“Since most people’s imaginations are confined to their own heads, and mine seems to have a radius of approximately 20 feet, I guess I can live with that.”
“What’s going on, Fejod?” He asked the top of Fejod’s head. It was a dumb question, but it would’ve been dumber if he’s asked someone named Bill the question.
Our politically-astute production manager gave me two passes to Disgraceland, the home of Richard Milhouse Nixon, one of our nation’s 42 greatest presidents.
He scanned the titles: “The Rhyme of the Ancient Marinara.” “It was the best of times – ah, no it wasn’t.” “Brother, Can You Paradigm?” Inspiration struck.
I could tell we were getting nearer Fox’s fortress by the growing sound of jungle drum machines in the distance. That and the heads strewn around the corridor.
There are few things quite as electric as the last few moments before a live broadcast, although urinating on a malfunctioning power generator comes close.
Secretaries were tossing office supplies into a bonfire, around which the technical staff cavorted, chanting the lyrics to “My Sharona” and playing air-guitar.