Erin Ptah (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ptahrrific) wrote2007-10-02 12:06 am
ptahrrific) wrote2007-10-02 12:06 am
Entry tags:
Fake News: The Thing With Feathers, Chapter 8
Title: The Thing With Feathers, Chapter 8
Fandom: The Daily Show/The Colbert Report
Rating: PG (cursing, drugs)
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: These won't come up in the story, but in case you want to know happened to some other correspondents in the TDS-is-real-news-'verse:
Ed is undercover at a paper factory in Scranton. Steve is a reporter at Eyewitness News Channel 7. Rob is on stakeout in an airport men's room. And Mo, well, Mo's still blogging.
For the full table of contents, click here.
The Thing With Feathers
Chapter 8
(here.)
By the time Jon reached the door, it was closed and locked and he knew he had to stop running around or his asthma would put a stop to it for him. He rattled the doorknob a couple of times, then pounded on the door itself, not so much to get it open as out of sheer frustration.
"You shouldn't have brought that up in front of me," said Allison from behind him. "In fact, you probably shouldn't have told us about it at all."
"Why not? You write him. He's mostly your creation."
"That may be," replied the writer, "but he sure thinks he's real."
"Hey, guys," cut in Eric, appearing with a handful of printouts. "Uh-oh. What happened?"
"We were trying to explain this whole 'you're not our Stephen' thing, and Jon here said his Stephen wouldn't subject him to a gay mauling, and of course that Stephen freaked out," said Allison briskly.
"You guys could have written him at least a little more tolerant," complained Jon, still leaning on the door.
"Hey!" snapped Eric. "It's not like we were expecting to actually meet him! Don't try to blame us for this!"
"Though it brings up an interesting question," put in Allison. "Did we, by writing the character, somehow bring him into being? Or is he from a universe where his own decisions just happened to make him exactly like the person we write about?"
Jon tried to think about it, but it made his head hurt. "How would you know the difference?"
"...I don't know."
"Neither do I. Eric, did you find anything useful?"
"Plenty." He held up the printouts. "Do you want the good news or the bad news first?"
"The good," said Jon and Allison together.
"Wise choice. And it is good news. Vicodin addicts can get to the point where they'll take a hundred pills a day; we haven't written Stephen taking more than a couple at a time, so he's still a relatively mild case."
He flipped through his notes. "Also, the physical addiction is actually less intense than the mental addiction. Withdrawal is particularly nasty because the addict gets the mental and physical withdrawal at the same time, but if Stephen's taking the fake pills he should get the physical withdrawal on its own, at least at first."
"And what's that going to be like?"
"Um," said Eric. "That's the bad news. It's going to suck. I've found at least twenty possible side effects, and none of them are pretty."
Nobody asked for details.
"It would be easier," said Allison slowly, "if we just checked him into detox, rather than trying to deal with this on--"
"No!" snapped Jon. "When our Stephen gets back, people won't understand that it wasn't him who got addicted in the first place. His reputation will be ruined."
He glared at the other two, daring them to suggest that this might never happen. Neither of them did.
"I don't suppose," he added, more calmly, "we could get him some actual--"
"Stop right there," snapped Eric, brandishing the sheaf of papers like a dagger. "I know you're not about to suggest that we help an addict get his fix, so don't finish that sentence."
"You created the addiction in the first place," pointed out Jon.
"Whether or not we did," cut in Allison, "we were writing it for a fictional character. That's a real person in there, Jon! You were the first of us to realize it, so why can't you treat him like one?"
---------------------
---------------------
(there.)
"In all seriousness," said Stephen, "how did you end up in real news? My Jon--" and Jon's heart skipped a beat, the way it did every time this other Stephen said that-- "can't stand the way the networks shirk their responsibilities, and sometimes people ask him why he doesn't take responsibility himself, but the answer is that he's not a newsman, he's a comedian. He satirizes the system, but he's not part of it."
