INT. RECORDING STUDIO – DAY.
A grizzled old man settles into the chair behind the microphone. He looks through the glass at the GUEST PRODUCER, who has been silently staring at him since his arrival at the station. The grizzled old man starts to talk but wisely thinks better of it and waits for the man on the other side of the glass to make the first move. Finally, after a stretch of time that only feels like an entire 4th quarter comeback attempt that fails miserably at the last ill-timed moment, the GUEST PRODUCER punches a button marked TALKBACK, glares, then releases the button and pulls open the studio door and pokes his head inside.
GUEST PRODUCER: To be clear, I hate you.
BRETT FAVRE: [As intelligible as he can muster] Hoosawassafrassinfuss?
GUEST PRODUCER: I’m sitting in today to run this show, and I don’t want you to muck it up. It’s my first time filling in as guest producer, and unlike some–or all–the teams that play in East Rutherford, New Jersey, I have expectations that rise above just not shitting yourself.
GUEST PRODUCER: He took the week off. Something about a religious emergency.
GUEST PRODUCER: No, we haven’t met.
FAVRE: Geeshucks, sooooayeyahatinmah?
GUEST PRODUCER: Well first of all, I’m hungover. Yesterday was my birthday, and if I’d known I’d spend the morning after with you, I would have just kept drinking through tonight.
FAVRE: Daggumhuppabuddah, djeetgud? Baddatimedasnight, datwhyyahatin?
GUEST PRODUCER: Shut up. You know what you did.
GUEST PRODUCER: I mean, yeah, that was horrendous and you should be ashamed of yourself, but that ain’t it either.
GUEST PRODUCER: Actually, the fact that you were so terrible in your audition for MNF that you had to deny interest is decent schadenfraude, but yeah, what made you even think you could handle being live on television every week?
FAVRE: /shrugs Yanomahboiturryburdshuhduzit.
GUEST PRODUCER: Uh, fuck Terry Bradshaw. And fuck me, I’m going to get fired since we let the first 5 minutes of the program be dead air. At least I won’t spend the next few years hinting at returning to this job after I walk out the door.
FAVRE: :stares blankly:
GUEST PRODUCER: Well, fire it up and try not to fuck things up too badly.
The GUEST PRODUCER angrily returns to the booth, slams the door, and lets the disdain drop from his countdown before pushing a button on the console.
FAVRE: :clears throat: Howdy, folks, I’m BrittFar and I’m gonna take some calls and sling songs all over the airwaves today. Lotsa tunes out there sound like one thing when maybe they mean another. So let’s hear some requests for songs where maybe you thunk you know the words but really di’int. Or maybe they’re like me, generally misunderstood, like a downhome country boy nestling up to his favorite hog on a cold night. Golly, this sure seems like fun. So let’s kick things off with that classic Nirvana song about Dan Marino, another gun-slinger with no behavioral shortcomings or desire to be on TV anymore!
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