Entry From A Dog’s Diary, April 11th

Dear diary,

So this is how it ends.

I have been sitting here in the dark for what seems to be hours. I, of course, have no idea how long it has actually been since it can be very difficult to read a clock in the dark. Not that it would matter seeing as how none of the clocks in this house are at dog level anyway.

This evening, I was enjoying a nice time when the humans got up off of the couch, an action that is very unexpected. I don’t know what they could find more exciting than sitting on the couch on a Friday evening, but I have long since learned to not try to figure out what they’re thinking. Logic does not seem to be their strongest skill.

I watched as they put their shoes on, thinking maybe this was some sort of elaborate hoax. It seems they are always trying to trick me. Just the other day, the man took my bone and threw it. I jumped off the couch looking for the bone. I looked and looked. Then I found out that he never threw it at all. He just pretended to throw it and kept it for himself. Humans have the weirdest sense of humor.

Alas, this time it was not a joke.

“We’ll be back,” said the woman as they opened the door. I almost shouted, “Thanks for the invitation,” but it didn’t seem worth it. I knew exactly how this would end.

They walked out the door. This time, though, they did something unexpected. Right before the door closed, the woman’s hand reached inside and flipped the light switch off. There was not a single light on in the apartment. It was just blackness all around me.

“Wait!” I said. “You forgot about the lights! How am I supposed to see anything?” It was too late, though. I heard the key turn the lock and they were gone.

I sat there for a while trying to think what I could do. There aren’t a great number of activities to participate in when one can’t see. I thought about chewing my bone, but there was no possible way to find it. I didn’t even attempt to get to my food dish. That would just end with me slamming head first into the coffee table. I spent a good amount of time licking myself, but without the option of a water break, my mouth became very dry.

What other choice did I have? I laid here. I just laid and waited. With nothing else to do, I silently thought through what I will say to them when they get back.

“Wow, thanks for coming back, guys. I hope you had a good time. Say, did there happen to be any lights where you were at? There were some here too. Then only thing was that NONE OF THE WERE ON! NOT ONE! How would you feel if I started turning lights off on you ?! PROBABLY NOT VERY GOOD, I WOULD BET! I guess it’s okay, though. I had been REALLY needing to catch on my motionless sitting. It’s not like I got enough of that WHEN I WAS LOCKED IN MY PEN FOR NINE HOURS while you were off ‘working!’ Thanks for the doing me that HUGE favor! It’s nice to know that you guys are always looking out for me! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go eat some dry food, assuming you actually remembered to fill my dish up, while you put away your leftovers in the fridge.”

In the end, I came up with a better plan. I slowly crawled off of the couch, carefully avoiding the coffee table. I gingerly walked to the middle of the floor.

Then I pooped. It was a big one too.

When they get home, I hope they’ll recognize that I let them off easy this time.


Until tomorrow,


No, Golf On The Radio Is Not More Interesting Than It Sounds

I am an unapologetic sports fan.

There is just something about watching a good game that is very exciting. I enjoy the strategic mind games of baseball, the give and take of basketball, the pure brute might and ensuing concussions of football, and the non-stop action of hockey. When the Olympics come around, I will take in a good track and field event or one of the hundreds of different types of races.

As an unapologetic sports fan, though, there are certainly sports that do not earn my seal of approval. For instance, every four years, the International Olympic Committee insists I watch rhythmic gymnastics. For those who have never seen rhythmic gymnastics, let me explain it in the simplest terms I can: instead of doing amazing acrobatic feats, gymnasts do moderately impressive acrobatic feats while dancing with props. Last time I checked, ribbon dancing was not an athletic competition. Are the gymnasts impressive during this event? Sure, I suppose. That does not mean I want to watch a bunch of dancing, though.

I also refuse to give a pass to NASCAR, or as it should be called, competitive circle driving. I cannot watch soccer and I will never in a million years understand why anyone enjoys volleyball. The biggest sport that I will never fully understand, though, is golf.

Golf in itself is a good game. Going out on the links for a nice round would be a very pleasant way to spend the afternoon. This, however, does not mean that I would like to watch it on television. If I had a list of things I would like to watch on television, golf would be above “live birth,” but below “How It’s Made: Sporks.” Having watched golf on TV, I thought it could not get more boring.

I was wrong.

While at work, I often listen to the radio on my phone using something called an “app.” This “app” pulls up hundreds of radio stations from around the world. An even more interesting feature is it will give me an alert when something interesting or of note is being broadcast.

