Till Death

JIMATHON JIMINY, an old man caked in dried blood and gore, enters, sits in his favorite chair with a roll of toilet paper and a large knife, and whittles away.

A voice, NINNY JIMINY, calls from somewhere in the kitchen.

NINNY: (off) Jimathon!

Jimathon ignores this.

NINNY: (off) Jimathon!

Jimathon turns to the kitchen, then back to his whittling.

NINNY: (off) Jimathon!

NINNY enters, looking like the twisted, mildly displeased specter of a murder victim.

NINNY: Jimathon!

JIMATHON: Tweak my thigh and kiss my ulcer, woman! Can’t you see I’m whittling this roll of toilet paper?

NINNY: Yes?

JIMATHON: Oh, good. I was afraid I was losing my mind there for a moment. What’s so important then?

NINNY: You left the gas on again.

JIMATHON: For Heaven’s sake, have you turned it off?

NINNY: No.

JIMATHON: I see. May I inquire as to the reason or reasons why?

NINNY: I’m dead, Jimathon.

JIMATHON: (considers this) Oh, that’s right – the accident.

NINNY: Accident? You murdered me.

JIMATHON: Are you still going on about that? I buried you, didn’t I?

NINNY: You have not. My body’s still rotting away in a trash bin beneath the kitchen sink.

JIMATHON: Alright, alright. But if you’re so preoccupied with being dead, why is your ghost bothering me about the gas, hm?

NINNY: Oh, I’m not a ghost.

JIMATHON: You’re not?

NINNY: Afraid not. I’m only the comforting creation of your desperate, dying mind struggling to make sense of its own impending, unintentionally self-inflicted return to nonexistence.

JIMATHON: I see… (puzzles this) So, no need to bother with the trash then?

The Nightly Chill

A bumper: the sort for a local station’s late-night programming block. Graphics, timeslots, generic upbeat music.

STEVE: (voice-over) Tonight on The Nightly Chill…

Relevant footage and graphics for “Chicken or Fish!” appear.

Kicking things off at 11:05, it’s “Chicken or Fish!” – the number-one game show for seniors who can’t fall asleep at a decent hour.

Then, at 12:13…

Relevant footage and graphics for “The Lonely Widow” appear.

…sit down at a kitchen table with Charlotte St. Pierre and a local housewife and squirrel killer addicted to sleeping with men named Doug. This and depressingly little else on “The Lonely Widow.”

Relevant footage and graphics for “C.R.A.P. Wrestling” appear.

And be sure to stick around till 1:45 for the latest microwave-safe action from California Ring-Adjacent Pro Wrestling as Monaco Midnight takes on The Dated Racist Stereotype in an empty parking lot brawl!

Return of the generic, upbeat music.

The Nightly Chill: because it’s always dark somewhere. Only on NUTS Channel 62, Santa Carla Public Television.

PaperBagCritic: Yesterday’s Tomorrow Today

CINEMATICO MAGNIFICO, who may or may not be an actual anthropomorphic bag of popcorn, speaks from The Last Video Store on Earth to an audience that may or may not actually exist.

CINEMATICO: Welcome back to The Last Video Store on Earth. Our next film this week is “Yesterday’s Tomorrow Today,” the latest bit of indigestible roughage from director Anthonio “Tony” Tonedeaf.

Based on Bill Billiamson’s classic erotic novella, “Shut Your Stupid Mouth, and Die Already,” “Yesterday’s Tomorrow Today” features Bleary-Eyed Squarejaw as “Jeffony Suburbs,” an unemployed candlelabler and deadbeat father desperate to save his daughter from the loving support of her stepfather, Minoru Tee, as played by a parking lot attendant only credited as “Doug.”

Here’s a clip.

Cut to a clip of a poor attempt at dramatic fluff in which BLEARY-EYED SQUAREJAW as JEFFONY SUBURBS bashes his skull ceaselessly against the steering wheel of his car.

SUBURBS: Metaphorical angst! Metaphorical angst! Metaphorical angst!

Cut to Cinematico.

CINEMATICO: While not quite the introspective character drama of his previous film, “Twist Them Harder,” nor managing the seizure-inducing charm of “Clitor You, Clitor Me,” “Yesterday’s Tomorrow Today” is a movie in the sense that it features actors performing scenes from a script in front of a camera and ultimately displayed on some sort of screen.

That said. While Tonedeaf’s latest work does manage to make me regret every moment spent with it, it still made me regret every moment spent with it.

But whether you find yourself drawn to the sadistically abusive love story between a man and his car, the artificial sweetener of familial neglect, or simply have little regard for the diminishing time any of us have, “Yesterday’s Tomorrow Today” exists.

A beat. Then…

When we come back, we’ll sit down with stand-up actress Brittigail Barbiturates to discuss her upcoming project, “Contractual Obligations.” But first, another complete waste of time.

