DLTL with Dallas Ryan

    There was always a lot of chaos on the set of Daily Liberal Tongue Lashings with Dallas Ryan.  To pull off a highly rated show such as DLTL with Dallas Ryan there had to be.  But today was a disturbed wasps nest.  Tense and imminent explosion was an understatement.
  
    Dallas Ryan was rampaging.
  
    “God  damn it, people,” Dallas frothed, coming down from behind his desk.  “What the fuck we runnin’ here?  A tea party hosted by a bunch o‘ them queens from the District 8?”  Jesus H on a popsicle stick!”

    DLTL with Dallas Ryan was the highest rated show on the Fox News Network, not this year, but of all time.  The network, took a different approach.  In 1990’s it was ’fair and balanced’ but found the people were smarter than that, that the station was making their audience out to be a bunch of gun totin', abortion abolishing, gay bashing, redneck imbeciles.  And mostly they were right, but they were only attracting this target audience.  Not the moderates, independents nor the undecided.  Now, they were trying to be up front with their target audience, giving them what they already knew what they were getting.  That was utter and complete hatred of liberals.  Why not call it what it was.  If it walks like a conservative and it talks like a conservative then, well…must be a liberal hating conservative.
   
    Ratings went through the roof.


    The biggest reason was Dallas Ryan.  By the third season he was executive producing the show and calling all the shots.  He made all final decisions on content, guests, set design and what flavor of little smokies were catered in.
  
     He worked his ass off to make the show what it was, and he expected nothing less from his staff.  He demanded a lot from his people, and wouldn’t allow anything but perfection.  His staff feared him, from directors to reporters and camera men and boom operators.  He’d once fired a cue card holder for misspelling ‘fascist’.
  
    The man had clout, on the set and off.
  
    Today, he held everyone’s attention, screaming all the way to his dressing room.  No one knew what he was so angry about, maybe someone had eaten the last onion flavored bagel.  Maybe Dallas had found out his wife, Jenny, Washington D.C.’s most recognizable socialite, was having an affair with her tennis instructor.  Very cliché, but the truth none the less.
  
    Whatever the reason for his diatribe, his crew was staying out of his way as his large body moved off set, down the hall, cussing and yipping like a puppy that had fallen from the back of a Chevy pick-up truck.
  
    Toby Morrison waited backstage in Dallas' dressing room.
   
    Toby was his faithful assistant, a young man of thirty-two, clean cut hair parted to the left, and a Princeton graduate, with the distinction of being numero uno in his class.  He was never without his Blackberry, some sort of line of communication open at all times, whether sending off an e-mail or text or checking the latest poll number and DLTL with Dallas Ryan ratings.  When he wasn't doing that, he was talking into the receiver.
  
    Toby was at Dallas’ beck and call, twenty-four-seven.  Although, times like these, he was less than fond of his job.
  
    “Dallas, it wasn’t that bad,” Toby said.
  
    “Fuck it wasn’t,” Dallas screamed, reaching for a twenty year old bottle of Glenfiddich.  “These amateurs we got workin’ for us don’t know their dicks from a mole hole.  Plus…plus, who booked that crazy fucker?"
  
    Toby didn’t say anything, but he knew who booked Dr. Stephan Van Gunter.  He was booked on his recommendation and was now regretting it almost painfully.
   
    “Did you see that fucker?  Sat there telling the world that the end of the world is coming.  Changed the god damn'd story.  Changed the goddamn’d direction of the show.  We were ‘spose to be discussing terrorism.  Not fuckin’ martians!”
  
    Dallas was well liked if he was on your side, if you needed his backing on a bill on 'The Hill' or if a particular Senator was running for President and needed a push from Dallas, but mostly he was disliked by most others that weren’t in the room with him. Toby usually understood this, but couldn‘t help himself when he spoke up.  “Actually, Dallas, Dr. Van Gunter believes it’ll be zombies that destroys…”
   
    Dallas glared.  A menacing force when he was angry, and glaring.  The Texan stood somewhere near six and half feet, had a belly the size of a monster truck tire, that was partially hidden during his show, speeches, engagements and at any time that he was out in public, by a man-girdle.  He forever wore a Stetson on his head, that was his trademark, a cartoonish version used in all promotional ads, billboards and the opening segue of DLTL with Dallas Ryan.   Toby knew to keep his mouth shut at times like this, but sometimes his mouth wasn’t connected to his brains.
  
    “The guy is a fuckin’ menace to everything this country stands for,” Dallas said, gulping at his scotch.