"That sounds like a good life," sighed Jon. "If you mean the way the TV news is more interested in ratings than accuracy, the way they bend over backwards to give equal time to views with unequal support, the way they play up fear and sensationalism and flash and graphics over substance and research and thoughtful investigation and follow-ups -- I can't stand it either."
"That is exactly what I mean. So why do you do it?"
Jon thought about it. He hadn't thought about this for a long time.
"Satire," he said at last, "is about using humor to point out the flaws in a system, right? It's more than just making stupid jokes. It's about changing the system from the outside."
"That ... isn't our main goal," replied Stephen, "but we all secretly hope it'll make some kind of difference. Even if it's just to shame people into shouting less."
"All right," said Jon. "I wanted to change the system from the inside."
Stephen nodded. The highway rushed past.
"I wanted," he continued, dusting off ideas he hadn't contemplated in years and putting them in order as he spoke, "to make a different news program. A better one. One that didn't shirk its responsibilities. I had it all planned out -- I would get the ratings and the research, the style and the substance, the best of both worlds. And with that, we'd be a model for the networks to follow, and the corporate suits would resist but eventually they would come around, and the press would do its job again and life would be good. That was the dream."
"What happened?" asked Stephen softly.
Jon snorted. "Reality happened. And now we have poor ratings, shoddy accuracy, no thoughtful debate because the thoughtful debaters aren't interested in us, silly graphics, and no budget for substance or research, much less follow-up."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It was my own fault. We tried to have everything at once; we bit off more than we could chew. But we're getting by. Have been for years. And the Report helps; it has so much energy, and it brings in a different demographic, it's done wonders for the network's overall number of viewers."
"But it's exactly the kind of thing you hated in the first place!" exclaimed Stephen. "A talking head spouting unresearched and poorly-informed opinions, shouting at anyone who disagrees, polarizing every debate and shutting down nuanced, thoughtful discussion. Why on Earth would you give that Stephen his own show?"
For the ratings, for the advertising dollars, for the way he looked at me and said, Please, Jon, give me a chance...
"Did he do something to you?" continued the other Stephen.
"What? No! Why would you think that?"
"We've alluded to it on my show a couple of times -- that the character somehow blackmailed you. Or that you just needed to get him out of the studio, and this was the easiest way to ditch him."
"It's not like that at all!"
"What is it like, then? Why did you give him a show?"
"Because he asked for it," said Jon.
That, at least, seemed to shut the other Stephen down.
When he spoke again, it was calmer, more subdued: "Do you ever stand up to him?"
"Of course I do!"
"When was the last time?"
Jon thought back; it wasn't hard. "A couple of months ago. It was even during a toss, so there's a video record if you want to see."
"No, I think I remember it," said Stephen. "The Ron Paul one? Where you said you'd had him as a guest the week before..."
"That's the one. And you -- I mean, not you, you know what I mean -- got all upset, thinking I was trying to steal your thunder..."
"...and you said 'Every time we do the toss, all I get is the attitude! I'm sick of it! I want a little respect!'"
Jon remembered it vividly, years of pent-up anger and frustration breaking their bonds and rushing forth, lashing out at Stephen because Stephen, fool that he was, had charged right into their path; and it was painful to hear this man talking about it so casually, because for him it was just a bit, ninety seconds of comedy, acted and laughed at and forgotten...
"And then what?" he asked.
"Well, then I led the audience in slow applause, and you did this grumpy old codger bit when I smiled and waved, and then you said 'Ah, acting!', and that was it. Moment of Zen. How did it go for you?"
"You -- he -- he did the slow clapping, but without the smiling or waving, just that disdainful look that you two are so good at. And there wasn't really anything I could say to that before the camera cut back to me."
"Did you talk about it afterward?"
"Did you?"
"Well, no, but we're only in-character when we're on camera. You live these lives twenty-four-seven. You must have said something about it."
"The next time we talked, he just acted like it had never happened."
"And you went along with that?"
