Dougs in Space


PROFITING: Douglas Anderson, fictional character and depressed alcoholic, never left California in his thirty-seven years of existence.

In his college days, Doug traveled as far north as Stockton for a one-week training seminar after accidentally acquiring a job at a car rental company.

He also visited San Diego on several occasions, though he wasn’t particularly fond of it. When pressed for a reason why he felt this way about an entire city, Doug only ever averted his eyes and curled his lip.

He even once had plans to visit Las Vegas. It was to be a celebration of his twenty-first birthday with a group of his closest friends. The culmination of a lifelong bond forged through the crucible of childhood and, in one case, a brief stint in juvenile hall. Unfortunately for Doug, he had the misfortune of falling ill with a mild cold mere days before. And rather than risk getting anyone else sick, he took the headache and stuffy nose as a sign from the Universe to stay home. Doug would never see the neon lights of the Las Vegas Strip, nor the many fliers and pamphlets for adult entertainment that line it.

That said. Try to imagine Doug’s surprise when, without warning, he found himself ripped from atop his toilet, sent crashing up and through the ceiling of the converted garage he rented in Santa Ana from a kindly old woman named Gloria for five-hundred dollars a month, and then hurled by some unseen force into orbit.

Despite the arguments that invariably arise whenever the wholesale abandonment of Douglas Anderson by physics itself is brought up in conversation, Doug was neither frightened nor quick to make some sarcastic, witty remark with his final breath. Instead, he welcomed his end with open arms. And his final thought before finding himself shredded to pieces by a passing stream of space debris, located somewhere between Newport and the moon, was this: “Dreams really do come true.”

Gloria, unfortunately, passed away several months after Doug’s ejection from the planet Earth. With Doug gone, there was nobody home on Wednesday afternoons. Thus, there was nobody around to hold the chair steady for Gloria as she refilled the bird feeder in her garden. Her body was found several weeks later by her son, Tito, who had stopped by in the hopes of borrowing fifty dollars until he started his new job.

Tito, meanwhile, currently operates and manages daily tours of the Doug-sized hole left behind in his mother’s garage.


With Apologies to Bill Billiamson

STEVIE: Dear Listener, we regret to inform you that tonight’s very special presentation of Bill Billiamson’s classic erotic novella, “Shut Your Stupid Mouth, And Die Already,” does not exist. For such malicious turgidness, we humbly, deeply, and sexily “apologize.” In its place, we present to you this complete waste of time. You’re welcome.

Pedantic Twattery

STEVIE: Is your spelling in need of minor correction? Perhaps you forget to cite your sources when you made the mistake of sharing an opinion online. Or, maybe you just want others to mind their own damned business while you mind theirs. If so, then sign up now for Pedantic Twattery, the only online social media service guaranteed to increase both your social media engagements and blood-pressure. Pedantic Twattery, simply the worst.

Don’t You Farting Believe It (Intro)


PROFITING: Life – fragile as it is pointless. For your unabashedly sadistic consideration, we offer three tales of life and cosmic middle-fingers: a flaccid tale of fickle fast food; one mediocre man’s mind meltingly bad day at work; and spontaneous ejection into the stratosphere and beyond.

Good whenever-it-is-you’re-listening-to-this. I’m Profiting Off the Dead, and welcome to, “Don’t You Farting Believe It.”




STEVIE: 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.

Larry Schafer’s Leg Shavers

LOUIE: Hi ya, folks. I’m Louie Shepherd for Larry Schafer’s Leg Shavers, and you’re listening to… uh, what is this again? (BEAT) No, I was told I’d be given a script to read… (BEAT) Well, I was also told I’d be getting paid, too. But so far, it’s been a lot of… (BEAT) Well, no, I don’t think I am being unfair, if you must know. I think I’m being fairly reasonable all things considered. And I… is this still recording? Well, if it is, you do not have my permission to use any of this, not until we discuss the matter of payment and, uh, what exactly it is I’m supposed to be… (BEAT) Oh, is that right? Well, thank you. Seems we’ve just had a, uh… what is it called? A misunderstanding. If you really are authorized to process payment, then I don’t see why we can’t just finish this up right now. (BEAT) What do you mean it’s good as it is? I haven’t finished reading whatever it is… (BEAT) Oh, is that right? Huh. Well, I can see that it is a waste of time. But if you really are paying me, at least one of us didn’t completely waste it.

