Erin Ptah (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ptahrrific) wrote2007-07-07 12:39 am
ptahrrific) wrote2007-07-07 12:39 am
Entry tags:
Fake News: Expecting, Chapter 2
Title: Expecting, Chapter 2: Midterm, Midtacular
Series: The Colbert Report
Rating: PG for this part
Warnings: Language, mild ickiness.
Words: ~1700
Disclaimer: Two.
For the Report characters: They and their universe are property of Stephen Colbert, the other Report writers, and of course Viacom. Not mine. Sue me not, please.
And for the real people, the poem:
Please, make no mistake:
these people aren't fake,
but what's said here is no more than fiction.
It only was writ
because we like their wit
and wisecracks, and pull-squints, and diction.
We don't mean to quibble,
but this can't be libel;
it's never implied to be real.
No disrespect's meant;
if you disapprove, then,
the back button's right up there. Deal.
Notes: A couple of things to remember about the Reportverse (the one in which Stephen is a real egomaniac and TDS is a real news show):
All the shows are live, rather than being taped earlier in the day. This pretense can be seen in the real shows; for instance, in the 6/6/06 episode, Jon opens with "in less than an hour we will have averted the apocalypse."
Clips referenced: Midterm Midtacular toss, ending.
For the full table of contents to this story, click here.
Chapter 2
Midterm, Midtacular
Yesterday
The receptionist was tan-skinned and heavyset, with short greying hair and thin glasses over which she peered suspiciously at her computer screen as though it might try to give her the runaround if she didn't keep an eye on it. She ignored the drumming of fingers on the counter; she was of an age where she knew how she was going to do her job, and everyone else would simply have to wait.
At last she looked up. "All right, honey, I have Mr. Colbert's list of approved friends and relatives here. What's your name?"
Don't you know who I am? thought Jon, but bit it back. He had never been that kind of celebrity, and he'd be damned if he was going to turn into it now. "Jon Stewart."
"Spell that?"
He did.
"Mmhmm. Sorry, dear, you're not on here."
Jon froze. His stomach curled in on itself. His mind reeled. His gut, however, made a suggestion; and his mouth, bereft of any more coherent guidance, went with it.
"What about J-O-H-N Stewart? Is that spelling on the list?"
He held his breath as she eyed the screen again; then she smiled. "Sure enough, here you are. Go on in."
♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦
November 7, 2006
5 Weeks
"...Jon Stewart, over at The Daily Show."
Jon tapped the paper that he had just been handed. "We have some more results here; very quickly..."
It had been a whirlwind week and a half. No sooner had Jon's break ended than he was whisked off to Ohio for the Midwest Midterm Midtacular. The satellite had failed on the second day, leaving him bereft of his regular contact with the Report for most of the week. And then, at the Q&A before the final broadcast, one of the Ohio State students had said bluntly, "What's the deal with Stephen? Is it a hoax, or a joke, or is he actually going through with this?"
Jon had given his usual diplomatic answer: "I almost never know what Stephen's up to. You'll have to ask him yourself." After the show, his work over, he had rushed back to the hotel and demanded that week's Reports to find out what on Earth his impulsive co-worker had done this time.
He was pretty sure it hadn't sunk in yet. One of these days it would really hit him, and he would have either a fit of giggling or a nervous breakdown. He was hoping it wouldn't be the breakdown.
But mostly he was hoping it wouldn't happen on-air.
Actually, it was easier to keep himself under control with the cameras on. The bits were all scripted; if he found himself losing it, he could block out everything but the words on the prompter.
"...it may be some time before we know exactly what happened," he concluded, "in America today."
"Really?" asked Stephen, raising an eyebrow as planned. "Why don't you just ask America now?"
"How would I do that?"
"By asking me." And Stephen launched into the speech they had planned, how he embodied the nation, how his mouth was this and his arm was that and his side was the other thing, and this half had gone blue but that half wasn't sure...
Jon kept one eye on the prompter and one on the nearest screen. The lines were familiar; Stephen had regaled Jon with many variations of the "I am America" speech before, and they'd even rehearsed this one. But now the speaker had one overwhelming difference.
The speech finished, and Jon paused, then made his decision and left the script.
"I hesitate to ask this, Stephen," he said, "but what is the, uh, I guess it would be the embryo, in this analogy?"
