Congratulations on Your Amazing Radio Program!

You run the world’s most amazing radio program. It’s a magical adventure with a talking eagle and a marmoset that tells awful jokes and an unemployed dragon who mostly just heckles people who call you. It would actually be a much better television program (like a morning talk show or something) but you’re really really ugly and not that funny so people don’t generally want to see you when you’re speaking.

Your ratings are okay and you never want for calls. Your advertisers actually prize your time, mostly because its a great way to get to a lot of easily influence twenty somethings who are either already on drugs or are excited to be on more drugs. You’d have the perfect gig if it wasn’t for the evil spirit trapped inside a monkey’s body who does your intro and outro.

Zanzabar has been key in your successes ever since he entered your life when you were a young body. He had just murdered your father, a successful priest, when you picked up the holy tome your father had been chanting over and said the final incantation and locked Zanzabar away for all eternity. It was a pretty big get for you as a kid and Zanzabar, despite his rage, was forced to do your bidding. He mostly gave you investment tips and helped you make scads and scads of money while doing very little. He also gave you the crazed, irrational confidence which is the only requirement for having your own radio show.

Zanzabar has been getting a little fresh on air as the spells binding him weaken with age. It’s partially your fault. Your fame will have kept you from renewing the bonds that tie him to his simian from with your own life essence, simply because of time constraints. Unfortunately the FCC won’t accept “my demon monkey was acting up” as an excuse when he tells everyone in the tri-state area fuckers and tells them to lick pus oozing cunts with their shriveled dick tongues until they all burn in a fire with their whore mothers. The studio will be fined nearly into oblivion and your show will be instantaneously dropped.

You’ll be promptly removed from the studio by some sort of ogre or ogre like creature and be left sitting on a corner with your menagerie of mythical beasts, pondering what to do next.

“Maybe a book?” the marmoset will say. He’ll have been trying to get you to write a book for years now. The eagle will shake his stately head.

“I doubt that would work. Especially after what Zanzi just pulled.”

The eagle is totally aware of Zanzabar’s power, since he’s your best friend and knows all your secrets, but he isn’t afraid of him because he’s actually already dead and therefore beyond Zanzabar’s reach.

“FOOLS! I WILL FIX THIS!” Zanzabar will cry, hopping up and down on your shoulders in a rage. The dragon will rise up and tromp over to him, clearly annoyed.

“This isn’t something you can fix with a stock tip or a murder, Zanzi. You just-“

The dragon will be cut short when a man in a suit approaches you.

“I’m from Fox,” he’ll say. “We heard your monkey swear on the radio and we think you’d be perfect for daytime television. Want a show?”

You’ll turn and nod at your friends, then jump in the air.

“Golly yes!”

“Good to hear, faggot,” he’ll reply, pulling a contract out of his shirt. You’ll sign it and then turn and high five your friends. This is the moment you’ll recall years from now when your fame has long since faded and you’ve passed from glory into rehab.

Congratulations on Your Amazing Radio Program!

Congratulations on Successfully Renewing Your Subscription to the New York Post!

You don’t accomplish much nowadays. Time was you made headlines with multi-million dollar deals and tabloid headlines with alien babies and celebrity romances. But that was before the financial collapse rendered the mansion building and remodeling business that was the cornerstone of your financial empire insolvent.

Luckily you managed to keep one of those mansions so that you can live there while you’re investigated for various forms of fraud, which became apparent after you could no longer afford your smoke screen of lawyers.

Your lone attempt at fiscal recovery, which involved a brief, unsuccessful career in executive hip-hop, didn’t work out at all the way you planned and, if anything, left you in more hot water. Just to be clear, that word is their word. Not ours. We get honkey. They get that one.

So now you spend most of your time in doors eating from cans and awaiting various court dates. It’s a dull existence, sure. But it’s structured and, along with your strict Catholic upbringing, it keeps you from killing yourself.

The problem is that, even with the structure, it’s really depressing. Every day it takes a huge effort to get out of bed in the morning, shine up your shoes and wander around the house, occasionally straining your ear to hear if a ringing phone is signaling another development involving a bailiff.

Your lone joy has been reading the New York Post. Its wacky take on “news” and “world events” as interpreted by the mentally ill has kept you going when nothing else could’ve. But your subscription is going to end soon.

That’s why you’re going to spend a brief part of today filling out the card and then putting it in the mail. Your subscription will be renewed from the funds afforded to you by a modest government allowance while you’re under all those different flavors of investigation and the paper will continue arriving at your house without incident.

Is that all we’ve got? Really? Why did we even write this? Ah well, fuck it. It’s already scheduled. Congratulations on successfully renewing your subscription to the New York Post, you boring fucking degenerate. We hope they find that girl’s bones so we can watch you fry. It’ll be the only interesting thing you’ve ever done.