’m a Mid-Westerner.  You see Chicago is the dividing line.  If you were born or grew up west of Chicago then you are considered a Mid-Westerner but if you grew up east of the Windy City then you’re a Yankee.  There’s an important distinction.”

“And what if you’re from Chicago?”

“Then you’re corrupt.”  I thought that was funny.

Melissa’s grandmother smiled more polite than amused, “Gee, I don’t know, you sure look like a Yankee.

“Huh?”

“Yea, I could tell the very minute you walked through the door.  Your posture is just a bit too good.  Isn’t it Randy?”

“Yes Neeniemomma, it sure is and I’m sure he can’t say pecan right.”

My eyes, still cross-eyed, grew a bit narrow as well.  “Wait, what?”  I wasn’t going to score points by debating the topic.  “Ok, yea, you’re right.  Maybe I am a Yankee.”

That was apparently what they wanted.  “Alright then Matt, you go to college with Melissa.  What do you plan on doing with your life?”

“Well, I wanted to be a marine biologist but those jobs are a little hard to come by in Tennessee.  Maybe one of you knows one who can help me get a job?”

“So is that some type of Yankee joke?  We do know police officers if you want to get arrested.”

…I’d like to say that the years have eased me into my in-law’s clan the same way Melissa has blended with mine but it’s never happened.  That may be why we live more than four hours away.