The pundit, well used to saying whatever came into his head, had an answer ready on the spot. "That would be Iraq, Jon. The little baby democracy that we are helping to nurture and grow. And all the car bombings, like Condi Rice said, are just birth pangs."
"Ah. Of course." A thought came into Jon's head. "And, like us with Iraq," he offered, "you don't have an exit strategy."
Stephen put on his most derogatory face, the face that had reduced many an intern (and, twice, Ed Helms) to a quivering mass of jelly. "No, Jon, of course we have an exit strategy. Dr. Moreau discussed this on the show last week. I'm going to be carefully monitored, and then, around the 38th week or when my body meets certain medical benchmarks, whichever comes first, they'll perform a C-section. Come on, Jon, use your head. Who would get into a situation this dangerous — and this important — with lives at stake — without a careful plan and an exit strategy?"
Given more time, Jon could have come up with a snappy, witty, and highly ironic response to that. As it was, he was being waved to cut to commercial. They'd talked right through the scripted joke about the Italian-American immigrant experience.
"I don't know," Stephen," he said instead. "But we've gotta go."
"All right. Jon Stewart, everybody! We'll be right back."
As soon as all the cameras were off, Jon made his excuses and bolted for the bathroom. They'd done their last bit of crossover for the night; his audience would want him to say goodbye at the end, but until then he was off the hook.
Alone in front of the sink, he loosened his tie and stared into the mirror.
"Stephen's pregnant," he tried.
His reflection looked expectantly at him, as if to say, Yes, and?
"Stephen," he said again. "Is pregnant."
And then, all at once, it sank in.
Fortunately, when a stagehand found him a few minutes before the show ended, he was in the middle of nothing more dangerous than a hysterical gigglefit.
♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦
The audience probably hadn't noticed, but every member of the Report staff was bracing for meltdown.
The Senate was still too close to call, but the House had gone overwhelmingly blue (or, in Stephen's coloring system, cowardly yellow); more tellingly, not a single Democratic incumbent had lost a seat, for perhaps the first time in electoral history. So far, all Stephen had done was throw a few papers around, but his lip was trembling and his voice wavering in a way that set everyone around him in duck-and-cover mode.
"The people have spoken!" he cried. "And apparently they're tired of freedom. Don't get me wrong, I'm not angry; I'm just disappointed. I thought this country would last longer than two hundred and thirty years."
The pitch of his voice was steadily rising with each sentence.
"Here's your cake, terrorists!" he exclaimed, lifting the cake so that the camera could see the grinning man with a bomb frosted on top. Swiping his hand along the edge, he retrieved a fingerful of frosting and swallowed it. "Mmm!" he grimaced. "Tastes like surrender!"
He really did look nauseated by the outcome. Whatever the host's faults, and Bobby could think of many, he couldn't help but grudgingly admire the man's ability to get so emotionally invested in his politics: to have such a visceral reaction to a midterm election, in a country where half the people couldn't even name the vice president....
And then Bobby realized that something was very wrong, because when Stephen got a good head of steam built up he could rant through fire, flood, or flu epidemic, and yet he had stopped talking.
This was the only situation, short of the Second Coming, that Bobby was not prepared for.
Stephen swayed a bit, gripping the desk.
Bobby made the sign that Meg (the most senior of the interns, which meant she was either the sharpest or had the highest tolerance for pain) understood to mean Get a bottle of water. Though covered with a burka at the time, she moved quickly.
But instead of fainting, as Bobby had feared, Stephen leaned over and heaved the icing — along with whatever he'd had for dinner — onto the floor behind his desk.
While the audience gasped, their host found his feet again quickly. By the time Meg reached him with the water, he was composed enough to take a swallow, spit it angrily into the existing puddle, and declare loudly, if a little shakily: "You see what you've done, America? Your irresponsible and ludicrous election of a Democratic majority has made me physically ill!"
"I think, sir," ventured Meg, "it was the cake."
"Nonsense, Meg. I love cake. It's never made me sick before."
"But, sir, you weren't pregnant before. This could be morning sickness."
"No," replied Stephen in a long-suffering tone, "it can't be morning sickness, because it is eleven fifty-six at night."
"Morning sickness can actually strike at any time..."