"Why not? I stood up for myself. It was very cathartic. And then we went back to being friends, no mess, no fuss."
Stephen shook his head. "How the hell are you friends with him?"
Fandom: The Daily Show/The Colbert Report
Rating: PG (cursing, drugs)
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: These won't come up in the story, but in case you want to know happened to some other correspondents in the TDS-is-real-news-'verse:
Ed is undercover at a paper factory in Scranton. Steve is a reporter at Eyewitness News Channel 7. Rob is on stakeout in an airport men's room. And Mo, well, Mo's still blogging.
For the full table of contents, click here.
The Thing With Feathers
Chapter 8
(here.)
By the time Jon reached the door, it was closed and locked and he knew he had to stop running around or his asthma would put a stop to it for him. He rattled the doorknob a couple of times, then pounded on the door itself, not so much to get it open as out of sheer frustration.
"You shouldn't have brought that up in front of me," said Allison from behind him. "In fact, you probably shouldn't have told us about it at all."
"Why not? You write him. He's mostly your creation."
"That may be," replied the writer, "but he sure thinks he's real."
"Hey, guys," cut in Eric, appearing with a handful of printouts. "Uh-oh. What happened?"
"We were trying to explain this whole 'you're not our Stephen' thing, and Jon here said his Stephen wouldn't subject him to a gay mauling, and of course that Stephen freaked out," said Allison briskly.
"You guys could have written him at least a little more tolerant," complained Jon, still leaning on the door.
"Hey!" snapped Eric. "It's not like we were expecting to actually meet him! Don't try to blame us for this!"
"Though it brings up an interesting question," put in Allison. "Did we, by writing the character, somehow bring him into being? Or is he from a universe where his own decisions just happened to make him exactly like the person we write about?"
Jon tried to think about it, but it made his head hurt. "How would you know the difference?"
"...I don't know."
"Neither do I. Eric, did you find anything useful?"
"Plenty." He held up the printouts. "Do you want the good news or the bad news first?"
"The good," said Jon and Allison together.
"Wise choice. And it is good news. Vicodin addicts can get to the point where they'll take a hundred pills a day; we haven't written Stephen taking more than a couple at a time, so he's still a relatively mild case."
He flipped through his notes. "Also, the physical addiction is actually less intense than the mental addiction. Withdrawal is particularly nasty because the addict gets the mental and physical withdrawal at the same time, but if Stephen's taking the fake pills he should get the physical withdrawal on its own, at least at first."
"And what's that going to be like?"
"Um," said Eric. "That's the bad news. It's going to suck. I've found at least twenty possible side effects, and none of them are pretty."
Nobody asked for details.
"It would be easier," said Allison slowly, "if we just checked him into detox, rather than trying to deal with this on--"
"No!" snapped Jon. "When our Stephen gets back, people won't understand that it wasn't him who got addicted in the first place. His reputation will be ruined."
He glared at the other two, daring them to suggest that this might never happen. Neither of them did.
"I don't suppose," he added, more calmly, "we could get him some actual--"
"Stop right there," snapped Eric, brandishing the sheaf of papers like a dagger. "I know you're not about to suggest that we help an addict get his fix, so don't finish that sentence."
"You created the addiction in the first place," pointed out Jon.
"Whether or not we did," cut in Allison, "we were writing it for a fictional character. That's a real person in there, Jon! You were the first of us to realize it, so why can't you treat him like one?"
---------------------
(there.)
"In all seriousness," said Stephen, "how did you end up in real news? My Jon--" and Jon's heart skipped a beat, the way it did every time this other Stephen said that-- "can't stand the way the networks shirk their responsibilities, and sometimes people ask him why he doesn't take responsibility himself, but the answer is that he's not a newsman, he's a comedian. He satirizes the system, but he's not part of it."
"That sounds like a good life," sighed Jon. "If you mean the way the TV news is more interested in ratings than accuracy, the way they bend over backwards to give equal time to views with unequal support, the way they play up fear and sensationalism and flash and graphics over substance and research and thoughtful investigation and follow-ups -- I can't stand it either."
