Public Radio Slave

Friday Afternoon

3:00pm

Everyone else has gone home. The weather is finally nice. It's just me, the computer, a bunch of dirty coffee cups, recorded news, a quick glance at my farms on Facebook, an open bag of stale chips on the snack table, a trash can full of stuff that could have been recycled, a caller wanting to know where the live music shows are this weekend, a listener coming in who wants to pick up his mug, a pile of paperclips begging to be organized, a stack of mail with my name on it, and me in my casual Friday attire.

Diane Rehm

An Email:

I've been a paying member of your public radio station for many years. What is with this Diane Rehm person? Is she 150 years old? Is she learning disabled or none of the above? I intend to terminate my membership.

My Response:

That is just mean. Poor Diane Rehm has a throat condition. Hopefully you never develop any health problems or have a big goiter grow on your ugly face. Your threat of termination has been taken under consideration, and we wish to terminate you instead. No more public radio for you!

The Slave

The Cold War Is Over

An Email:

Hello radio station,

I'm musical producer from Russia.  First of all - I wish to notice, that I always was against cold war
between our countries. And presidents of our countries have decided to declare friendship at long last. We are very glad to this developments! Let's fasten our relations by creativity! I understand, that to you the considerable quantity of letters comes. But nevertheless I wish to ask you to single out  my tracks from a mass. Because your radio and my tracks are simply created for each other!   ;) ;) ;)

P.S. I very much wish to visit America. But for this purpose I need to earn a some money.

My Reply:

Thank you for your letter. Let us put our pasts aside, the woes of our ancestors need not influence the love we can have for each other through music. I have singled your tracks from the masses and I wish for our friendship to be creative and profitable. Let us earn much money together so you can visit America and I can visit your cold motherland. We are now one.

The Slave

September 11th

An email:

Would you please forward me the playlist from 9-11-01, my friend said the music was great that day, that it was really perfect for the occasion.

Thanks,

Lady

My response:

Hey lady,

Really perfect for the occasion? You mean the terrorist attack occasion? Oh, I forgot, we did put a special mix of mood music together the night before. We even lit our lava lamps and rolled up a couple of doobies. Ambient lighting, good friends, and good tunes, what could be better?

There is no playlist for that day you big dummy. There wasn't any music played; we "played" news all day. You're making me mad.

Slave

You Look Like Jesus

An email:

Do you know anyone that looks like Jesus? Maybe they don't now, but they would if they had a beard and a wig on. Think about your friends with Jesus beards and Jesus wigs. We are shooting a short film and are on the hunt for Jesus. Jesus would not need to know how to act, and he would only have to be on set for about two hours. Get back to me ASAP.

My response:

If you've got the beard and the wig I've got the woman for you. She's my best friend, and I think she would look exactly like Jesus once you bearded/wigged her. She's an atheist so I don't know how she feels about playing Jesus, but maybe she would do it for ironic laughs. She certainly doesn't know how to act, she's an accountant. I'll be her agent/manager/bodyguard.

That Lady Is Extraneous

An email:  

I hope with my entire soul that the woman who does your intro clips is not your wife. She is unnecessary, distracting, extraneous, and an irritant. Sometimes I think she must be the manager of the radio station; why else would she be allowed on the air?

You sound so easy-going and she sounds like a bitch. She sounds like she is recording from an executive bathroom, and you're recording from a hookah den. I prefer hookahs. I've wondered about this woman for years, so your response will be appreciated.

My response:

That girl is nobody's wife; she is an office slut passed around from one hookah owner to another. Toodles.

Secret Santa Needs Suggestions

An email:

Dear jazz guy,

Recently, while listening to satellite radio in another country I heard a long set composed of Spanish style acoustic guitar, it was very Latin, but was also very jazzy. Since the satellite stations don't speak I couldn't figure out who it was. Any ideas? FYI: It was not Muzak. Any help is appreciated, as my coworkers will soon want Secret Santa suggestions.

