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ptahrrific) wrote2007-07-15 12:06 am
ptahrrific) wrote2007-07-15 12:06 am
Entry tags:
Fake News: Expecting, Chapter 5
Title: Expecting, Chapter 5: Do You Hear What I Hear?
Series: The Colbert Report
Rating: G for this part
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: Hold on to that premature Christmas spirit, because it's the big day itself. (The Star Wars holiday special has not officially been released on DVD, and with good reason.)
For the full table of contents to this story, click here.
Chapter 5
Do You Hear What I Hear?
December 25, 2006
11 Weeks
There was nothing on TV but stop-action Christmas specials. Oh, the suite was the best, on the top floor of a very ritzy hotel — maybe it was the Ritz; he hadn't paid that much attention — so it wasn't like he couldn't have browsed the Pay-Per-View offerings. He just didn't want to.
He had carefully explained to every person he knew that he had been invited to lots of parties by other people he knew. Had to keep up appearances, after all. Couldn't go letting people think that he, Stephen Colbert, pundit extraordinaire, would let such trivial things as an impending divorce, four kids who were scared of him, a fifth who was screwing with hormones he didn't know he had, or being alone on Christmas, get him down!
Which they would think if he burst into tears, which he had done twice already today, in the middle of a party. It was all hormones, of course, but that some people wouldn't understand that. Better to play it safe and stay in.
On the television, Rudolph's parents had just noticed their new son's nose. "Now how can you overlook that? His beak blinks like a blinkin' beacon!" cried his father.
Stephen gently prodded his bare stomach. "You aren't going to have a red nose, are you?"
He'd made an appointment with his personal tailor to have some new suits fitted; by the time the show came back, he was going to need them. In the meantime, he had resorted to his favorite flag boxers and a loose matching robe, which was the most comfortable thing he'd worn in weeks.
"This is an important life lesson," he announced, as Donner hid the glowing nose. "Conformity is good. Can you hear that?"
When would the baby be able to hear things? He didn't have the faintest idea.
Stephen glanced through the door into the next room, where his things were piled high. Lorraine had filled two more bags, which Jon had picked up because Stephen was temporarily (only temporarily!) banned from getting within a hundred feet of her. It would all be worked out, he was sure, so he hadn't bothered to unpack anything. But he knew the growing pile of pregnancy information (Dr. Moreau seemed to give him more at every checkup) was on top.
He hadn't looked at all of it, or even most of it. Reading, after all, was something liberals did. On the other hand, there was bound to be something in the pile about when babies developed ears.
Curiosity won out. He got up, retrieved the armful of folders and pamphlets, and dumped them out on the floor in front of the TV.
"Jingle, jingle, jingle; you will hear my sleigh bells ring!" sang Santa on the screen.
"But maybe he won't!" snapped Stephen irritably. "That's the whole question!"
♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦
Half an hour and a lot of unintended learning later, Stephen had gathered that babies could definitely hear after six months, though he still wasn't sure when it started; Rudolph was sneaking away from his friends to keep his difference from putting them in danger; and someone was knocking on the door.
He got up, pulled his robe closed, checked the peephole, and then flung open the door. "Come in!" he exclaimed — a bit too enthusiastically. "You can't stay long," he added hastily. "I just got back from this great party, but I've got to be at the next one in a few minutes...."
Jon, bless him, fell for it without a moment of doubt.
"You could be fashionably late," he suggested as he shrugged off his coat. "Or blow it off completely. Tell them you're too cool for them after all."
And here he was giving Stephen a perfectly plausible excuse to keep him around without admitting to lying about the parties! It was almost as if he'd planned it. "Great idea! I'll do it. Come in, throw your coat somewhere, sit down. Hey, what did you bring?"
It was warm in the room, so Jon pulled off his dark grey V-neck shirt and hung it with the jacket, leaving him in his usual khakis and grey T-shirt. The only difference was the dark red Santa hat on his head, which matched the bag that had been slung over his shoulder.
"Not much," he said with a wink as he kicked off his boots and padded in socks over to the chairs by the TV. "I wasn't sure they'd have enough to drink for you at the parties, so I grabbed one of these." He pulled out a bottle of sparkling grape juice and two plastic glasses, and with a flash of sleight-of-hand had them filled. If he hadn't known that Jon had been a bartender, Stephen would have suspected the man of being a magician.