Dumpster Debbie

STEVIE: In local news, Debbie Percocet-Addiction, of 6 7/8ths E. Who Gives a Shit, failed to listen to all the times I warned her about leaving her garbage cans in front of my driveway. But she just wouldn’t listen, and now the whole city knows she deserved to be pelted with assorted peels and used toiletries early this morning as I left home for the studio. How does it feel, Debbie, to be covered in peels and used toiletries? I bet it feels way worse than if you’d just listened the first twelve times. I hope it does. I hope it feels way, way worse. You’re covered in trash, Debbie. I bet it’s still in your hair. Imagine what I’ll do next week if I catch those damned garbage cans of yours in my driveway again. I don’t care if your son left them there. It’s your house, Debbie. He’s your son. Take care of your trash, Debbie. Before I take care of him for you.


Up next: Do you know where your child is? We speak with several parents who also failed to heed my warnings and now their children are in a perpetual state of existence and nonexistence.

Fejjerson Lovesock

STEVIE: That last one was “Keep Going, I’m Almost There,” from Fejjerson Lovesock’s debut post mortem album, “Sexual Organ,” recorded live in a booth sent plummeting from the back of a plane and into the Pacific.

Coming up next: “I Can’t Sing,” from infamous warbler with rich, well-connected parents, Jessie Innuendo; “The Testicle Dialogs,” by someone I don’t know; and Ed G. Musick’s latest lackluster Nu Metal-R&B fusion monstrosity, “See, Brennifer? I Totally Have, Like, Feelings and Shit!”

But first, a word from today’s sponsor, Glory’s Hole. (READS) “Get help. Please.”


This message was brought to you by Glory’s Hole. Glory’s Hole: Come Inside and Leave With a Smile!

A Weekend with the Talisman of Shalamazoo

STEVIE: Those looking for a weekend getaway before the next blood moon, be advised the southern bridge out of town is currently experiencing an existential crisis and cannot, for the time being, carry the weight of so many people’s expectations. Those hoping to flee north, do know that you must not only take the right turns at the right roads while also possessing the Talisman of Shalamazoo, as failure to do so will result in your inexplicably re-entering town via the southern bridge. Maps can be found hidden somewhere in K’glah Sh’lah Elementary. And rumor has it the talisman is to be uncovered somewhere in the laundry pile in the bedroom of the apartment Casey Miller used to share with his girlfriend before she disappeared without a trace one chilly summer night last December.

And So, It Comes to This

STEVIE: I am a professional recluse.


STEVIE: I’m working on a new one right now, actually. I haven’t settled on a title, but I am thinking of calling it, “Does Anybody Else Feel Like Crying All the Time?”


STEVIE: If I had to describe it in just one word, it would be, “an introspective, single-act dramedy seeking to uncover the soul-wrenching, fruity, yet creamy center of the eternal question: who are you, and how did you get in here?” (BEAT) Or whatever one word means that.


STEVIE: Well… I wanted to challenge myself. See what I could really do, ya know? Could I come up with a minute – just one minute – of original material every night… and waste it. Every second.

Unlocked Cars

STEVIE: Podcasts. Whether you make them or listen to them, you’re still wasting your time.

I’m Fine Thankyou, and welcome to the backseat of this unlocked car.

Created in 1982 and later popularized on the Commodore 64, the podcast has evolved from an assortment of fully-produced talk shows and audio blogs to struggling comedians failing to hold their drunk friend’s attention as they blather ceaselessly into their outdated budget smartphones.

Who are these people, and why do they titter on week-after-week before giving up without so much as a second thought after their seventh episode?

Nobody knows. And nobody cares enough to find out.