Erin Ptah (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ptahrrific) wrote2007-07-27 06:35 pm
ptahrrific) wrote2007-07-27 06:35 pm
Entry tags:
Fake News: Expecting, Chapter 9
Title: Expecting, Chapter 9: And This Time There Were No Moustaches Involved
Series: The Colbert Report
Rating: PG for this part
Words: ~1800
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: Information about prehensile tails and Dr. Marco Pensworthy can of course be found in John Hodgman's book, The Areas Of My Expertise.
Clips referenced: Jon is sick; Ishmael Beah; Jon is mean.
You can watch the original February 14 toss here.
For the full table of contents to this story, click here.
Chapter 9
And This Time There Were No Moustaches Involved
February 14, 2007
18 Weeks
"Jon? Dude, you there?"
It took him a moment to realize that a hand was being waved in front of his face; another to recognize that the hand belonged to Jason; and yet another to remember that he was in the writers' meeting.
"Sorry, what?" he asked, and sneezed.
"Gesundheit," said John Hodgman, handing him a tissue.
"You gonna be okay to do the show tonight?" asked David Javerbaum, who, after a few days of ordering interns to carry his slippers, had adjusted rather well to his new authority as executive producer. "You've been out of it all morning."
Jon tried to say "I'm fine." Instead, he sneezed again. At least it was into the tissue this time. No, it wasn't a tissue after all; it was a handkerchief, monogrammed with the Windows logo. Trust John to have his own special brand of weirdness.
"You should lie down," said John, in a calm and authoritative tone that would have been comforting if Jon hadn't heard him use the same tone to say "humans born with prehensile tails will no longer be immediately drafted into the secret army." "We will make you some tea."
"The show's in good shape," added Jason. "I've got an awesome field piece finished, and the Hodge-man here knows his stuff cold." He grinned. "Get it? 'Cold'?"
"I get it," agreed Jon. "Look, guys, it's fine. It's just a cold. Now, who's the guest again?"
He wasn't so bleary that he didn't recognize the worried looks exchanged by writers and correspondents. (The Resident Expert just looked blank, as always.) "What?" he demanded.
"Jon, it's Ishmael Beah," replied DJ. "You've been talking about it nonstop since you read his book."
Jon groaned. "It couldn't be some lightweight actress with a romantic comedy to promote? I had to get sick on the day we have a serious interview?"
"If you get some rest now, you'll be better able to bring your A-game in the evening," DJ pressed.
"This is true." A fog had settled in Jon's brain; he knew this was the first step in a logical argument, but he was having trouble making out the next one. "Okay. You're in charge. I'll go over everything in the evening before breakfast." He paused. "Broadcast. I mean broadcast. Geez, it's worse than I thought."
There were good-natured laughs from all around the table; Jon smiled in return as he stood up. It was so different from the sardonic or self-important laughter he usually heard from Stephen.
"Nobody start a mutiny while I'm gone," he added, mock-sternly, and left the room.
Though it made a really handy excuse, the sickness wasn't the only reason he couldn't focus. He hadn't seen Stephen since his colossal faux pas the day before; that night on the show he had deliberately talked so long that they had run out of time for the toss. He'd been too afraid of screwing things up further.
Of course, in the twelve hours since then he'd contracted the cold to end all colds, which was hardly conducive to eloquence.
(And on top of all that was the uncomfortable conviction in the back of his head that what he had said had been true. If Jon had put Tracey through half the stuff Stephen put Lorraine through, she would have kicked him out long ago, and rightly so. But for all his culpability, Stephen was genuinely hurt by the split, and Jon had no right to use that as a bludgeon against him...)
Head spinning, he collapsed onto the couch in his office and closed his eyes. Maybe when he woke up, he would find that it had all been a horrible dream.
♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦
Jason knocked on his boss' door, then went in without waiting for an answer. In Jason's view, a knock was not so much a request for entry as a friendly warning.
