details and no
practical experience of her own, the topic had dead-ended rather quickly. In
hour-two she had opened the phone lines to discuss any topic on the listeners’
minds, but there were only three callers – one being Lynnie, who was pushing
for a blind date show with her gardener as the top prize.
Heading into the last hour, she
decided to come clean with her audience.
“So that’s the story, guys. Dr.
Beach is officially beached unless I can get my ratings up. I’m willing to talk
about anything, so give us a call at 561-222-WOWF, or you can text star-WOWF on
your mobile phone. Trish, do we have any callers on the line?”
Trish was in the control room,
reading the Help Wanted ads. She shook her head then returned to the
newspaper.
Nancy groaned. “Hour number
three, and still no callers. Is there anybody out there with a pulse? I realize
it’s Monday . . .want to know how my Monday started? It started
when my live-in boyfriend’s two thousand pound German Shepherd tore apart my brand-new
throw-pillow, chewed the heel off of my new Tory Birch flats, and
diarrhea’d all over my hallway. Want to join the bitch hour, call me at
561-222-WOWF, or you can text star-WOWF on your mobile phone. Woof, woof, woof.”
Trish knocked at the glass
partition.
“Will wonders never cease, we
actually have a caller. This is Dr. Beach, what’s your bitch?”
“Hi, Dr. Beach. I’m a first-time
caller. Actually, I’ve never listened to your show before. I happened to be
flipping thru the dial when I heard you say something about a German Shepherd.
We breed Shepherds. They’re wonderful dogs.”
“Yes, well I don’t plan to keep
ours very long. In fact, when I get home tonight I’m telling my boyfriend he
needs to choose which bitch he wants to live with.”
Trish held up another sign.
“Line two from Boca. Speak.”
“Hi, Dr. Beach. It sounds to me
like the problem’s your boyfriend, not the dog.”
“Very astute, Boca. Actually,
it’s not my dog, it’s his dog and they have a lot in common. Neither one
of them listens, they’re both slobs, and they both smell like wet carpet. Line
three from Wellington, you’re on the air with Dr. Bitch, er . . . Beach.”
“You’re not a dog lover, are
you?”
“Not true. I like small foofie
dogs. Big dogs poop big turds and chew up the furniture. Then again, so does my
boyfriend.”
“Well, you have to train them.”
“The dog or my boyfriend?”
“Both.”
* * * *
*
The human brain processes 400 billion
bits of information a second, and yet we only allow an infinitesimal percentage
of that data to breach our stream of consciousness. How do we select what to
focus on? Which random thoughts should be flushed and which harvested? Where do
the seeds of inspiration that yield the oak trees of success come from?
The answer: They often come when
you least expect it.
* * * *
*
“Well, you have to train them.”
“The dog or my boyfriend?”
“Both.”
Nancy’s heart pounded in her
chest as the epiphany seeded a thought in her mind’s eye that quickly sprouted
roots. “My esteemed caller from Wellington is right! It’s not the dog’s fault
it crapped all over my house -- Sam needs to be trained. Sam, by the way, is my
German Shepherd, not my boyfriend. If you’re a dog trainer, or you know of an
experienced dog trainer, call me right away at 561-222-WOWF, or text me at
star-WOWF on your mobile phone. The first caller recommending a qualified dog
trainer will receive . . . Trish, do we have anything to
give away?”
Trish shook her head, no.
“Nothing? Hold on, how about a
free massage at the Lifestyle Revolution Spa? No? What if I pay for it? Yes?
How much does an hour massage run?”
The producer wrote down a number
on a flash card.
“A hundred and fifty dollars? Are
you for real? Does that come with an anal bleaching? It does! Okay, listeners,
the first caller providing me with the name and phone number of a
practical experience of her own, the topic had dead-ended rather quickly. In
hour-two she had opened the phone lines to discuss any topic on the listeners’
minds, but there were only three callers – one being Lynnie, who was pushing
for a blind date show with her gardener as the top prize.
Heading into the last hour, she
decided to come clean with her audience.
“So that’s the story, guys. Dr.
Beach is officially beached unless I can get my ratings up. I’m willing to talk
about anything, so give us a call at 561-222-WOWF, or you can text star-WOWF on
your mobile phone. Trish, do we have any callers on the line?”
Trish was in the control room,
reading the Help Wanted ads. She shook her head then returned to the
newspaper.
Nancy groaned. “Hour number
three, and still no callers. Is there anybody out there with a pulse? I realize
it’s Monday . . .want to know how my Monday started? It started
when my live-in boyfriend’s two thousand pound German Shepherd tore apart my brand-new
throw-pillow, chewed the heel off of my new Tory Birch flats, and
diarrhea’d all over my hallway. Want to join the bitch hour, call me at
561-222-WOWF, or you can text star-WOWF on your mobile phone. Woof, woof, woof.”
Trish knocked at the glass
partition.
“Will wonders never cease, we
actually have a caller. This is Dr. Beach, what’s your bitch?”
“Hi, Dr. Beach. I’m a first-time
caller. Actually, I’ve never listened to your show before. I happened to be
flipping thru the dial when I heard you say something about a German Shepherd.
We breed Shepherds. They’re wonderful dogs.”
“Yes, well I don’t plan to keep
ours very long. In fact, when I get home tonight I’m telling my boyfriend he
needs to choose which bitch he wants to live with.”
Trish held up another sign.
“Line two from Boca. Speak.”
“Hi, Dr. Beach. It sounds to me
like the problem’s your boyfriend, not the dog.”
“Very astute, Boca. Actually,
it’s not my dog, it’s his dog and they have a lot in common. Neither one
of them listens, they’re both slobs, and they both smell like wet carpet. Line
three from Wellington, you’re on the air with Dr. Bitch, er . . . Beach.”
“You’re not a dog lover, are
you?”
“Not true. I like small foofie
dogs. Big dogs poop big turds and chew up the furniture. Then again, so does my
boyfriend.”
“Well, you have to train them.”
“The dog or my boyfriend?”
“Both.”
* * * *
*
The human brain processes 400 billion
bits of information a second, and yet we only allow an infinitesimal percentage
of that data to breach our stream of consciousness. How do we select what to
focus on? Which random thoughts should be flushed and which harvested? Where do
the seeds of inspiration that yield the oak trees of success come from?
The answer: They often come when
you least expect it.
* * * *
*
“Well, you have to train them.”
“The dog or my boyfriend?”
“Both.”
Nancy’s heart pounded in her
chest as the epiphany seeded a thought in her mind’s eye that quickly sprouted
roots. “My esteemed caller from Wellington is right! It’s not the dog’s fault
it crapped all over my house -- Sam needs to be trained. Sam, by the way, is my
German Shepherd, not my boyfriend. If you’re a dog trainer, or you know of an
experienced dog trainer, call me right away at 561-222-WOWF, or text me at
star-WOWF on your mobile phone. The first caller recommending a qualified dog
trainer will receive . . . Trish, do we have anything to
give away?”
Trish shook her head, no.
“Nothing? Hold on, how about a
free massage at the Lifestyle Revolution Spa? No? What if I pay for it? Yes?
How much does an hour massage run?”
The producer wrote down a number
on a flash card.
“A hundred and fifty dollars? Are
you for real? Does that come with an anal bleaching? It does! Okay, listeners,
the first caller providing me with the name and phone number of a
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