“John, thanks for coming back to the show. I know last time was a bit rocky, what with being raped by multiple Freddies Mercury, but I’m glad to see you’ve put the onesie back on and have rejoined us on SiriusXM.”
“What? Radio Randy died.”
“I know. I’m his sister, Radio Randi.”
“Of course.”
“This has been very tough on our parent, Radio Randie and Radio Randee.”
“How do you tell each other apart?”
“We only exist in print.”
“Good plan. Listen, the acid is kicking in and I am in no shape for the radio. I’m ten seconds away from talking about my penis, and that has ended poorly every time I’ve done it in public.”
“What about in private?”
“Oh, it ends great there. I hang out with musicians and comedians; they don’t talk about anything other than their penises.”
“John, you say you have a solo album coming out, but there are other musicians on it, thereby negating the term ‘solo.’ Why the lies, John?”
“Not a lie; you’re misinterpreting the word ‘solo.’ I didn’t mean I did it all myself, I meant that I solo throughout the entire album.”
“Ah.”
“Radio Randy–”
“Randi.”
“–I’ll be honest with you: since I went out with Dead & Company? I can’t stop. I can’t stop soloing.”
“What about laundry?”
“I can briefly stop soloing. But then: soloing again.”
“John, in addition to my deejay duties, I also teach symbology at Harvard–”
“That’s neither a thing, nor a word.”
“–and I think your problem is that you’ve avatized: adopted the external essentialities of a character within the narrative. You’re the guitarist in the Dead who isn’t Bobby, and that means you must solo. It’s now your nature.”
“Is there no way to get relief?”
“Opiates and a beard have worked in several cases.”
“Can’t grow a beard.”
“Cocaine and a mustache?”
“Also can’t grow a mustache.”
“Crystal meth and a bushet?”
“A bushet?”
“A bush mullet. Pubes real short, but you let your ball hair grow out.”
…
“I never thought I’d say this, but can we take a call?”
“Sure, John! We have several callers, but first up is a friend of ours. Bobby in Marin? Are you there?
“Radio Randi, I’m so sorry to hear about your brother.”
“Thank you, Bobby, but he was secretly a serial killer.”
“Then, uh, my feelings are mixed.”
“Thanks.”
“Josh, I’ve decided to be angry with you, and seek my bliss through bloody revenge. Which, you know, seems like a bit of a dichotomy, but I’m complicated. I’ve taken steps towards that end. Thought it was fair to let you know.”
“Bob, what are you talking about?”
“Josh, I hired a ninja to kill you.”
“Goddammit, Bobby.”
“You’re not going to see it coming.”
“You’re telling me about it, Bob. You lose the element of surprise when you call in to a non-existent radio show and announce your plans.”
“Huh.”
“Is this because I forgot to get you when Elvis showed up?”
“That’s it, yeah, but some of it may be repressed feelings from the time you dressed up as a picnic blanket.”
“Bobby, please don’t send a ninja after me.”
“Can’t unsend a ninja. They’re like e-mails. Radio Randi?”
“Yeah, Bob?”
“Can I say the phrase that pays?”
“Not that kind of radio show, Bob.”
“Ah. Well, what schools are closed due to snow?”
“Not that kind of radio show, either.”
JAPANESE YELLING
“Gotta go.”
…
“We’re back on the Radio Randi show with John…John? John?”
“What the fuck is this?”
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