"I brought your tea!" he announced as he swept in. "The H-man made it, but if he'd brought it in he would have given you a lecture on the Siberian Tea Parties held by Dr. Marco Pensworthy during the 1920s, and no one in your condition should have to suffer like that. Besides, if you knew what was in Siberian 'tea', you'd be afraid to drink this."
Jon, who had been prone on the couch, sat up and eyed the tea warily as Jason poured him a cup. They were using an old-fashioned tea set nicked from Oliver's office; if asked about it later, Jason planned to say that the sugar bowl was broken when he got there.
"You look like hell," he said cheerfully, handing over the little cup. "But better than you did earlier."
"Uh, thanks," said Jon, taking a cautious sip of the tea.
After balancing the tray artfully on top of Jon's inbox, Jason was about to leave, then had a thought. "Hey, anything else I can do for you while I'm here?"
His boss considered the question. That wasn't a good sign. Jason had been prepared for 'can you grab some nachos from the vending machine?' or 'can you pick up that piece of paper?', not something complicated enough that Jon had to consider it.
"Can I ask you something?" he began at last.
"Sure, man. Whatever you want." Jason settled himself on the arm of the couch and hoped it wasn't too out there.
"Have you ever done anything that made Sam mad? I mean, really furious? And how did you apologize?"
That wasn't so bad after all. "Oh, I get her chocolate. Lots of chocolate. And flowers — chicks dig flowers. And, okay, I do a bit of groveling. But hey, it works."
Jon didn't look optimistic.
"Don't worry!" insisted Jason, slapping him heartily on the back. "The make-up sex is fantastic."
Tea sprayed all over the floor.
"Careful, dude! Germs!"
"I'm not—" spluttered Jon, wiping his mouth. "I mean — it isn't like — it isn't my wife that's mad at me, it's Stephen!"
"Ohhhh. So, no make-up sex, then."
"No."
Which was really too bad, thought Jason. If people weren't so distracted by silly hang-ups like sexuality and monogamy, life would be a lot easier.
"You should probably skip the flowers, then," he said. "Especially today. They'll send the wrong message."
"Why? What's today...?" Jon paused. "It's Valentine's Day."
"Uh, yeah."
The host put his empty cup down on the cushion beside him and buried his head in his hands. "I need to get Tracey something...."
"Well, geez, if she's not mad at you now, she will be."
"No, no, it's not that big a deal. We decided early on that we didn't need ceremony and symbolic gestures and material things to prove that we love each other — that's why we don't wear rings. But I like to get her a valentine anyway."
Jason had always assumed the lack of ring on his boss' finger was so that Jon could flirt with female guests (and, occasionally, male ones). This reason was either very sweet, in a sappy Lifetime kind of way, or a fantastic alibi.
"But hang on," he said, as Jon retrieved the precariously balanced teapot and poured another cup. "You're sick and stressed to the point where you forgot about your wife on Valentine's Day, but the main thing you're worrying about is that Colbert wants another lame apology?"
"This isn't the Geraldo thing all over again, Jason. I'm not just humoring Stephen this time. I seriously need to apologize."
Jason could hardly imagine his mild-mannered boss doing anything that would offend someone as obnoxious as Colbert. "Geez, what the hell did you do?"
"I don't think that's any of your business."
"Sure, dude, no problem." Jason held up his hands in surrender. Maybe there were hidden depths here after all; and from the way Jon was glaring at him, he had no desire to plumb them further. "We cool?"
"Yeah, we're cool. Thanks."
That sounded pretty final, so Jason got to his feet. "Any time. Enjoy your tea, eh?"
"Will do. Tell John it's delicious."
Jon was turning on his televisions as Jason left. If any news broke during the afternoon, the host of The Daily Show would be ready to break it further at eleven.
♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦
"Before we go," said Jon hoarsely, "as always," unless you run out of time, or the satellite breaks, or you just plain chicken out, "we check in with our good friend," I hope, "Stephen Colbert, over at The Colbert Report. Stephen?"