"A toast," proposed Jon, raising his glass. "To you, my friend."
Stephen could think of nothing better to drink to. "To me," he agreed, and they clicked the glasses together.
♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦
When they'd emptied the bottle, Stephen went off to the phone and ordered a round of drinks from the hotel, and some food to go with it. He returned to find Santa's elves on the TV decorating a tree, and Jon producing decorations of his own: a package of tinsel, branches of fake greenery, a foot-tall tree decorated with ribbons and pea-sized silver stars and miniature eagles.
"Jon, this is awesome!" exclaimed Stephen, picking up the tree and spinning it around. "You have really good taste in Christmas decorations for a Jew."
"Er, thanks." (Geez, sometimes the man did not know how to take a compliment.)
"And it's good that they're cheap, too, because I'm not going to be here much longer. So we can just put them up and leave them when I go."
"They weren't that cheap," sulked Jon.
Stephen frowned. "But you're Jewish."
"Forget it," said Jon, and Stephen was happy to oblige.
Between Jon's height and Stephen's newfound reluctance (gleaned from his recent spurt of incidental learning) to stand on chairs, their decorating was skewed to the lower parts of the rooms. Still, Stephen declared himself quite pleased with the result by the time the food had arrived. Rudolph's story had long since finished, and that of the Grinch was wrapping up; they dragged an end table over to the television, to place the tray on it while they watched.
"Oh, one more thing!" said Jon suddenly. "I thought, if you were sick of seeing all the same specials, we could watch this." From the very bottom of the bag he pulled a DVD, home-burned if the cheap case and low-resolution cover were any indication.
Stephen read the cover, then stared at his friend, aghast. "You bought that?" he choked.
Jon looked worried, though he clearly did not appreciate the magnitude of his error. "I thought...I know you like Star Wars, and this had 'Star Wars' and 'holiday special' on it...."
"It is a travesty, Jon. We do not speak of it. George Lucas is a great guy, friend of the show, but if there is a special Hell reserved for him solely on the basis of that special, I will understand. Now put it away, before my son is exposed for too long."
"All right, all right," said Jon, obeying. "We'll just watch Frosty the Snowman, then, I guess."
He sat down, picked up a stuffed avocado from one of the plates, bit down, and nearly choked.
"Is this mustard?"
"Darn right it is!" Stephen took the next chair and picked up a strip of chicken. Yum.
"Did you get mustard on everything?"
"Have you ever had mustard on everything, Jon? It's great! I don't know why I never thought of it before!"
"Stephen," said Jon slowly, "when did you first notice this newfound love of mustard?"
Stephen thought about it. He remembered swiping some of the kids' Halloween candy to see how it tasted with mustard, so it had been some time in November; but early November, because he had still been close enough to his kids to swipe things from them. "Six or eight weeks ago, I guess."
"That explains it. It's a pregnancy craving."
"I thought those were for pickles and ice cream."
"That's the cliché, yeah, but every pregnancy is different. With Maggie, there was a while when Tracey couldn't get enough bananas. What was Lorraine like with your kids?"
Stephen realized he didn't remember, and this irritated him. "How should I know?" he demanded. "I wasn't the one who did the shopping."
Jon gave him an odd look. Stephen wasn't sure what it meant, but it made him feel very uncomfortable without understanding why. It wasn't as if he had done anything wrong.
"The movie's starting," he said by way of ending the discussion, even though it had been playing for a good five minutes. "Shh."
♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦
As Jon paused in the doorway to put on his coat, Stephen came up behind his friend, spun him around, and kissed him soundly. He hadn't meant to go very far with it, but the other man's mouth tasted like mustard, so he ran his tongue thoroughly around before pulling away.
"Mistletoe," he explained, pointing to the bit of fake greenery taped above the frame.
"That's holly, Stephen."
"Is it? Are you sure?"
"I'm sure. It's the only thing I bought."
"Oh." Stephen shrugged. "Well, I thought it was mistletoe. So that wasn't a gay kiss or anything. It was a perfectly natural, wholesome, traditional mistletoe kiss."
"I understand," replied Jon, smiling in a way that showed he was okay with it. "Good night, Stephen. And Merry Christmas."
"Merry Christmas, Jon."
Once the door was closed between them, Stephen smirked. Dear gullible Jon.