I was busy typing away on my keyboard when I noticed the little light on my phone blinking to alert me to some sort of news. My app had decided to let me know that, if I was interested, The Masters were being broadcast on the radio right that second.

This was a confusing concept for me. I understand how most sports are broadcast on the radio. Most sports, though, have action to describe. Golf does not. I wondered what the radio announcers talk about. Do they describe the swing in detail, maybe comparing the swings to lumberjacks or windmills or some other sort of moving object? Perhaps they have nothing to talk about and just rehash how great Caddyshack was and how not great Caddyshack 2 was. There was only one way to find out.

“That was not the shot he was hoping for,” said the first announcer.

“No, getting that close to the green, you really hope you can be on it,” replied the second announcer.

“Now he will be working from off of the green,” the first announcer said. The two spoke for another thirty seconds about the location of the ball which, as it turns out, was not on the green, but pretty close. Having run out of ways to say that the ball was close to the green, the announcers moved on to topic number two.

“So, what can you tell me about this green?”

“Well,” Announcer Number 2 and golf course expert said, “this green is not as flat as it looks. In fact, it is quite a bit hillier. That is why you see some of these putts miss. When you get to this level of golf, the putts are much harder. The ball can hit one of those hills and just go a different direction. It looks like the green is fast today, though. He will have to take into account the speed and the hills when lining up a putt.”

The announcer then began to describe the grass because the only thing less exciting than golf on the radio is a description of bentgrass. That is when I gave up on radio golf. I had lasted all of three minutes and that was enough for my entire lifetime. There is nothing that will ever get me to try this again. I just do not have the time in my life to listen to that.

Well, unless the announcers do decide to skip the real golf for some Caddyshack chat. I think I could probably free up a bit of time in that scenario.

Lost In TV Land

Most people gaze neither into the past nor the future; they explore neither truth nor lies. They gaze at their television. – Radiohead

Yeah, that can wait until later. I’m going to watch TV. – Nathan on just about any given day of the week


Ever since I was a child, I have been obsessed with TV. I remember getting up early on Saturdays to watch the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles attack various enemies with weapons that no aquatic freshwater reptiles should have access to. My first exposure to opera was from Bugs Bunny, a fact that would cause great confusion while listening to Ride of the Valkyries many years later in a college fine arts class. I would soak in every second of DuckTales until my brain could no longer differentiate reality from animated ducks getting into all sorts of mischief and/or shenanigans.

If one of these shows was not on, it did not matter. I would watch whatever was on. I would watch it until my father would come and politely tell me it was now time to watch sports and that meant he needed the remote.

This theme carried on throughout my teen years, through college, and up until very recently. I have watched every episode of Scrubs. Yes, I am even including the ninth season when Zach Braff had departed. I jammed 58 episodes of Arrested Development, 201 episodes of The Office, and unknown episodes of hundreds of other shows into my brain.

Then abruptly, I kind of stopped.

I have no idea what happened. In the midst of runs of some of my favorite shows, I just suddenly stopped caring. Yes, I have continued to watch TV, but for some reason my number of shows that I follow has dwindled down to near nothingness. For the most part, this has been a good thing, I suppose. I have had time for all sorts of activities. At other times, though, it can be a bit of a burden.

Last year, my wife began watching a show called The Following. The show follows a guy who is trying to catch a serial killer that has a following, hence the title. She has become obsessed with this show, anxiously awaiting the next murder-filled blood fest every week.

For the better part of a year, she has been trying to get me to watch this show. It has become like a Public Service Announcement about peer pressure in my home, the only difference being that my wife is pushing television programs, not drugs. If I sat down on the couch with nothing to do, it was as if a weird instinct kicked in. Before I knew it, she would be next to me.

“You know what you should watch?” she would say.

I knew the answer, but I would ask anyway. “What?”

“The Following! You should watch The Following! You would like it. I think you would really enjoy it. Watch The Following! Do it! Watch The Following!” This would proceed for the next 45 minutes or so until she would get bored and move on to the next thing.

Despite her gentle suggestion, I had not watched a single episode headed into this season. This would not be a problem except for one thing: my wife has not forgotten that this show exists.

For the past few weeks, any time TV is brought up, I can be sure the next thing she says will be, “Oh, I really want to catch up on The Following. Let’s watch that.”