"Jon, I'd like to offer a heartfelt apology—"
What?
"—to the Colbert Nation."
Jon's hopes, momentarily raised, dropped dead again.
"CN, you know how eager I am come 11:28 to offer you a preview of the exciting half hour to which you are about to 'stay tuned'. But sometimes a certain very mean man decides his show is so important that he can't even squeeze in 45 seconds—"
"Stephen, I'm sorry!"
His voice cracked (blame the cold) as it burst from his throat, raw (blame the cold) and distraught (can I blame that on the cold?). For a moment the only movement in either studio was the slow twirling of the pen in Stephen's hands.
Then he said, sternly, prompting, "Sorry for what, Jon?"
Jon took a deep breath, then another. "For what I did yesterday. It was rude, it was mean, it was uncalled for, and it was absolutely inexcusable. I feel horrible. If there's anything I can do to make it up to you..."
"You could help me look at houses..."
Jon had been afraid of that.
"...the weekend after we get back from the break. Unless, of course, you have plans."
It took a minute for this to sink in.
Had Stephen just compromised?
"No," he said weakly, still in shock. "No, I don't have plans then. I'll be happy to join you."
"Great!" exclaimed Stephen, and then he was smiling his most charming smile. "Next up — The Colbert Report!" His face went stern again. "Oh, and a fruit basket wouldn't hurt. Extra honeydew. Hold the cantaloupe."
The connection cut off, leaving Jon giddy with relief.
"That's our show!" he added on autopilot. "Tune in tomorrow for..."
♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦ ⋅ ◊ ⋅ ♦
"...and that's why they don't wear rings," finished Jason, sitting with Sam in the break room as the credits rolled on the TV. "Isn't it sweet?"
"You're not taking off your ring, honey," replied his wife, unimpressed.
"Aw, why not?"
"Because you'd get weird looks if you wore the collar in public."
They both looked up as Jon fairly danced past the door.
"I guess he's feeling better," observed Jason shrewdly.
"Yep." Sam rolled her eyes. "Imagine, all that fuss over missing a toss."
Series: The Colbert Report
Rating: PG for this part
Words: ~1800
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: Information about prehensile tails and Dr. Marco Pensworthy can of course be found in John Hodgman's book, The Areas Of My Expertise.
Clips referenced: Jon is sick; Ishmael Beah; Jon is mean.
You can watch the original February 14 toss here.
For the full table of contents to this story, click here.
Chapter 9
And This Time There Were No Moustaches Involved
February 14, 2007
18 Weeks
"Jon? Dude, you there?"
It took him a moment to realize that a hand was being waved in front of his face; another to recognize that the hand belonged to Jason; and yet another to remember that he was in the writers' meeting.
"Sorry, what?" he asked, and sneezed.
"Gesundheit," said John Hodgman, handing him a tissue.
"You gonna be okay to do the show tonight?" asked David Javerbaum, who, after a few days of ordering interns to carry his slippers, had adjusted rather well to his new authority as executive producer. "You've been out of it all morning."
Jon tried to say "I'm fine." Instead, he sneezed again. At least it was into the tissue this time. No, it wasn't a tissue after all; it was a handkerchief, monogrammed with the Windows logo. Trust John to have his own special brand of weirdness.
"You should lie down," said John, in a calm and authoritative tone that would have been comforting if Jon hadn't heard him use the same tone to say "humans born with prehensile tails will no longer be immediately drafted into the secret army." "We will make you some tea."
"The show's in good shape," added Jason. "I've got an awesome field piece finished, and the Hodge-man here knows his stuff cold." He grinned. "Get it? 'Cold'?"
"I get it," agreed Jon. "Look, guys, it's fine. It's just a cold. Now, who's the guest again?"
He wasn't so bleary that he didn't recognize the worried looks exchanged by writers and correspondents. (The Resident Expert just looked blank, as always.) "What?" he demanded.