It hadn't been a gay kiss; that much was true. Because Stephen Colbert was definitely, emphatically, completely, undoubtedly, no bones about it, not gay.
But he knew perfectly well what mistletoe looked like.
Series: The Colbert Report
Rating: G for this part
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: Hold on to that premature Christmas spirit, because it's the big day itself. (The Star Wars holiday special has not officially been released on DVD, and with good reason.)
For the full table of contents to this story, click here.
Chapter 5
Do You Hear What I Hear?
December 25, 2006
11 Weeks
There was nothing on TV but stop-action Christmas specials. Oh, the suite was the best, on the top floor of a very ritzy hotel — maybe it was the Ritz; he hadn't paid that much attention — so it wasn't like he couldn't have browsed the Pay-Per-View offerings. He just didn't want to.
He had carefully explained to every person he knew that he had been invited to lots of parties by other people he knew. Had to keep up appearances, after all. Couldn't go letting people think that he, Stephen Colbert, pundit extraordinaire, would let such trivial things as an impending divorce, four kids who were scared of him, a fifth who was screwing with hormones he didn't know he had, or being alone on Christmas, get him down!
Which they would think if he burst into tears, which he had done twice already today, in the middle of a party. It was all hormones, of course, but that some people wouldn't understand that. Better to play it safe and stay in.
On the television, Rudolph's parents had just noticed their new son's nose. "Now how can you overlook that? His beak blinks like a blinkin' beacon!" cried his father.
Stephen gently prodded his bare stomach. "You aren't going to have a red nose, are you?"
He'd made an appointment with his personal tailor to have some new suits fitted; by the time the show came back, he was going to need them. In the meantime, he had resorted to his favorite flag boxers and a loose matching robe, which was the most comfortable thing he'd worn in weeks.
"This is an important life lesson," he announced, as Donner hid the glowing nose. "Conformity is good. Can you hear that?"
When would the baby be able to hear things? He didn't have the faintest idea.
Stephen glanced through the door into the next room, where his things were piled high. Lorraine had filled two more bags, which Jon had picked up because Stephen was temporarily (only temporarily!) banned from getting within a hundred feet of her. It would all be worked out, he was sure, so he hadn't bothered to unpack anything. But he knew the growing pile of pregnancy information (Dr. Moreau seemed to give him more at every checkup) was on top.
He hadn't looked at all of it, or even most of it. Reading, after all, was something liberals did. On the other hand, there was bound to be something in the pile about when babies developed ears.
Curiosity won out. He got up, retrieved the armful of folders and pamphlets, and dumped them out on the floor in front of the TV.
"Jingle, jingle, jingle; you will hear my sleigh bells ring!" sang Santa on the screen.
"But maybe he won't!" snapped Stephen irritably. "That's the whole question!"
Half an hour and a lot of unintended learning later, Stephen had gathered that babies could definitely hear after six months, though he still wasn't sure when it started; Rudolph was sneaking away from his friends to keep his difference from putting them in danger; and someone was knocking on the door.
He got up, pulled his robe closed, checked the peephole, and then flung open the door. "Come in!" he exclaimed — a bit too enthusiastically. "You can't stay long," he added hastily. "I just got back from this great party, but I've got to be at the next one in a few minutes...."
Jon, bless him, fell for it without a moment of doubt.
"You could be fashionably late," he suggested as he shrugged off his coat. "Or blow it off completely. Tell them you're too cool for them after all."
And here he was giving Stephen a perfectly plausible excuse to keep him around without admitting to lying about the parties! It was almost as if he'd planned it. "Great idea! I'll do it. Come in, throw your coat somewhere, sit down. Hey, what did you bring?"
It was warm in the room, so Jon pulled off his dark grey V-neck shirt and hung it with the jacket, leaving him in his usual khakis and grey T-shirt. The only difference was the dark red Santa hat on his head, which matched the bag that had been slung over his shoulder.
"Not much," he said with a wink as he kicked off his boots and padded in socks over to the chairs by the TV. "I wasn't sure they'd have enough to drink for you at the parties, so I grabbed one of these." He pulled out a bottle of sparkling grape juice and two plastic glasses, and with a flash of sleight-of-hand had them filled. If he hadn't known that Jon had been a bartender, Stephen would have suspected the man of being a magician.
"A toast," proposed Jon, raising his glass. "To you, my friend."
Stephen could think of nothing better to drink to. "To me," he agreed, and they clicked the glasses together.