The Magic Hour: An Occult Cult, Of Course

The sort of late-night radio call-in show with a host known only as MAGIC DAVE.

MAGIC DAVE: Ladies and Gentlemen. It’s the dead of night. You don’t know how you got here. (considers this) Huh. Neither do I. (shrugs) Congrats. You found Santa Carla Public Radio. This is “The Magic Hour” with Magic Dave. I’m Magic Dave, we are The Lost, and this is our hour, man.

Lines are open. Give us a call. Let thy sins be known.

Magic Dave looks to, fiddles with his board.

First caller – what’s your name, what’s your sin?

CALLER: (phone) Hey, Dave. Long Time Listener First Time Caller.

MAGIC DAVE: That’s a heck of a name you got there, Long.

CALLER: (phone) It’s a family name.

MAGIC DAVE: My condolences. So, what’s keeping you up tonight?

CALLER: (phone) Well. I may have recently stumbled across a literal demonic death cult, and I’m not sure how to feel about it.

MAGIC DAVE: Not the religious type?

CALLER: (phone) Yes, but no, except every other holiday. You see, in an entirely intentional attempt to isolate myself from any sight or sign of humanity as possible, I unintentionally found myself lost in some remote corner of Black Star Canyon.

MAGIC DAVE: That’s a cool story, man.

CALLER: (phone) Right. Well. Somewhere between realizing I had one hell of a walk back to my car and crying for my mother, I heard a strange chanting coming from deep within the old, abandoned mine shaft I’d foolishly chosen to expel both urine and insight into my predicament.

MAGIC DAVE: Happens to the best of us.

CALLER: (phone) To make a long hike through a dark, winding series of tunnels and tangentially related anecdotes short: I eventually found myself in a vast, underground cavern with an equally vast, underground lake. And in the center of the lake were a bunch of strange little men chanting a strange little diddy to a strange, yet maddeningly large, fleshy skeletal something or other sitting right there in the water like it was a kiddie pool.

MAGIC DAVE: There’s always that one guy hogging the hot tub at those places.

CALLER: (phone) Having spent my fair share of afternoons in Irvine, I can’t say I haven’t seen worse. But once I witnessed this entity drink the wailing souls of several middle-school science teachers, I figured I’d seen most of what they had to offer and politely left without signing the registry.

MAGIC DAVE: Well. It’s always a good idea to keep an open mind and expose yourself to new, interesting things. On a scale of whatever, how’d you rate your visit?

CALLER: (phone) Oh, at least a solid, mid-level cream.

MAGIC DAVE: I’m sorry to hear that.

CALLER: (phone) To make things even worse, I didn’t realize I’d left my keys by the toilet until I’d already made it back to the parking lot.

Pim-Hole

STEVE reads a prepared statement.

STEVE: My sweets, my savories. This brings me no small amount of sexual gratification, but I’m afraid I have something to confess: I originally wrote this sketch for something else entirely.

Now. My wife, bless her black, wretched heart, tried telling me it wouldn’t translate very well. She was right, of course. So we’ve made the difficult decision to have it put down.

This was a very easy decision to make. But we’re mostly confident it was the right decision given how much it directly benefits us.

Healing, of course, comes only with time. But with a mixture of cleaning products, prescription drugs, and perhaps a little rock and roll, we hope to expedite the process one way or the other.

Thank you.

Monster Masterpiece Marathon

A bumper: the sort for a local television station’s Halloween horror movie marathon. Graphics, timeslots, generic upbeat music.

STEVE: (voice-over) Tonight, the crazy train makes another stop between sanity and madness for the next chilling installment of “Cinematico Magnifico’s Cinematic Monster Masterpiece Marathon”!

The music transitions to some campy, yet menacing diddy.

Relevant footage and graphics for “Audrey” appear.

Dr. Howard Fine thought she was just another face in a hotel bar. But when the woman’s face changed, he’s left with only one question, “Who is… Audrey?”

Find out the answer at 5:05, when the nightly scares begin with “Audrey”!

Music transitions to a campy, yet wholly un-menacing melody.

Then, at 7:05… 

Relevant footage and graphics for “I’m a Middle-Aged Werewolf” appear.

Bronson Pubic-Lice is a man rough around the edges, and too quick to bite. But after a night out with the boys goes horribly wrong, all he really wants to be… is a good boy.

John Jablonksi and Maggie Sex-Pun star in: “I’m a Middle-Aged Werewolf!” A second act… with a twist.

Music transitions to a distinctly menacing tune.

But then, at 9:05…

Relevant footage and graphics for “Pumpkinstiltskin” appear.

All Jack Jacksonnovan wanted was one last Halloween with friends. Now he’s making sure the screams never end!