The problem with this is I have no interest in watching. It has nothing to do with the show itself. I am sure it is a fine show. If you ignore Quicksilver, The Air I Breathe, Loverboy, Trapped, Death Sentence, The Air Up There, Hollow Man, White Water Summer, or a handful of others, Kevin Bacon has only been in great projects. My hesitancy has to do more with my lack of knowledge in the particular area. Kevin Bacon has spent an entire year hunting a serial killer and I have no knowledge of any of it.

Today I arrived home to find my wife in the midst of an episode. I sat down with her. The following is a conversation that happened while watching:

“Who is that?”

“That’s the girl that killed her mom.”


“Because she lived out in the middle of nowhere and was never able to leave, so she always resented her mother for that.”

“And now those people are going to kill her?”


“Why doesn’t that serial killer guy go save her? He seems to really like her.”

“You know, you have ruined this part of the show for me.”

“Yes, I know.”

Perhaps someday I will catch up and be able to enjoy an hour of tension filled serial killer hunting with my wife. For some reason, though, I doubt it. If I have not started watching it yet, it will probably never happen. I guess I am destined to spend the rest of my life lost whenever I walk into a room where my wife is watching TV. We will begin to drift apart, her to a world filled with fictional serial killers, me into a world without. Our relationship will greatly suffer and we all know who will be to blame.

Thanks a lot for ruining my relationship, Kevin Bacon.

Rest In Piece, Archie Andrews

Photo: Archie Comics

It is a story we have all heard before. The All-American boy meets a girl and they quickly develop feelings for each other. I mean, she is perfect for him. She is athletic and very fashionable with a nose for entrepreneurial opportunities. It was love at first sight.

Then the same boy meets that girl’s best friend and THEY quickly develop feelings for each other. She is perfect for him. By that, I mean she is very rich. I mean, like, incredibly rich. Sure, she may be spoiled, vain, a compulsive shopper, snobbish, and incredibly vindictive, but did I mention she is very rich?

That is the life of one Archie Andrews. There is no doubt that being caught in a vicious love triangle for 73 years would have a great deal of undo stress on a person’s life, so I guess it should be of no surprise to hear what Archie Comics has in store for a future issue.

Archie Andrews, the All-American boy, is going to die.

In the New York Post today, Archie CEO Jon Goldwater broke the terrible news.

“Archie dies as he lived — heroically,” said Goldwater “He dies saving the life of a friend and does it in his usual selfless way. Archie has always been a representation of us — the best of us. Our strengths and our faults.”

Now wait just a second. We are expected to believe that Archie Andrews, the man who has strung along two girls for decades, is going to die heroically saving a friend and not at the hands of a scorned lover? Call me crazy, but that does not seem to add up. Having watched dozens of episodes of “Dateline,” there is something fishy afoot. In the words of “Dateline” correspondent Dennis Murphy, “But those EMT’s… didn’t understand one crucial observation they made at the home that night, that thing that caused them to tell the arriving police officer: There’s something that doesn’t look right here.”

But who would have done this to the All-American hero? Was it Veronica, the fiery heiress who was accustomed to getting her own way? Or perhaps it was Betty, the girl next door who wished to no longer be next door.

The way I figure it, it must have gone down like this:

As always, the gang was hanging out at the local diner. They had just finished a hard day at Riverdale High School. As usual, Archie’s good friend Jughead had ordered 20 or so hamburgers. That is when the killer’s plan was put into motion.

Jughead was scarfing down burger after burger when he began to choke. It seems that he was not taking the necessary time to properly chew his food, a fact that surprised no one. Archie sprang to action, jumping behind Jughead to perform the Heimlich maneuver. As Goldwater said, Archie did save his friend that day. This, however, was not what cost him his own life.

Famished from the work of saving his gluttonous friend, Archie orders himself a burger. He would have taken one of the other burgers from Jughead’s plate, however immediately after being saved, Jughead went right back to eating. That is, after all, how Jughead would operate.

A burger was brought out to Archie, but something did not seem right. It seemed that this burger had a very special ingredient. But what would it be? The killer would not be foolish enough to use a regular poison. No, as it turns out, Archie is deathly allergic to one thing: soy. Despite Archie very clearly requesting no pepper jack cheese as he was very aware that the pepper jack cheese in this establishment contained soy, someone had added extra pepper jack cheese. His throat began to close up and soon Archie was unable to breathe.

People around the diner began to rush about, frantically. Dimwitted Moose Mason attempted to help by beating on Archie’s back before Midge Klump was able to get him to stop, explaining that this was a very stupid thing to do. Kevin Keller and Nancy Woods panicked, rushing about in hopes of finding a way to save Archie. Jughead finished the rest of Archie’s burger.