"Nonsense. If that were true, why would they call it morning sickness?" Stephen waved the intern away. "No, Nation, this is mourning sickness — mourning for the state of our democracy! Tomorrow you're all going to wake up in a brave new world — a world where the Constitution gets trampled by an army of terrorist clones, made in a stem cell research lab run by homosexual doctors who sterilize their instruments over burning American flags, where tax-and-spend Democrats take all your hard-earned money and use it to buy electric cars for National Public Radio and teach evolution to illegal immigrants — and then, when you realize what you've done, you will all have morning sickness!" He staggered to his feet. "You know what? I've had it. You people don't deserve a Republican majority. I quit!"
With that, he stormed out. A cameraman quickly broke from the ranks and followed.
"He'll be back in a minute," said Bobby as the door slammed. "In the meantime, Meg, would you grab a mop?"
Series: The Colbert Report
Rating: PG for this part
Warnings: Language, mild ickiness.
Words: ~1700
Disclaimer: Two.
For the Report characters: They and their universe are property of Stephen Colbert, the other Report writers, and of course Viacom. Not mine. Sue me not, please.
And for the real people, the poem:
Please, make no mistake:
these people aren't fake,
but what's said here is no more than fiction.
It only was writ
because we like their wit
and wisecracks, and pull-squints, and diction.
We don't mean to quibble,
but this can't be libel;
it's never implied to be real.
No disrespect's meant;
if you disapprove, then,
the back button's right up there. Deal.
Notes: A couple of things to remember about the Reportverse (the one in which Stephen is a real egomaniac and TDS is a real news show):
All the shows are live, rather than being taped earlier in the day. This pretense can be seen in the real shows; for instance, in the 6/6/06 episode, Jon opens with "in less than an hour we will have averted the apocalypse."
Clips referenced: Midterm Midtacular toss, ending.
For the full table of contents to this story, click here.
Chapter 2
Midterm, Midtacular
Yesterday
The receptionist was tan-skinned and heavyset, with short greying hair and thin glasses over which she peered suspiciously at her computer screen as though it might try to give her the runaround if she didn't keep an eye on it. She ignored the drumming of fingers on the counter; she was of an age where she knew how she was going to do her job, and everyone else would simply have to wait.
At last she looked up. "All right, honey, I have Mr. Colbert's list of approved friends and relatives here. What's your name?"
Don't you know who I am? thought Jon, but bit it back. He had never been that kind of celebrity, and he'd be damned if he was going to turn into it now. "Jon Stewart."
"Spell that?"
He did.
"Mmhmm. Sorry, dear, you're not on here."
Jon froze. His stomach curled in on itself. His mind reeled. His gut, however, made a suggestion; and his mouth, bereft of any more coherent guidance, went with it.
"What about J-O-H-N Stewart? Is that spelling on the list?"
He held his breath as she eyed the screen again; then she smiled. "Sure enough, here you are. Go on in."
November 7, 2006
5 Weeks
"...Jon Stewart, over at The Daily Show."
Jon tapped the paper that he had just been handed. "We have some more results here; very quickly..."
It had been a whirlwind week and a half. No sooner had Jon's break ended than he was whisked off to Ohio for the Midwest Midterm Midtacular. The satellite had failed on the second day, leaving him bereft of his regular contact with the Report for most of the week. And then, at the Q&A before the final broadcast, one of the Ohio State students had said bluntly, "What's the deal with Stephen? Is it a hoax, or a joke, or is he actually going through with this?"
Jon had given his usual diplomatic answer: "I almost never know what Stephen's up to. You'll have to ask him yourself." After the show, his work over, he had rushed back to the hotel and demanded that week's Reports to find out what on Earth his impulsive co-worker had done this time.
He was pretty sure it hadn't sunk in yet. One of these days it would really hit him, and he would have either a fit of giggling or a nervous breakdown. He was hoping it wouldn't be the breakdown.
But mostly he was hoping it wouldn't happen on-air.
Actually, it was easier to keep himself under control with the cameras on. The bits were all scripted; if he found himself losing it, he could block out everything but the words on the prompter.
"...it may be some time before we know exactly what happened," he concluded, "in America today."
"Really?" asked Stephen, raising an eyebrow as planned. "Why don't you just ask America now?"
"How would I do that?"
"By asking me." And Stephen launched into the speech they had planned, how he embodied the nation, how his mouth was this and his arm was that and his side was the other thing, and this half had gone blue but that half wasn't sure...
