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And now, we go live to new Anchor Jim Bitterman, drunk as usual in his shack in the Adirondack Mountains.
Thanks, Connie, for the usual flattering introduction. I really appreciate you pointing that out, as always. Naturally, there's no reason for it. I'm just bitter. That's it, just me, nothing to do with circumstances. But don't worry, I've been reading "The Secret" and I'm imagining a better life. I've got a beautiful wife, an amazing boat, I'm smoking hash every day AND doing my dishes in the bathtub. We've got a special report tonight, and it's completely satirical, although it still might get me killed. We'll put aside for a moment what would happen after that *coughs* GNT *coughs*, but no one would hopefully be that stupid.
So anyways, like I was saying, I've got no reason at all to be bitter about anything, I'm just a sourpuss. But this story isn't really about me, even though for whatever godforsaken reason I've become a character in it. It was a heady time, 1998, and I was working for the clinton administration as a patsy. My job description was "" and "*"; so of course, I said "YOURE FUCKING A RIGHT, YEAH".
Let's get back to the story I'm making up. So...there's...there's people in the story, and mainly there's Bill and Villary Clinton and Moniker Lewansky, also...let's see, the Imperial Oriental Government that secretly own the corntree, and probably some dude from the midwest called Berry Randall, and Geoerge Burnsdale, and Billy Mitchell, and IDK, there's other people, too. Everyone is rtying to fuck everyone over because it's a giant episode of FUCK YOU, BUDDY, and no one understands loyalty or love or decency. Also, Shia LeBouf is in there, and TRIGA FILMS, and probably, like, the California Raisins and a giant talking orange. Let me be honest with you Connie, I'm in no state of mind for this. I've been drinking heavily and under the influence of some wserious psychotropics as well as government mind control brain parasites. So as usual, this is the news you'll hear first. I'm eating drop biscuits, apples, and pig anuses for breakfast because I'm colour-blind. Oh, how could I forget, the Grandmaster of Time and Space, Jayson Lund, and the TimeLords. or...no, that sounds right. And this guy Jake Dorkskull from King Kong, and King Kong, and I think, there were other people, but that's a story for another day.
It was the 60s and I was at a Jefferson Airplane concert, Grace Slick was backstage eating her usual post-concert buffet of dead whores "ONLY VEAL!" she screamed, as one of the roadies made the mistake of bringing in what she called "the mutton". "What did I tell you! I wanted FRESH MEAT. I'm a kitty-cat, mreow." She'd been up for a few days and a bundle of horses couldn't bring her down. I offered her some Vitamin C gummies, but she was like "FUCK YOU I FUCKING HATE VITAMINS YOU STUPID BITCH." "So Grace, how was the concert?" "FUCKING AMAZING, as always, I'm the fucking best, that's why I hide behind the curtain." The real Grace Slick was actually 50 and asian, or 40-something and irish, or a secretary aand belgian, or sometrhing. Maybe I don't know. What do I look like, a reporter? I'd heard from a roadie there was actually a factory that produced Grace Slicks from countries all over the globe, to keep the supply coming, as they tended to expire early.
I was basing all of my journalism on hearsay, as was the fashion in the time. Naturally, everyone seemed to know something, but no one really knew anything. For all I knew, the entire story was fabricated by people and designed to cause strife for their own political gains. "If you know so much about this, why don't you do something about it?" I said, to a giant chorus of "what, no; we want you to look like an ass". So it was time for me to step in and drop a whole shitload of unaimed drivel out because for some godforsaken reason that seemed more compelling or useful than I DONT KNOW GETTING A FUCKING NORMAL JOB OR SOMETHING, JIM.
To complicate things, a long-lost relative of unkown origin or relation, or maybe not, had shown up, but he was pretty great and I loved spending time with him (no homo) so something had to be done about that. Where were we...oh yes, I was further confusing things with unfocused free-association and stream-of-consciousness, and oh what a consciousness it had been. It was 2008 and Donald Duck had just been elected president on his "?Yes, everyone thinks I'm going to legalize it, but then people are going to be all 'OF COURSE THE BLACK GUY DOES IT', so I won't" platform. His hair was immaculate, as usual, and his name was Saddam Hussein.
After resurrecting Tricky Dick Nixon from the grave and Ron Raygun, who we had performing private sex ahows in the oval office, everything seemed rainbows and gumdrops for all time into the future. Little did we know there was a darkness lurking...a darkness that consisted mainly of a burnt-out 68-watt lightbulb that none of the maintenance people wanted to replace. "Get these dead presidents in the stables, I want a real Tijuana show!!" he yelled, whomever he was.
We were eating quumquats, quantum quumquats, and...fucking, ...I don't know, I'm not feeling very creative today connie, get off my fucking ass. Why am I even doing this? I just wanted to work a normal job like everyone else and then you all stuck me in the middle of your ridiculous fighting. I swear, if you kids don't stop fighting, I'm pulling this car over, I yelled to no one in particular.
Suddenly I realized I was alone in my shack in the Adirondacks, and not actually a news anchor. Snippets and bits from my brain-hole were oozing out as I slowly gained consciousness. I had to find a cork, so I opened another bottle of wine.
Unfortunately, I wasn't nearly high enough for anything to make sense, so I went back to my typewriter. CONNIE, GET ME SOME DECENT HERB, I typed, imagining I was tlaking to Connie Chung:wq
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