The show is called Weathering The Storm.
The producers own homes all along the Gulf Coast.
Once they know a hurricane is heading towards one of them, we’re dropped into the nearest house.
Well, actually, they’re just run-down shacks. No better than a house of cards.
Cameras… canned food… bandages…
Survivors share five million bucks. Less survivors means split fewer ways.
It’s a big storm. Maybe even too big. Category two… three…
The producers are banging on the door, telling us we have to get out.
Everyone flees with them.
Except me. I know it’s a trick.
This one’s real, that’s for certain.
Usually, it’s a corn or wheat field near a high school or college that’s been trampled.
For the publicity. The “Hi Mom” factor.
Complexity means fraud, since I know they like to keep things simple.
Besides, why would students or farmers draw attention to a huge marijuana patch like this?
The Feds want to burn it, but not before I get a few photos and… ahem.. samples.
Now now now… they’re for purely academic reasons.
But I have to admit, some of these flasks make radical bongs.
What the heck – pass the burner.
Count Viper may not have been born a Yankees fan centuries ago, but he certainly died one.
For eighty years, the Count took in every night game, feeding on rude fans.
Well, never the ones with 3 on their back, out of respect for Ruth.
Last year, Alex Rodriguez shattered his bat and a piece flew into the stands where Viper had been a permanent fixture.
It pierced the vampire’s heart and reduced him to ash instantly.
A minute later, one of those rude fans brushed the Count’s ashes aside and watched the Yankees lose to the Red Sox.
The cab drops me off at Yankee Stadium.
Bob flew up earlier to get the tickets. He’s also covering for everything else.
I look around, and that’s when I see his flaming corpse hanging from the lamp post, still wearing his Sox cap.
Before the mob can lynch me, I take off my jersey and cap, waving them around while shouting and grunting.
Someone from the crowd grabs them, tosses them on the bonfire, and says “Ammost goddim, bruddah!”
I spend the evening hunting with the tribe before slipping into an Irish pub for a way back to Boston… civilization!
In Texas, executions take place at sundown.
The lawyers weren’t done, but Rufus Washington was. He’d been through three Last Meals already in Huntsville thanks to the Supreme Court, but he didn’t think he’d have a fourth.
Back in Austin, the governor was fed up with the press asking him if he’d grant clemency.
“If God wants this murderer to stay alive, let Him stop the turning of the Earth,” said the governor to the cameras.
Unlike the governor, God was not available for comment. The sun sank from the sky, painted the horizon crimson, and Rufus went to Hell.
Luis laughed as he tossed a rock over the railing down on to the busy freeway below.
“Missed,” said Jesus. “My turn.”
Jesus pulled a chunk of concrete from the crumbling curb and banged it against the road to break off the rough spots.
“This is for the win,” said Jesus.
Neither Luis nor Jesus heard the engine of the car that rammed them into the railing. Jesus died instantly while Luis coughed blood on the hood.
Luis looked through the cracked windscreen at the driver’s face.
“Game over, asshole,” is what he thought the driver said.
And then, nothing.
Wynn put another zero on the check.
“It’s tacky,” said the mayor. “No.”
“Tacky?” said Wynn. “This town was founded on tacky.”
Wynn put yet another zero on the check.
“One more, please,” said the mayor.
The eleventh finally arrived.
“Have they said how they’re going to demolish it?” asked the tourist, standing behind a fence a block away from the New York, New York.
“It’s a secret,” said the cop. “They told us to keep you behind the barrier, that’s all.”
“Look!” shouted another tourist, pointing up.
That’s when they saw the pair of airliners.
“Tacky,” mumbled the cop.