When they'd emptied the bottle, Stephen went off to the phone and ordered a round of drinks from the hotel, and some food to go with it. He returned to find Santa's elves on the TV decorating a tree, and Jon producing decorations of his own: a package of tinsel, branches of fake greenery, a foot-tall tree decorated with ribbons and pea-sized silver stars and miniature eagles.
"Jon, this is awesome!" exclaimed Stephen, picking up the tree and spinning it around. "You have really good taste in Christmas decorations for a Jew."
"Er, thanks." (Geez, sometimes the man did not know how to take a compliment.)
"And it's good that they're cheap, too, because I'm not going to be here much longer. So we can just put them up and leave them when I go."
"They weren't that cheap," sulked Jon.
Stephen frowned. "But you're Jewish."
"Forget it," said Jon, and Stephen was happy to oblige.
Between Jon's height and Stephen's newfound reluctance (gleaned from his recent spurt of incidental learning) to stand on chairs, their decorating was skewed to the lower parts of the rooms. Still, Stephen declared himself quite pleased with the result by the time the food had arrived. Rudolph's story had long since finished, and that of the Grinch was wrapping up; they dragged an end table over to the television, to place the tray on it while they watched.
"Oh, one more thing!" said Jon suddenly. "I thought, if you were sick of seeing all the same specials, we could watch this." From the very bottom of the bag he pulled a DVD, home-burned if the cheap case and low-resolution cover were any indication.
Stephen read the cover, then stared at his friend, aghast. "You bought that?" he choked.
Jon looked worried, though he clearly did not appreciate the magnitude of his error. "I thought...I know you like Star Wars, and this had 'Star Wars' and 'holiday special' on it...."
"It is a travesty, Jon. We do not speak of it. George Lucas is a great guy, friend of the show, but if there is a special Hell reserved for him solely on the basis of that special, I will understand. Now put it away, before my son is exposed for too long."
"All right, all right," said Jon, obeying. "We'll just watch Frosty the Snowman, then, I guess."
He sat down, picked up a stuffed avocado from one of the plates, bit down, and nearly choked.
"Is this mustard?"
"Darn right it is!" Stephen took the next chair and picked up a strip of chicken. Yum.
"Did you get mustard on everything?"
"Have you ever had mustard on everything, Jon? It's great! I don't know why I never thought of it before!"
"Stephen," said Jon slowly, "when did you first notice this newfound love of mustard?"
Stephen thought about it. He remembered swiping some of the kids' Halloween candy to see how it tasted with mustard, so it had been some time in November; but early November, because he had still been close enough to his kids to swipe things from them. "Six or eight weeks ago, I guess."
"That explains it. It's a pregnancy craving."
"I thought those were for pickles and ice cream."
"That's the cliché, yeah, but every pregnancy is different. With Maggie, there was a while when Tracey couldn't get enough bananas. What was Lorraine like with your kids?"
Stephen realized he didn't remember, and this irritated him. "How should I know?" he demanded. "I wasn't the one who did the shopping."
Jon gave him an odd look. Stephen wasn't sure what it meant, but it made him feel very uncomfortable without understanding why. It wasn't as if he had done anything wrong.
"The movie's starting," he said by way of ending the discussion, even though it had been playing for a good five minutes. "Shh."
As Jon paused in the doorway to put on his coat, Stephen came up behind his friend, spun him around, and kissed him soundly. He hadn't meant to go very far with it, but the other man's mouth tasted like mustard, so he ran his tongue thoroughly around before pulling away.
"Mistletoe," he explained, pointing to the bit of fake greenery taped above the frame.
"That's holly, Stephen."
"Is it? Are you sure?"
"I'm sure. It's the only thing I bought."
"Oh." Stephen shrugged. "Well, I thought it was mistletoe. So that wasn't a gay kiss or anything. It was a perfectly natural, wholesome, traditional mistletoe kiss."
"I understand," replied Jon, smiling in a way that showed he was okay with it. "Good night, Stephen. And Merry Christmas."
"Merry Christmas, Jon."
Once the door was closed between them, Stephen smirked. Dear gullible Jon.
It hadn't been a gay kiss; that much was true. Because Stephen Colbert was definitely, emphatically, completely, undoubtedly, no bones about it, not gay.
But he knew perfectly well what mistletoe looked like.