Remembering that Archie’s backpack always contained an EpiPen for such soy related situations, Chuck Clayton reached in. He pulled the cap off and jammed the needle into Archie’s outer thigh, only to find that someone had emptied the epinephrine. With nothing left to do, Chuck called out for someone to dial 9-1-1 and futilely attempted CPR.

Now, though, the million dollar question is, unlike our hero, still alive. Who would have done this? Veronica is too self-involved to know anything about Archie’s allergens. Betty is just too nice. Jughead is far too busy eating.

As it turns out, the answer was right there all along. Yes, it appears that Jon Goldwater, CEO of Archie Comics, killed the All-American hero in an effort to gain some sort of publicity.

I guess that worked out for him. Well played, Goldwater. Well played.

How to Become the Art Snob You Have Always Dreamed of Being


I was perusing my previous posts and came across this one. In the interest of continuing to educate the unwashed masses, I would like to bring this up. This is for all of those who do not want to be an uncultured swine.

Originally posted on The Life and Times of Nathan Badley...:

Crocker Art Museum

Crocker Art Museum (Photo credit: Tommy Huynh)

It’s a dilemma as old as time.

You have a date that you want to impress. You want that date to think you are a smart, well-educated, person with a vast cultural appetite. So what do you do on a date? Your usual evening of eating hot wings and watching procedural crime shows is not going to cut it. You need a night of culture, one that will impress your would-be mate enough to at least get that second date.

You have it planned out perfectly. A nice dinner followed by a dessert at a local gelato stand, then off to a local art gallery.

There is just one problem: art galleries are scary! There are all those paintings of demons and people with neatly groomed goatees. People talk about a twisted pile of metal like it is art when it is, in fact, a twisted pile of metal…

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No, Sir, Your Salvador Dali Tattoo Does Not Impress Me

In Nashville, there is a burrito place I like to visit. This is because they have the best burritos a person could ever imagine. It is like someone took Chipotle, then decided to make it roughly 80% better. Then they added Horchata at the beverage station, effectively creating the greatest restaurant ever.

The restaurant must be great for me to love it despite the influx of hipsters, hipsterdom, and all of the terribleness that comes with hipsters. The clientele that usually stands before me and my barbacoa is a sea of irony wrapped in a faux caustic wit. I have seen teenage girls, their blue streaked blonde hair hanging over a strategically worn Wu-Tang clan shirt. There have been young men in thrift store suits, their pants falling two inches short of reaching their shoes. Of course no one would notice this, though, as they were sure to be distracted by the thick coating of pomade applied so delicately to the nicely slicked down hair. Then there are the skinny jeans. Oh so many skinny jeans.

As I sat down to my burrito, chips, and half pineapple- half spicy salsa, I saw the king of hipsters. He wondered from the counter, a feather in his fedora. He wore a scarf despite the fact that it was warm enough for a thin t-shirt outside. His arms had become a showcase for random tattoos. Amongst the skulls and a bizarre picture of Frankenstein was a portrait of famed surreal artist Salvador Dali. His face had been permanently etched on the man’s left bicep, his weird pointy moustache wrapping around the man’s thin arm.

I know that Salvador Dali is considered a great artist, but this seemed like an odd choice to me. I mean, he certainly is not considered the greatest artist of all time. That would be like me wanting a tattoo of a great baseball player, but instead of choosing Willie Mays or Babe Ruth or Nolan Ryan, I decided to tattoo Bill Mazeroski on my arm.

Maybe he really loves Salvador Dali. “The Persistence of Memory”  and “The Face of War” are interesting. “Dream Caused by the Flight of a Bee Around a Pomegranate a Second Before Awakening” wins the award for title of a painting that sounds most like a very bad Mad Lib. I guess I could understand someone having that great of an appreciation for Dali. If that were the case, though, I doubt he would be held in the same esteem as Frankenstein on the man’s right bicep.

Call me cynical, but I have a sneaking suspicion that the tattoo has less to do with a love of Dali’s art and more to do with the fact that Salvador Dali was a polarizing art figure and choosing to tattoo a polarizing art figure is a very different thing that many people would not do. Plus he had a very strange mustache and hipsters do love their mustaches.

When people like this wander into my favorite burrito place, I get the feeling I do not belong there. I have no tattoo and no feathered fedora. None of my clothing is “ironic.” I started briefly thinking that maybe I should find a new burrito place and leave this for the tattooed Salvador Dali fans of the world. Then I had a realization.

