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The Final Season

“…and if I ever lose a ball,
stand in shock and watch it fall,
I whoah-oh-oh-oh-ohnt,
"I won’t have to screw no more.”

I lower the acoustic guitar and look at the panel of judges. The man and two women sit stone-faced silent with wide eyes, temporarily at a loss for words. I’m sure I nailed the song, especially that last verse, so they’re probably searching in their minds for the appropriate superlative. One woman combs a hand with six-inch fingernails through her hair and prepares to speak. Here come the accolades.

“That was by far the most ridiculous thing we’ve heard tonight. Maybe ever. How anyone could do such a thing to a cherished Cat Stevens classic is beyond me.”

Okay, no problem here. Don’t panic. These judges are tough-love enthusiasts and you don’t go on this show with a thin skin. Constructive criticism, that’s all. I know I did better than those four dorks who covered the Backstreet Boys song. This is just the requisite Bad they’re forced to deliver. Just hold on until she gets to The Good.

The woman grimaces and tries to raise her eyebrows, but they won’t go up. I watch as her face muscles struggle against the multitude of surgeries and Botox shots that so-called doctors have inflicted. She gives up, slumps her shoulders, and then barks “I’ve never heard anything like that.”

I smile, flashing a perfect set of teeth, and say “That’s the whole point. It’s innovation.”

The guy next to her leans forward and says “What are you talking about?”

I’m preparing to respond when something about the guy suddenly throws me off guard. His appearance has definitely changed since that jet-ski accident, the one where the woman almost drowned and his third wife left shortly afterwards. Is that thick, black mane a wig?


I snap out of it and rub an arm across my eyes, wiping away burning hair gel.

“Innovation. I mean, have you ever noticed that so many books contain a vampire or a feuding suburban couple doubting their life choices, or that nearly ever film ends happily? Or that Leading Men are always wooing some reluctant hottie and making macho-guy quips so we’ll stop wondering if they’re gay? Haven’t you ever wondered about that?”

The guy glares at me while his muscles flex beneath a slinky, body-hugging shirt with high-cut shoulders. He points a shaking finger at me and says “That’s it. You’re done son. Get off the damn stage. We have nothing more to say.”

I stand in the glare of stage lights and television cameras feeling flabbergasted. I did something original that no one else had the balls to try. I kicked ass and I know it. It’s just not fair.

A cowboy in skin-tight pants and ostrich leather boots brushes past me, clutching a guitar. He tips a ten gallon hat adorned with American flag pins and says “Better luck next time partner. Now giddy up on out of here.”

I plod toward the exit as Bucky breaks into a cautious cover of “Achey Breaky Heart.”

DISCLAIMER: The above article is provided for entertainment purposes only and the article, image or photograph held out as news is a parody or satirical and therefore faux in nature and does not reflect the actions, statements or events of real persons. The opinions, beliefs and viewpoints expressed by the authors of The Sage Satire and forum participants on this web site do not necessarily reflect the opinions, beliefs and viewpoints of the The Sage News Network or the official policies of the The Sage News.
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