Gap-toothed charmer Michael Strahan has left the show where he yammered with a skinny white lady for another show; he will now banter with a thin caucasian woman. Congratulations, Michael, but this leaves the lovely, talented, and incredibly hard-working Kelly Ripa in the lurch. Morning shows are all about the yammer, and that takes two: yammering when you’re alone is only compelling in a sad way, and people do not like to start their days watching people talk to themselves.
This means Kelly Ripa will need yet another co-host; auditions are beginning and for some reason the producers asked TotD to hold the sessions. Strange decision, but you know those Hollywood weirdos.
We take you to a casting office nestled in the Mount Tamalpais hills.
KNOCK KNOCK
C’mon in.
“Is this where we’re doing the show? Is it in here? Can I bring my bicycle in?”
Hey, Bill Walton. You know this is for a morning chat show, right?
“I’m an early riser. I could probably swing by Kelly’s house and wake her up.”
You shouldn’t do that.
“Plus, she’s a tiny little thing. I could get a basket for my bike and bring her to the studio that way.”
Yeah, maybe. Do you know anything about these kind of shows?
“Oh, of course. Coach Wooden taught us the Twelve Steps to Talk Show Success. Would you like to hear all of them?”
No.
“How about one at random?”
Sure.
“Number 7: ‘Don’t say anything racist.'”
That’s just a good rule in all occasions.
“That’s the secret of Coach Wooden’s genius.”
Yeah, okay. You know you gotta live in New York, right?
“Walton out.”
Thought so.
KNOCK KNOCK
Enter.
“Um, hey. Hiya. Came for, um, the auditions. Haven’t had to audition for much in a while.”
Hey, Bobby.
“Usually, people just give me money. Y’know? They know who I am.”
You’re Bob Weir.
“Sure, sure.”
…
“Live from New York, it’s–”
No, Bob.
“–Saturday…no?”
Not on a weekend, and not at night.
“Live, though?”
Yes.
“Ah.”
…
“Am I doing the weather?”
No.
“Then I have to be honest with you: I have no idea what’s happening.”
Do you want to wake up at dawn to talk to a perky blonde about what’s rending on Twitter?
“Shit, no.”
Go home, Bob.
“I’d rather go hang out with Sammy Hagar.”
Okay. Do that.
“All right. Don’t take any wooden nickels.”
Thanks, buddy.
BOOM BOOM BOOM
…
What the fuck was that?
IS THIS THE TALK SHOW AUDITION? I HAVE PREPARED A MONOLOGUE.
Wally?
DON’T CALL ME THAT.
C’mon, man: you can’t be a talk show host.
THAT IS RACIST.
It’s not racist. You wouldn’t fit in the studio. Plus you don’t have a face.
YOU DO NOT EVEN HEAR THE FACE PRIVILEGE IN YOUR WORDS, DO YOU?
Stop it. Even if it were possible, this is a morning show with two yammering ninnies. You don’t yammer. You make sweeping pronouncements about humanity and then hit on blimps.
I CAN BE FUN.
You can’t.
LET US TRY. I WILL SHOW YOU.
Fine. Um. Okay: hey, how about that presidential election?
THIS ONE SHALL BE THE LAST. THE GYRE HAS BECOME UNBALANCED. YOU HAVE LOST CONTROL OF YOUR REPUBLIC TO GRANDIOSE MARTINETS AND CHEAP MERCENARIES. THE ONLY QUESTION THAT REMAINS IS WHETHER THE VIOLENCE SHALL START IN JULY OR AUGUST.
Jesus.
I AM PREDICTING AUGUST.
Pass.
I DO NOT UNDERSTAND. I WAS BANTERING.
Is that what you think bantering is?
YES.
Pass.
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