Jon kept one eye on the prompter and one on the nearest screen. The lines were familiar; Stephen had regaled Jon with many variations of the "I am America" speech before, and they'd even rehearsed this one. But now the speaker had one overwhelming difference.
The speech finished, and Jon paused, then made his decision and left the script.
"I hesitate to ask this, Stephen," he said, "but what is the, uh, I guess it would be the embryo, in this analogy?"
The pundit, well used to saying whatever came into his head, had an answer ready on the spot. "That would be Iraq, Jon. The little baby democracy that we are helping to nurture and grow. And all the car bombings, like Condi Rice said, are just birth pangs."
"Ah. Of course." A thought came into Jon's head. "And, like us with Iraq," he offered, "you don't have an exit strategy."
Stephen put on his most derogatory face, the face that had reduced many an intern (and, twice, Ed Helms) to a quivering mass of jelly. "No, Jon, of course we have an exit strategy. Dr. Moreau discussed this on the show last week. I'm going to be carefully monitored, and then, around the 38th week or when my body meets certain medical benchmarks, whichever comes first, they'll perform a C-section. Come on, Jon, use your head. Who would get into a situation this dangerous — and this important — with lives at stake — without a careful plan and an exit strategy?"
Given more time, Jon could have come up with a snappy, witty, and highly ironic response to that. As it was, he was being waved to cut to commercial. They'd talked right through the scripted joke about the Italian-American immigrant experience.
"I don't know," Stephen," he said instead. "But we've gotta go."
"All right. Jon Stewart, everybody! We'll be right back."
As soon as all the cameras were off, Jon made his excuses and bolted for the bathroom. They'd done their last bit of crossover for the night; his audience would want him to say goodbye at the end, but until then he was off the hook.
Alone in front of the sink, he loosened his tie and stared into the mirror.
"Stephen's pregnant," he tried.
His reflection looked expectantly at him, as if to say, Yes, and?
"Stephen," he said again. "Is pregnant."
And then, all at once, it sank in.
Fortunately, when a stagehand found him a few minutes before the show ended, he was in the middle of nothing more dangerous than a hysterical gigglefit.
The audience probably hadn't noticed, but every member of the Report staff was bracing for meltdown.
The Senate was still too close to call, but the House had gone overwhelmingly blue (or, in Stephen's coloring system, cowardly yellow); more tellingly, not a single Democratic incumbent had lost a seat, for perhaps the first time in electoral history. So far, all Stephen had done was throw a few papers around, but his lip was trembling and his voice wavering in a way that set everyone around him in duck-and-cover mode.
"The people have spoken!" he cried. "And apparently they're tired of freedom. Don't get me wrong, I'm not angry; I'm just disappointed. I thought this country would last longer than two hundred and thirty years."
The pitch of his voice was steadily rising with each sentence.
"Here's your cake, terrorists!" he exclaimed, lifting the cake so that the camera could see the grinning man with a bomb frosted on top. Swiping his hand along the edge, he retrieved a fingerful of frosting and swallowed it. "Mmm!" he grimaced. "Tastes like surrender!"
He really did look nauseated by the outcome. Whatever the host's faults, and Bobby could think of many, he couldn't help but grudgingly admire the man's ability to get so emotionally invested in his politics: to have such a visceral reaction to a midterm election, in a country where half the people couldn't even name the vice president....
And then Bobby realized that something was very wrong, because when Stephen got a good head of steam built up he could rant through fire, flood, or flu epidemic, and yet he had stopped talking.
This was the only situation, short of the Second Coming, that Bobby was not prepared for.
Stephen swayed a bit, gripping the desk.
Bobby made the sign that Meg (the most senior of the interns, which meant she was either the sharpest or had the highest tolerance for pain) understood to mean Get a bottle of water. Though covered with a burka at the time, she moved quickly.
But instead of fainting, as Bobby had feared, Stephen leaned over and heaved the icing — along with whatever he'd had for dinner — onto the floor behind his desk.
While the audience gasped, their host found his feet again quickly. By the time Meg reached him with the water, he was composed enough to take a swallow, spit it angrily into the existing puddle, and declare loudly, if a little shakily: "You see what you've done, America? Your irresponsible and ludicrous election of a Democratic majority has made me physically ill!"