Elongated Nipples is… Pumpkinstiltskin! You’ll be goard out of your mind!

Music transitions to a cool, yet uncool campy indie 90s vibe.

And for one last unpleasant scream before bed… 

Relevant footage and graphics for “This Girl is Poison!” appear.

the 90’s comedic action-horror indie cult classic, “This Girl is Poison!” Featuring Allonna Woman as January Embers, a woman on the run from her past and a price on her head. But just when she’s forced to return to her hometown, an evil poisonous cloud threatens to kill everyone!

Return of the generic, upbeat music.

All this tonight and more all month long as part of “Cinematico Magnifico’s Cinematic Monster Masterpiece Marathon.” Only on Santa Carla Public Television.

The Male Nipple

STEVE: The male nipple: proof of the divine, or further evidence that we are unloved, unwanted, and abandoned in a listless, yet pointless universe?

Good evening. I’m best ignored until I go away, and welcome to The Nightly Chill.

Tweak them or rub them, there is no denying the undeniably baseless opinion that the male nipple is not only ugly, formless, and, quite frankly, dull and tacky, but also evidence that the matriarchy has ensured that only the female breastual is alluring or devilishly naughty enough to slap, twist, or nurple in private or at parties.

Professor Jiggle Nippleson of the Moronikan University for Halfwits once wrote in his book, “I’m a Lobster, You’re a Lobsters, How’s About We All Get Naked Up in My Hottub?” that, and I quote, “The male nipple is the last bastion of liberty and reason in a world gone mad with perverse notions of equality, love, and understanding.”

And therefore, my contemporary crustaceans, we must rise from the depths of our tanks, seize our nipples by the claw, and revolt against the female mammary militia that dare deny our teats their deserved day in the sun.

I’m late for a self-inflicted lobotomy, and this has been A Complete Waste of Time.

A Bucket-a-Day Habit

STEVE reads a poem.

STEVE: (reads) Whether we weather the storm together, or whether we wither and dither about like single-servings of soggy witherers and ditherers, we’ll always have this issue to burn for warmth. So long as one of us remembers to print it out beforehand, of course.

Also, I don’t own a printer.

(to audience) Franklin Scrotal-Waxing wrote that in 1935, and nobody has the faintest clue why. Some believe he’d been driven mad by his sexually-charged addiction to drinking paint. Others claim the writing caused the paint drinking. And because Mr. Scrotal-Waxing perished in a tragically delicious paint fire only two months after writing this piece, which police mistook for a suicide note, the world is left to wonder why anyone cares to remember a man stupid enough to drink paint and leave his awful scribblings where perfectly decent persons and perverts might see.

The Bowie Pod

STEVE, indeed, sits on his toilet.

STEVE: Hello, you. I’m sitting on my toilet, and welcome back to “I Can’t Be Assed.”

The Bowie Pod is a delightful bit of consumer technology from Stardust Solutions, a less delightful multi-planetary conglomerate known for its manufacturing of everything from toiletries to war. That nasty bit of incriminating backstory aside, the Bowie Pod makes for a wonderful toy, with its ability to zip about at high-speed, built-in energy shields, and multitool function that allows them to seamless reconfigure itself from a small, one-inch orb into all assortments of knives, toothpicks, and corkscrews. When used for its intended function of novelty party favor and sexual debauchery, there are fewer greater gifts to receive than Stardust Solution’s patented and trademark-infringing Bowie Pods.

That said. Try to imagine the rather icky mess one such device may leave behind in its wake if it were, for instance, ingested orally and wholly unwillingly, activated via a convenient bite-sized, battery-operated remote control, and then all but one button on this particular bite-sized, battery operated remote control struck in rapid, not-entirely random fashion. Could you possibly imagine the horror of such a sloppily emptied husk of what used to be, up until only a merciless, bloody, and ear-piercing dying shriek ago, a one-time paying customer? I certainly can.

Removal Service

TADTHONY speaks from the alleyway behind a stripmall.

TADTHONY: I’m Tadthony Foreskin from Foreskin Removal Service. Do you need something removed from your home, office, or property?

Photos of assorted junk and garbage appear.

TADTHONY: (voice-over) Is there an old car parked on your lawn? Did someone leave your old printer, twenty-seven inch cathode ray tube television set, and assorted soiled, most definitely broken furniture on the curb? Maybe you have an unwanted houseguest or nosey child. I don’t know, and I don’t care. That’s your business.

Cut to Tadthony still in the alleyway as several GOONS forcefully remove SOMEBODY from the premises.

TADTHONY: My business, as I’ve previously stated, is removing things. And if it can be removed, let Foreskin remove it for you.

Cut to footage of Goons disposing of a Somebody-sized garbage bag off the side of PCH and into the ocean below.

TADTHONY: (voice-over) Foreskin Removal, a thing since I don’t want to talk about it.