My response:

Since I know the jazz guy will not respond to your email, I will. Without hearing it or knowing anything about your long jazzy set I can tell you that it was indeed Muzak. If you give me a call I will put you on hold and you might hear it. Last I checked it was the middle of a very hot summer--Santa wants me to tell you that he is on unemployment until the end of December and if you start drumming up work for him with the notion that you actually have friends at your office he will come kill you.

I Had A Pony!

A new volunteer comes in to the radio station to answer phones during the pledge drive. When asked, "Helen, what do you do?" Helen has a nervous breakdown. It appears that Helen only wanted one thing in life, a pony.

No, Helen is not a tween, Helen is middle aged. Some people want to get married and have children, some people want to be an astronaut, Helen wanted to own a pony. The stars aligned for Helen, and her wish was granted. Helen bought a pony, and the pony grew up to be a horse. And then the grown up pony died.

And Helen's reason for living died with the pony. She thought she was worthless, a sad excuse for a human being, and she couldn't stop crying about the dead pony. And we all sat and listened to this story, and some people sympathized and teared up too, thinking about their pets that had died through the years.

But all I could think about was the Seinfeld episode where Jerry comments during a dinner party, "Who are these people who have ponies?" And the old Polish grandmother says, "I had a pony!" And I wanted to tell Helen that I too had had a pony! But alas, there was no pony. And I started to feel like a worthless, pony-less, loser.

But then I got over it, and I started to chuckle, and I stuffed a donut in my mouth to cover my giggles. Because if I had a pony it would be a miniature pony and I would put it to work giving rides to little kids. And my pony would make me rich until it was time to turn it into glue.

Here's My Advice

From a fellow Public Radio Slave...

What's the best way to start a Monday morning? We all must begin our week by checking the voicemail; seeing what came in over the weekend. I started my day with one message, simple and to the point:

"If you take my advice, you'll eat a big bowl of sh****t."

That's it. No suggestions about why I should do this. Was it Diane Rehm's voice? Was it because you heard our underwriting credit about the symphony?

So I wrote down the phone number. I remember when I used to spend my Friday and Saturday nights prank calling people. It was great fun, but I was 11.  This guy was at least 45. And we were prank calling old ladies, not radio station answering machines.

$420 a night plus a meat!

An email:

Dear Friend, my naming is Ndugood. I am wealthy Nigerian prince who love the jazz of music. I seeking am your help to move $200,000,000 from my of accounts hear in Nigeria to the North of America.

I too love the jazz of music and I planing to flea to your home county to open many jazz clubbings at which I wood like you of performs. You receive $420 a night, plus a meat. My new "Tribal Village Vangoord" clubs will be of greatest success and you become much richings. I have all city exemptings allow for spearings of live food.

But I desperate be needing of  your help. My tribe, the Swindlisi, piece of jazz-loving peoples, has been horribly impressed by the ruling military junka, which despirses the jazz of music. My father, are exiled king, was recently impreseasoned. And so must I flee my beloveing county with all of my improbable wealthings.

But I need helpings of moving it. All money of I have will not fit in of allotted jet bags. I am there for want to transfer my wealthings to you through ATM of your system. (Nigerian ATM can not exchanging of international currencing). So to please of you to me your of full name and of addressing, social security numbering, bank account and PIN numbers of yours. And you will becoming of very rich from when playing many of jazz gigs at "Tribal Village Vangoord" clubs.

Response:

Dear Ndugood, I am so excited to learn that Nigerian internet scams are really just about bringing jazz to the world. If the Swindlisi are a jazz-loving people does that mean that there are other tribes who may be death metal-loving people? I cannot wait until the opening of your club! I will rent a limo and bring all my friends, and everyone will be so impressed when I perform the jazz. 

After my performance I will expect my meat.  I am glad the city has agreed to let you spear live food. What type of meat were you hoping to impale? Rat? Dog? A nice juicy toddler? You are in quite a pickle with your overflow of money and your small jet bags. How devastating to not be able to fit all of your money into your luggage.  How about I come to you? Please forward your contact information and I will make sure I bring a suitcase that can handle all your stupid money. Let Jazz Live!