"That is exactly what I mean. So why do you do it?"
Jon thought about it. He hadn't thought about this for a long time.
"Satire," he said at last, "is about using humor to point out the flaws in a system, right? It's more than just making stupid jokes. It's about changing the system from the outside."
"That ... isn't our main goal," replied Stephen, "but we all secretly hope it'll make some kind of difference. Even if it's just to shame people into shouting less."
"All right," said Jon. "I wanted to change the system from the inside."
Stephen nodded. The highway rushed past.
"I wanted," he continued, dusting off ideas he hadn't contemplated in years and putting them in order as he spoke, "to make a different news program. A better one. One that didn't shirk its responsibilities. I had it all planned out -- I would get the ratings and the research, the style and the substance, the best of both worlds. And with that, we'd be a model for the networks to follow, and the corporate suits would resist but eventually they would come around, and the press would do its job again and life would be good. That was the dream."
"What happened?" asked Stephen softly.
Jon snorted. "Reality happened. And now we have poor ratings, shoddy accuracy, no thoughtful debate because the thoughtful debaters aren't interested in us, silly graphics, and no budget for substance or research, much less follow-up."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It was my own fault. We tried to have everything at once; we bit off more than we could chew. But we're getting by. Have been for years. And the Report helps; it has so much energy, and it brings in a different demographic, it's done wonders for the network's overall number of viewers."
"But it's exactly the kind of thing you hated in the first place!" exclaimed Stephen. "A talking head spouting unresearched and poorly-informed opinions, shouting at anyone who disagrees, polarizing every debate and shutting down nuanced, thoughtful discussion. Why on Earth would you give that Stephen his own show?"
For the ratings, for the advertising dollars, for the way he looked at me and said, Please, Jon, give me a chance...
"Did he do something to you?" continued the other Stephen.
"What? No! Why would you think that?"
"We've alluded to it on my show a couple of times -- that the character somehow blackmailed you. Or that you just needed to get him out of the studio, and this was the easiest way to ditch him."
"It's not like that at all!"
"What is it like, then? Why did you give him a show?"
"Because he asked for it," said Jon.
That, at least, seemed to shut the other Stephen down.
When he spoke again, it was calmer, more subdued: "Do you ever stand up to him?"
"Of course I do!"
"When was the last time?"
Jon thought back; it wasn't hard. "A couple of months ago. It was even during a toss, so there's a video record if you want to see."
"No, I think I remember it," said Stephen. "The Ron Paul one? Where you said you'd had him as a guest the week before..."
"That's the one. And you -- I mean, not you, you know what I mean -- got all upset, thinking I was trying to steal your thunder..."
"...and you said 'Every time we do the toss, all I get is the attitude! I'm sick of it! I want a little respect!'"
Jon remembered it vividly, years of pent-up anger and frustration breaking their bonds and rushing forth, lashing out at Stephen because Stephen, fool that he was, had charged right into their path; and it was painful to hear this man talking about it so casually, because for him it was just a bit, ninety seconds of comedy, acted and laughed at and forgotten...
"And then what?" he asked.
"Well, then I led the audience in slow applause, and you did this grumpy old codger bit when I smiled and waved, and then you said 'Ah, acting!', and that was it. Moment of Zen. How did it go for you?"
"You -- he -- he did the slow clapping, but without the smiling or waving, just that disdainful look that you two are so good at. And there wasn't really anything I could say to that before the camera cut back to me."
"Did you talk about it afterward?"
"Did you?"
"Well, no, but we're only in-character when we're on camera. You live these lives twenty-four-seven. You must have said something about it."
"The next time we talked, he just acted like it had never happened."
"And you went along with that?"
"Why not? I stood up for myself. It was very cathartic. And then we went back to being friends, no mess, no fuss."
Stephen shook his head. "How the hell are you friends with him?"
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