Tattoos may be forever, but the memory of that burrito is also forever AND it was delicious. No tattooed hipsters will run me off from my barbacoa, especially if it comes paired with Horchata. That is my solemn promise.

Dear Nathan: Is Drinking Out Of The Milk Carton Unsanitary?

DEAR NATHAN: My husband drinks milk straight from the carton. He says it’s OK because he’s the only one in the house who drinks milk. (True.) I have told him I find it disgusting and that company often drinks milk, having no idea that he drinks straight from the carton.

Isn’t this unsanitary — not to mention rude and selfish behavior? I’d love to know how to get him to stop. — GROSSED OUT IN NEW JERSEY

DEAR GROSSED OUT: This is an excellent question. As I am not a scientist, I thought I would turn to the experts. By that, I mean “Yahoo! Answers.”

According to Class of 2010, this is very unsanitary. The reason is “It’s gross!” I guess that settles whether it is unsanitary.

It can be hard to put the kibosh on this type of habit. According to Class of 2010, you should “tell him to stop being lazy and get a cup like a regular person.” Of course, then you will have to debate whether he is indeed a regular person or if he is an irregular person. And what is the definition of an irregular person anyway? Aside from commercials for Metamucil, I have never heard anyone refer to someone as an irregular person.

My advice is much simpler. If you are worried about the guests getting your husband’s backwash, just stop inviting people to stay with you. The exception would be for lactose intolerant people. It would be okay for them.

Most importantly, never take the advice of Class of 2010. I am not sure that they really know what they’re talking about.

Good luck finding a good source of calcium without your husband’s spit in it,



DEAR NATHAN: I’m 21 and a college student. My mother recently came to visit me and took my boyfriend and me out to dinner. After we were through eating, we sat across the table from my mother and engaged in post-dinner chatter. I draped my arm around his neck and began playing with his ear. It was absent-minded, and I thought nothing of it, but my mother stared from across the table shocked.

She later told me that ear fondling is not appropriate in public. I was taken aback. Isn’t it OK to play with my boyfriend’s ear in public? Does it make people around us uncomfortable? — EAR SNUGGLES IN VERMONT

DEAR EAR SNUGGLES: I have no idea whether this would be appropriate or not. If I were to see a couple ear fondling, I would not be immediately grossed out unless the finger that was just all over the person’s ear immediately went into a shared dish of food.

I do want to congratulate you, though, on coining the term “ear fondling.” What exactly would constitute ear fondling? Is it just playing with the earlobe or do you incorporate cartilage into the action? Aren’t you concerned about earwax?

As far as your mother is concerned, just tell her that your boyfriend suffers from a debilitating case of eariclosis tendinitis, an excruciating diseases that affects dozens of people every year. The only way to provide relief is for a nice ear massage. You immediately go from an ear fondling deviant to a saint.

Commiserations to you as you cope with your boyfriend’s terrible illness,



DEAR NATHAN: We live in a small town. My husband is friendly and outgoing and seems to know everyone. We can’t go anywhere without running into someone he knows. Meals out that should be quiet affairs turn into social situations I do not want to be part of.

I have wracked my brain as to a polite response to people when they say, “Join us!” I don’t WANT to join them. How do we politely decline their friendly offer? — “NOT TONIGHT” IN NORTH CAROLINA

DEAR NOT TONIGHT: I would recommend saying the following to them:

“Oh, Jeez, that sounds real nice. The thing is, my husband has a terrible debilitating case of eariclosis tendinitis and I would hate to have people think I am fondling his ear out in public. We better get going to that table WAY over there away from everyone else.”

Medical lies are always the best excuse.

Enjoy dining alone,


To Climb Or Not To Climb

Springtime is a rough time to have to be at work.

Just above my computer screen, I can see out a dozen or so large windows looking out on the world. There, beyond the parking lot, is a world full of trees and grass. I watch the sun shine down on them and I desperately want to be out experiencing nature instead of inside staring at the devilish creations that Microsoft has dreamed up.

Today, while looking out, I had a sudden urge to climb a tree. I sat there staring at one particular tree, thinking that I could climb it. It wouldn’t even be hard. I would get there, grab that one low branch, swing my leg up, pull myself up, and then I would officially be the king of that tree.

Then I started to think about it. Why would I even want to climb that tree? Once I was up there, I would have nothing to do but to sit on that one branch. I guess I could go higher up in the tree, but once I got there I would find myself sitting again. Once you get up into a tree, it is essentially a series of benches for your sitting enjoyment minus any and all comfort a bench can provide.

