I hope you're stocked up on ammo and supplies, because we're bugging in and bugging out as we bring in the following issues:
-Fancy People Coming To The Theater
- Unwanted Well-Wishers
- Mic Check
- Doomsday Salesmen
You don't have to be Joe Chill to know that all the world's a stage. Except when it isn't. In those cases, the stage is a very specific place, and usually the best place to find one is in a theater. So what happens, then, when some big shot needs a place to pontificate? Room to boom? Space to show their face? That's right, they find the nearest available theater and welcome themselves in. You see, they'd like to thank all of the little people for making sure they had a place to look important for whatever dumb thing it is they needed so badly to show the world. What's that? You're right in the middle of preparing that stage for something else? Something that's been scheduled for months? Gonna be real inconvenient when they just bust on in and step on your plans? That's okay. They're an important person, and you aren't. After all, if they weren't important, they wouldn't need your stage, now would they? Some people love basking in public adulation. Some others, however, do not . . .
If you're a social butterfly, then you have no problem with people pawing all over you and showering you with affection. But what if you're more private. What if you're one of those people who has a very limited amount of social energy to spend, and people just wandering up to you randomly feels like it sucks the life right out of you? You've got unwanted well-wishers; you know they mean well, and you don't really have anything against them, except that you want them to go away and never come back. People seem to have a hard time grasping the concept of personal space, and respect for someone's time. I don't know about you, but I'm a busy person, and I have very little patience for whatever it is you want to say to me, because it's inevitably not really anything for my benefit. It's for your benefit. You're telling me how you hope I'm feeling better not because you actually hope I'm feeling better, but because you want to feel better about my situation. Well, my situation is I'm right in the middle of doing something that I deem important. Please respect whatever it is I'm doing and don't waste my time. And speaking of people wasting your time . . .
"Testing, one, two. Testing, one, two, three". Over and over. Ad nauseum. Never mind that you're going to be saying something other than that during your performance. In fact, you're not going to utter that phrase AT ANY POINT during your performance. And you're not going to be saying anything in that dull, deadpan tone, either. You're going to be projecting, enunciating, gesturing. If you're Tab Birt, you need to use this time to prepare the mixer for THOSE words, not your bland "testing, one, two, three". Oh, you're singing? Okay, Tab can prepare for that. Sing your song . . . no, that's not your song. That's "Call Me Maybe" by Carly Rae Jepsen. Catchy? Eh, sure, but it's not the song you're singing tonight, so whatever that song is, sing that one now . . . No, that's not it either, that's "Bohemian Rhapsody" by Queen. Classic song, but, again, not the one you're singing tonight. In fact, you know what, let's just go back to counting. 3, 2, 1 . . .
Doomsday. Ragnarok. Armageddon. Apocalypse. All ways to say one thing: The end of the world. Except it isn't. Not today, anyway. And not tomorrow. Or the next day. Or next week, next month, next year. Let me clue you in, jerk: YOU DON'T KNOW WHEN THE WORLD WILL END, or even IF it will end. But, hey, what are little things like facts or certainty when you can use fear to sell pallets of bottled water, buckets of rice, and underground bunkers? After all, the power grid that sustains an entire nation is just the flick of a switch from being turned off, right? Nevermind the massive motivation it would require to make that happen. The unrealistic set of circumstances. These guns and ammo aren't going to buy themselves, so you'd better slap together some shady Biblical math, commandere a stage, and burn through the mic check because, according to you, some crackpot idiot who's just as clueless and dumb as anyone else, THE WORLD IS GOING TO END! . . . at some point.
Sage calls in three voicemails, and Buck gets clumsy with the voicemail app. Why was everyone buying Tab drinks last Friday? You'll have to listen to this week's episode to find out!
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