Dial, phone, come on and dial. No time to look at the road; Mark and The Shark Morning Show is talking politics right now and I need to get in on that action. Politics, yeah, I know, they’re in my ring now and I’m ready to drop some Stone-Cold Stunnin’ truth on these poor, misinformed knaves. Come on, phone, connect; I know Mark and The Shark are counting on me.
They may just be morning radio hosts, jockin’ away at that disc, but I know deep down they care about me, John From Flint, even though I don’t always get through. And even the times when I do get through they’ll usually act all aloof like they don’t remember me, but that’s just their style—such jokers that Mark and The Shark!
It’s not just Mark and The Shark clamoring for John—it’s this whole goddamn city. People who tune into them want to hear my opinions. Seriously, it’s just a matter of time before I’m getting famous, getting paid, and getting famously paid. I can’t wait; mostly because it will be nice to move out of my house in Flint—it’s currently been pretty cold since the furnace I have is powered by six D-batteries.
Ooof, I’m still on hold. Man, this city is aching for the caking of truth-jaculate that I’m about to unleash upon their ear holes. I’m raw, I’m edgy, I’m not afraid to say what’s on my mind. I don’t have limits (except for time, volume, and all the words and topics that they’ll drop my call for mentioning).
All I have to say is that I hope this city is ready to have their brains blown out of their butts by the volcano of veracity that is my mouth.
I get it now. They see my number and they’re letting me simmer so I’m good and mad when they take my call. Your strategy is working, boys; I mean, right now. I’m pissed. I might just spend my time on the show this time talking about how it’s bush league that they are making me, a regular caller, wait in the queue like I’m a nobody. Come on, I’m John From Flint: long time listener, long time caller, and long time chitchat enthusiast. Please, Mark and The Shark, I am your show. I am the tired. I am the poor. I am the huddled mass in my basement yearning to breathe free, since I have a pretty wicked asbestos problem. I happily tolerate it day-in-and-day-out, because that’s just the price I’ll pay for being a free spirit and because I refuse to work more than fifteen hours a week.
Honestly, only two things in life surprise me right now. The first is that they still have me on hold for this—it’s teetering on inexcusable at this point. The second is that I haven’t gotten any off-air play from all my on-air play with the show. When I’m on I never forget to mention that I’m single and looking for that no-strings-attached type of freaky sex that I assume radio personalities in the Mid-Michigan are perpetually waist deep in.
It’s not like these radio groupies don’t know how to contact me; I always plug my email, TyrannosaursSex69er@hotmale.com, during every appearance. Seriously, I wish that women in these parts weren’t so “Midwest shy” and would actively seek out this handsome lover instead of just developing blistering calluses from vigorously touching themselves during my equally blistering banter. I can’t move out of town though; I’d be giving up this entire no-prisoners style radio aura that I’ve worked so hard to cultivate and maintain in Flint, Michigan.
Anyways, keep that pool of sweet, radio personality floosies warm for me, Mark and The Shark. I’ll be diving in as soon as you pick up your goddamn telephone.