25%: Tales Of A Podcast Contributor
Written In The Style Of A Low Grade Graphic Novel, Just For The Hell Of It
Ahh, the Internet. A dwelling for the anonymous, infamous and everyone in between. Type any set of words into a search bar and it reveals a deluge of journalism or amateur musings bordered by rampant ads for easy money made from home, overnight weight loss secrets and penis enlargement. Anyone who can fog a mirror and register a Paypal account can own a corner of the infinite chaos. That’s where I come in. My name is Chris, and I’m an entertainer.
Since the dawn of this world wide soulless oblivion, the phenomenon of free entertainment has become routine, whether procured through legal purchase or not. Some of us choose to give our talents away. We pay for site hosting, and so much more.
After a lifetime of staggering around the New Jersey shoreline, I felt it was time for a change of scenery. That feeling brought me to Los Angeles, where I spent two years staggering around among the thieves and dreamers who rally to the West in hopes of becoming a highly paid whore for the public to abuse and eventually consume. Those two unglamorous years brought me back to the East Coast with a cache of ways to reinvent myself and media as we know it.
Technology has brought us into the digital era, where you can get whatever you want as long as you have a laptop and a few seconds to spare. This brought me to my first idea. Podcasting had spread throughout the internet as a way for companies to promote their brands and DIY artists to squawk about whatever they have their head up their ass about this week. I could do this, and far better. The decision was made. Now it was just a matter of choosing my allies.
A survey of my peers brought me to an old friend, Andrew: a seething cauldron that brews anger and despair and survives on a single feeding of charred animal flesh everyday. Through him, I was introduced to Ryan, a pint-sized joke monger who spends as much time looking for his next laugh as he does trying to get his dick wet. After undermining myself by serving big business interests for longer than what was healthy, I left the trade industry, but not without bringing the final element with me: Jack. Despite being a lifelong heterosexual, Jack had a compulsive and perverse interest in the spectacle of two men in underwear dancing in the median of an arena. Some have the nerve to call it “wrestling.” Despite all outward appearances, these were the men I needed. With every component firmly in place, it was time to begin recording.
Week after week, the disarray of working with a team of outlanders as socially unfit as you can prove to be demanding. During each hour and a half, I dodge methane explosions and “that’s what she said” callbacks, fits of profanity and false depictions of my mother’s promiscuity, all for the sake of a few laughs. Sorting through the fog afterward and assembling a strong hour of humor leaves you exhausted, burnt out, debilitated by your own comedic strength. But the public awaits the arrival of the new hour of amusement every Friday.
Bearing the weighty torch of being one fraction of the greatest podcast in the world can prove to be an unconquerable obstacle. Between the haze of interchanging feelings of being invincible and overdrawn, like a BlackBerry in need of a battery pull, I carry the burden of being a joker, a clown, a jester for the amusement of all. And yet I press on, bringing The Funny to a disconnected world in hopes of realigning mankind for just one hour a week.
Be assured whenever there is a deafening silence, laughter will be driven through the heart of it, as long as the world has the ears to tolerate it.