"Jon, it's Ishmael Beah," replied DJ. "You've been talking about it nonstop since you read his book."
Jon groaned. "It couldn't be some lightweight actress with a romantic comedy to promote? I had to get sick on the day we have a serious interview?"
"If you get some rest now, you'll be better able to bring your A-game in the evening," DJ pressed.
"This is true." A fog had settled in Jon's brain; he knew this was the first step in a logical argument, but he was having trouble making out the next one. "Okay. You're in charge. I'll go over everything in the evening before breakfast." He paused. "Broadcast. I mean broadcast. Geez, it's worse than I thought."
There were good-natured laughs from all around the table; Jon smiled in return as he stood up. It was so different from the sardonic or self-important laughter he usually heard from Stephen.
"Nobody start a mutiny while I'm gone," he added, mock-sternly, and left the room.
Though it made a really handy excuse, the sickness wasn't the only reason he couldn't focus. He hadn't seen Stephen since his colossal faux pas the day before; that night on the show he had deliberately talked so long that they had run out of time for the toss. He'd been too afraid of screwing things up further.
Of course, in the twelve hours since then he'd contracted the cold to end all colds, which was hardly conducive to eloquence.
(And on top of all that was the uncomfortable conviction in the back of his head that what he had said had been true. If Jon had put Tracey through half the stuff Stephen put Lorraine through, she would have kicked him out long ago, and rightly so. But for all his culpability, Stephen was genuinely hurt by the split, and Jon had no right to use that as a bludgeon against him...)
Head spinning, he collapsed onto the couch in his office and closed his eyes. Maybe when he woke up, he would find that it had all been a horrible dream.
Jason knocked on his boss' door, then went in without waiting for an answer. In Jason's view, a knock was not so much a request for entry as a friendly warning.
"I brought your tea!" he announced as he swept in. "The H-man made it, but if he'd brought it in he would have given you a lecture on the Siberian Tea Parties held by Dr. Marco Pensworthy during the 1920s, and no one in your condition should have to suffer like that. Besides, if you knew what was in Siberian 'tea', you'd be afraid to drink this."
Jon, who had been prone on the couch, sat up and eyed the tea warily as Jason poured him a cup. They were using an old-fashioned tea set nicked from Oliver's office; if asked about it later, Jason planned to say that the sugar bowl was broken when he got there.
"You look like hell," he said cheerfully, handing over the little cup. "But better than you did earlier."
"Uh, thanks," said Jon, taking a cautious sip of the tea.
After balancing the tray artfully on top of Jon's inbox, Jason was about to leave, then had a thought. "Hey, anything else I can do for you while I'm here?"
His boss considered the question. That wasn't a good sign. Jason had been prepared for 'can you grab some nachos from the vending machine?' or 'can you pick up that piece of paper?', not something complicated enough that Jon had to consider it.
"Can I ask you something?" he began at last.
"Sure, man. Whatever you want." Jason settled himself on the arm of the couch and hoped it wasn't too out there.
"Have you ever done anything that made Sam mad? I mean, really furious? And how did you apologize?"
That wasn't so bad after all. "Oh, I get her chocolate. Lots of chocolate. And flowers — chicks dig flowers. And, okay, I do a bit of groveling. But hey, it works."
Jon didn't look optimistic.
"Don't worry!" insisted Jason, slapping him heartily on the back. "The make-up sex is fantastic."
Tea sprayed all over the floor.
"Careful, dude! Germs!"
"I'm not—" spluttered Jon, wiping his mouth. "I mean — it isn't like — it isn't my wife that's mad at me, it's Stephen!"
"Ohhhh. So, no make-up sex, then."
"No."
Which was really too bad, thought Jason. If people weren't so distracted by silly hang-ups like sexuality and monogamy, life would be a lot easier.
"You should probably skip the flowers, then," he said. "Especially today. They'll send the wrong message."