"I think, sir," ventured Meg, "it was the cake."
"Nonsense, Meg. I love cake. It's never made me sick before."
"But, sir, you weren't pregnant before. This could be morning sickness."
"No," replied Stephen in a long-suffering tone, "it can't be morning sickness, because it is eleven fifty-six at night."
"Morning sickness can actually strike at any time..."
"Nonsense. If that were true, why would they call it morning sickness?" Stephen waved the intern away. "No, Nation, this is mourning sickness — mourning for the state of our democracy! Tomorrow you're all going to wake up in a brave new world — a world where the Constitution gets trampled by an army of terrorist clones, made in a stem cell research lab run by homosexual doctors who sterilize their instruments over burning American flags, where tax-and-spend Democrats take all your hard-earned money and use it to buy electric cars for National Public Radio and teach evolution to illegal immigrants — and then, when you realize what you've done, you will all have morning sickness!" He staggered to his feet. "You know what? I've had it. You people don't deserve a Republican majority. I quit!"
With that, he stormed out. A cameraman quickly broke from the ranks and followed.
"He'll be back in a minute," said Bobby as the door slammed. "In the meantime, Meg, would you grab a mop?"
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I'm wondering about the little one. Is it a her or she? And is it going to be called America or Stephen Jr Jr or Stpehen the third or Colberto or maybe Esteban..mm..the weirdness in that last sentence just got to me. I'm gonna go re-read and laugh.
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I couldn't possibly give a main character a nervous breakdown this early in the story =P
The little one is male, for reasons which will be addressed in the next chapter. Stephen won't pick a name for a while yet, but you've got the right idea.
Glad you're enjoying it!
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This is gonna be the maddest shit I've read and enjoyed for a while... :lol:
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Thanks ^_^
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Thank you!
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and then, when you realize what you've done, you will all have morning sickness!"
Did you mean mourning sickness?
BTW funniest thing I have heard all day was Stephens recovery to throwing up on air.
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Glad you like it!
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But character!Stephen's voice is incredibly fun to write, and I'm glad you approve!
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So I've got you hooked, then? Excellent =D
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Thank you!
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I love how Stephen insists he knows how Jon's name should be spelled.
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Thanks! ♥
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I love the metaphor about the embryo and Iraq.
I knew when Stephen was experiencing morning sickness that he was going to insist it couldn’t be because it was at night. So very CharacterStephen. And I loved how he insisted on calling it “mourning” sickness.
When it’s something like this, mpreg is perfectly fine and acceptable. Awesome even. Because you have a reason for it, and a (almost) possible means for it to happen. And then it’s hilarious on top of all that. Keep it comin’!
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Character!Stephen is pretty predictable, isn't he?
Glad I could get you hooked!
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Also, why did Jon say, "In less than an hour we will have averted the apocalypse?"
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The date was 6/6/6, but after midnight it would be 6/6/7, and all the blather about the possible destruction of the world on 6/6/6 would be proven silly.
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I shall do my best to keep it up =)
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Thanks!
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(Anonymous) - 2007-07-08 22:31 (UTC) - Expandno subject
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Glad you approve!
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Jon's reaction to the news was spot-on; and him finding out via tapes of the Report places him quickly on a parallel with Evie.
Alone in front of the sink, he loosened his tie and stared into the mirror.
My favourite line in the chapter. A quiet moment, and Jon loosening his tie/actually looking at himself - taking a moment - letting it sink in, I think, it's the fact that he actually stops to let it sink in. I'm pretty sure it's coming through in the comments, but in case it's not clear: as much as I admire you for taking Stephen-as-character and doing so much with him in your stories, I am a huge fan of your Jon characterisation. It is, I think, harder to keep him accurate - the line between on-screen Jon and Jon isn't clearly delineated at all, it's more two facets - more than two facets, really - of his personality which mesh - they're not at all separate.
Laughed out loud at how Stephen stopping talking is the only situation Bobby's not at all prepared for - complete with the proviso about the Second Coming. Also a nice little reminder of how capable Stephen's crew must be to cope with him. Ditto the pun on morning/mourning sickness. Nice touch, very "Stephen".
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OMG. This made me do a real-life spit take! It just took an absurd idea and ran with it and it was AMAZING.
Off to devour another chapter...
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Thanks!
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