STEVE sits uncomfortably and uncomfortably close to the HOST.
HOST: Welcome back to The Nightly Chill. Tonight, we’re speaking with an idiot about poetry. (to STEVE) Steven?
(Note: Steve speaks in a measured, hammy, yet melodramatic fashion.)
STEVE: Poetry, that whore. All breathy pauses, caked in mixed metaphors. A drunken, discarded book sobbing onto the page. Easily mistaken for something more. (sighs a heavy sigh) I wouldn’t be caught near the stuff.
HOST: (to STEVE) Go away now.
Steve goes away.
(to LISTENER) That concludes tonight’s program. I’m a mistake born unto this world, and this has been a complete waste of time.