It was a dandy afternoon in Denver, Colorado, which is something that is almost never said by people who actually live in Denver. I had just finished working on a new family treehouse where I could stick the baby for when me and the misses want to...you know...play Go Fish without a neutral party. I liked my little yard that looked as though it was artificially lit with grass brighter than the surface of Venus. And I had some beautiful children: all of whom ticked the usual boxes for sitcom children. There was the blonde perfectionist, the troublemaker, the stupid one, and, of course, the baby. Oh, how I love my little shits.

“Bobby,” beckoned a voice off-camera, “can you come inside for a minute?”

Oh, gee whiz. My wife is finally allowing me to come back inside. I had almost forgotten what the rug smelled like after three days of being locked out. I stepped back in to find my unusually milfy wife, especially for a children’s show, standing with the phone in her hand.

“Guess who I just got a call from?” she asked me.

“I don’t know,” I replied, “a plot device?”

“No,” replied my wife, “well...yes actually. It’s the boss. He needs to talk.”

I had only met with the boss on two different occasions. The first time was when I was hired by the channel and the second was when his human footstool was on vacation and they needed a step-in. I was overjoyed to hear our dear leader desired something of little ol’ me.

“Alright, I better get going,” I yelled to my wife as I headed for the door, “tell the kids not to break that piece of furniture that was never in any other episode, and now is something I deeply care about while I’m gone!”

“Yes, dear,” she replied, “and don’t bother wearing a mask. It’s a violation of the first amendment.”

I shrugged off the comment the actual actress of my wife said and made my way out. Just outside my front door was a somewhat well-dressed man with a sign that said “Mr. Dunkin.”

“Uh...I think you’re looking for me.” I told him.

“Right this way,” he replied and began to walk off the set.

I followed him off the set and outside; I am now in the real world. I could hear the honking from the streets, smell the garbage and urine, and see the beautiful brown skyline. Ain’t Los Angeles somethin? We hopped into his golf cart and off we went!

*transition to the boss’ office*

I was thrown into a lengthy and dimly-lit room. The aroma of cigarette butts and the tears of children who dropped their ice cream at one of his theme parks filled the room. I felt a presence whisking me towards the large desk at the back of the almost-hallway of an office. When I arrived, I looked down and saw a big red ‘X’ right under me with the outlines of a retractable compartment around it.

“Uh…” I said with a trembling voice, “Mr. Mouse...it’s me. Bob Duncan.”

“Ohoho,” I heard a voice say in the dark abyss ahead of me, “I was wondering if you were ever gonna show.”

The boss lit a cigarette which allowed me to finally catch a glimpse of his decrepit face. Man, the years have been tough on him. But the constant cash flow of a new streaming service was just barely keeping him alive.

“I got a job for you, Bill.” the boss informed me.

“Uh...it’s Bob,” I replied.

“Whatever. It’s a new assignment, as a matter of fact. You’re done hanging around with that baby.”

“Oh, ok.” I replied, almost with jubilation, “what’s my new gig?”

I was stoked. Not that I disliked my job but...you try doing a sitcom. The same situations, the same jokes, the damn laugh track. You can’t be smarter than your children despite being an adult. And EVERYONE wants to be Seinfeld, even shows on a channel that is literally made for preteens. I thought of the new opportunities I could be receiving. Maybe a gritty drama about an ordinary father who gets whisked into the world of crime, like my good friend Hal had.

“You like hockey, Burt?” the boss asked me.

“It’s alright,” I replied, “as a sitcom dad I legally have to say my favorite sport is baseball but-”

“You’re gonna start playing it.” interjected the boss. “I’ve found a new medium. It’s not very lucrative just yet but I plan on turning it into a goldmine--ohoho.”

“Sir, I’ve heard there are some pretty lucrative opportunities in the stock market right now. Like the GME stock has-”

“NO, I’m not a peasant ohoho!” belched the boss. “I practically invented the market. I decide when people make money. I already told Robinhood to shut that shit down, anyway.”

“Yes, sir.” I replied, “So...what’s this about a new medium?”

“Simulation leagues.” the boss replied, “Many of which create 0-to-very-little profit. But that’s just because I don’t own any of them ohoho. And I want you to scout one of these leagues out for me: the Simulation Hockey League.”

“Ok, sir.” I replied, “what position do you want me to play? I’m a big guy and not the best skater so I could probably do pretty well on defense.”

“No, no, no, no, ohoho, no,” the boss barked back. “The kids don't care about defense. They only care about cute things or people who are the center of attention. Now since you ain’t very cute, I need you to be the center of everyone’s attention.”

“Uh...yes sir,” I replied. “is there anything else I need to know?”

“Yeah,” the boss replied, “don’t say anything bad about the Chinese government. Now get the hell out of here. I have a meeting with Harrison Ford that might run...longer than usual.”

“Yes sir, thank you, sir, I won’t let you down,” I said as I sloppily sauntered out of his office.

Oh boy, oh boy: the SHL. What an opportunity to shine! But first, I must be drafted…

[MORE TO COME?]

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