"Why? What's today...?" Jon paused. "It's Valentine's Day."
"Uh, yeah."
The host put his empty cup down on the cushion beside him and buried his head in his hands. "I need to get Tracey something...."
"Well, geez, if she's not mad at you now, she will be."
"No, no, it's not that big a deal. We decided early on that we didn't need ceremony and symbolic gestures and material things to prove that we love each other — that's why we don't wear rings. But I like to get her a valentine anyway."
Jason had always assumed the lack of ring on his boss' finger was so that Jon could flirt with female guests (and, occasionally, male ones). This reason was either very sweet, in a sappy Lifetime kind of way, or a fantastic alibi.
"But hang on," he said, as Jon retrieved the precariously balanced teapot and poured another cup. "You're sick and stressed to the point where you forgot about your wife on Valentine's Day, but the main thing you're worrying about is that Colbert wants another lame apology?"
"This isn't the Geraldo thing all over again, Jason. I'm not just humoring Stephen this time. I seriously need to apologize."
Jason could hardly imagine his mild-mannered boss doing anything that would offend someone as obnoxious as Colbert. "Geez, what the hell did you do?"
"I don't think that's any of your business."
"Sure, dude, no problem." Jason held up his hands in surrender. Maybe there were hidden depths here after all; and from the way Jon was glaring at him, he had no desire to plumb them further. "We cool?"
"Yeah, we're cool. Thanks."
That sounded pretty final, so Jason got to his feet. "Any time. Enjoy your tea, eh?"
"Will do. Tell John it's delicious."
Jon was turning on his televisions as Jason left. If any news broke during the afternoon, the host of The Daily Show would be ready to break it further at eleven.
"Before we go," said Jon hoarsely, "as always," unless you run out of time, or the satellite breaks, or you just plain chicken out, "we check in with our good friend," I hope, "Stephen Colbert, over at The Colbert Report. Stephen?"
"Jon, I'd like to offer a heartfelt apology—"
What?
"—to the Colbert Nation."
Jon's hopes, momentarily raised, dropped dead again.
"CN, you know how eager I am come 11:28 to offer you a preview of the exciting half hour to which you are about to 'stay tuned'. But sometimes a certain very mean man decides his show is so important that he can't even squeeze in 45 seconds—"
"Stephen, I'm sorry!"
His voice cracked (blame the cold) as it burst from his throat, raw (blame the cold) and distraught (can I blame that on the cold?). For a moment the only movement in either studio was the slow twirling of the pen in Stephen's hands.
Then he said, sternly, prompting, "Sorry for what, Jon?"
Jon took a deep breath, then another. "For what I did yesterday. It was rude, it was mean, it was uncalled for, and it was absolutely inexcusable. I feel horrible. If there's anything I can do to make it up to you..."
"You could help me look at houses..."
Jon had been afraid of that.
"...the weekend after we get back from the break. Unless, of course, you have plans."
It took a minute for this to sink in.
Had Stephen just compromised?
"No," he said weakly, still in shock. "No, I don't have plans then. I'll be happy to join you."
"Great!" exclaimed Stephen, and then he was smiling his most charming smile. "Next up — The Colbert Report!" His face went stern again. "Oh, and a fruit basket wouldn't hurt. Extra honeydew. Hold the cantaloupe."
The connection cut off, leaving Jon giddy with relief.
"That's our show!" he added on autopilot. "Tune in tomorrow for..."
"...and that's why they don't wear rings," finished Jason, sitting with Sam in the break room as the credits rolled on the TV. "Isn't it sweet?"
"You're not taking off your ring, honey," replied his wife, unimpressed.
"Aw, why not?"
"Because you'd get weird looks if you wore the collar in public."
They both looked up as Jon fairly danced past the door.
"I guess he's feeling better," observed Jason shrewdly.
"Yep." Sam rolled her eyes. "Imagine, all that fuss over missing a toss."