I remembered liking to climb trees as a kid, though. Of course, was that because I really liked to climb trees or was it because the media was force feeding me lies about the joys of tree climbing? I know there were cartoons I watched where people would climb trees and they seemed like they were having a blast. Had the media turned me into a tree-climbing drone happily following their tree-climbing directions?

Why, though, would the media want to encourage me to climb a tree? If I am sitting in a tree somewhere, I would be far less likely to watch the programming that they want me to. It seems like it would be a good move for the media to convince people that trees and outside in general are all very bad. Either that or they could work with botanists to create trees that contain HDTV’s on every branch, though that seems fairly impractical.

I think a good way to get kids to eat fruit would be to get kids to climb fruit trees. You just grab your kid and point them to the nearest apple orchard. Once they got into a tree, they would be so bored that they would have nothing to do but eat the apples that surround them. You would want to be careful, though. If you leave them up in that tree too long, you might be contributing to childhood obesity.

It would be nice, I suppose, to sit in the tree and experience the outdoors for a while. Maybe I could scale it with a book in hand and enjoy some delightful in-tree reading. It would be just like being in a library but with much rougher seats and a greatly increased chance of running into sap.

Not that it matters. I am far too busy with this Excel spreadsheet to get to climb a tree anyway.

Thanks a lot, Microsoft.

The Perfect Replacement For David Letterman

Dear Columbia Broadcasting System,

Hello. You may not be familiar with me, but my name is Nathan. I have been a fan of yours for many years, having watched countless programs that you have offered up for consumption. In fact, over the 27 years I have been alive, I estimate that roughly 13 of those years has been spent watching your television network, the other 14 being made up of trying to figure out what to eat, eating, and then falling asleep because I have eaten far too much. As far as I am concerned, all of the other networks are pure garbage that should be burned in a barrel so as to not inflict the world with anymore of their rubbish.

Today one of my comedy heroes, David  Michael Letterman, announced he is retiring from his long running late night show creatively titled “The Late Show.” It is a very gloomy day, to say the least. Mr. Letterman has helmed his show for nearly my entire lifetime and done so with great vigor and honor.

With that said, I see the conundrum you are currently in. You will have to find a host to replace the incomparable David Letterman by the time he leaves in 2015. That is why I have done you an immense favor.

Mr. or Ms. Columbia Broadcasting System, I would like to throw my hat in the ring for the competition to helm “The Late Show.”

You may be asking yourselves, “Exactly why would we give a show with such a storied history to some fellow we have never met or heard of?” I think the better question would be “Why not?”

We will start with the bottom line. According to a hastily performed Google search, you were paying Mr. Letterman $20 million a year. That is crazy money! There is no way you would have to pay me $20 million. I could not even imagine how much money that would be, so rest assured I would be cheaper. I mean, if you were to take the ridiculous amount you were paying him per year and convert that into pennies, I am sure you could fill an Olympic sized swimming pool.

Okay, after another hastily performed Google search, it would easily fill an Olympic sized swimming pool. On a side note, did you know it would only take $45,000 in pennies to fill that pool? I would never have guessed. See? I have already taught you something. That is just one of the many talents I would bring to “The Late Show.”

Another reason to give me a spot in the historic Ed Sullivan Theater would be my ability to tell a good joke. I am a joke master. Whenever I am at a party, hordes of people surround me begging for a joke. Then they proceed to laugh until they go hoarse. It kind of kills the mood of the party when no one is able to speak, but that is just the price I pay for being this funny. To prove this, I have crafted a monologue joke involving a topical event:

“According to NASA, studies show that underneath a thick layer of ice on the planet Saturn is an ocean the size of Lake Superior. An ocean the size of Lake Superior? Looks like Earth wins again at intergalactic ocean having!”

Okay, I will admit that punchline needs a little work. That’s why the show has writers, though.

Lastly, I think my built-in audience would really help ratings. Not to brag, but I have over 500 friends on Facebook. That is halfway to 1,000! You could not even pay for that kind of built-in fan base. That is 500 viewers that would absolutely tune in every single night. Maybe. I mean, there are a lot of them that I do not really talk to, but I think you could count on at least 200.

In conclusion, I think my low price, joke writing ability, and built-in fan base make me the perfect heir to Mr. Letterman. I eagerly await contact from you.



Nathan Cornelius Witherspoon Badley IIX


P.S. If anyone from another network is also reading this, that first paragraph is a bunch of crap. I also watch your channel and will happily take any job you have to offer.