NPR MISTAKENLY WINS CONTRACT TO CALL NFL THURSDAY NIGHT FOOTBALL; FANS ARE “AGHAST”

 

**Apologies to NPR. I do enjoy some of your programing, but this article was just too easy to write**

FROM THE NPR THURSDAY NIGHT FOOTBALL BOOTH:

A good evening to our honorable listeners and welcome to tonight’s athletic duel. Since this is our inaugural broadcast, I believe introductions are in order. I’m Spencer Archibald Clementine and with me is Reginald Featherbottom. Reginald and I are NPR hosts chosen for this new airing on your local PBS station. Reginald is with us because of his experience playing cricket in high school and I’m here because I’m the only NPR broadcaster who knew the football arena location.

A good evening to you, Reginald.

Good evening to you, Spencer, and happy National Acorn Squash Day.

Ah yes, such a scrumptious day, second only to National English Toffee Day.

Alistair, our call screener, informs me we have our first caller. A good evening to you, Bill from Cincinnati, or should I address you as William?

The name is Bill, and how the heck did you guys get on Thursday Night Football?

Good question William. A cheeky intern at our mother station, WWTF, thought it would be a hoot to covertly bid on this contract. He never imagined NPR would win. Since NPR only broadcasts via radio, we proudly partnered with PBS for tonight’s televised exhibition.

Okay, it looks like we’re ready to start. The team with the stern Nordic gentleman on their helmets has kicked the ball far. They are now running at an alarming rate toward the team adorned in blue blouses. Someone caught the ball and is dashing at the oncoming herd.

Egad, this is insanity, Reginald.

Indeed, Spencer.

Dear heavens, the poor gentleman with the ball was fiercely flung to the ground! How barbaric! The odd thing is everyone on the field of play is acting as if this is a routine affair.

Things have settled down, and the opposing combatants are lining up and bending over. The leader of the ball carriers is putting his hands in an intimate area of a large man. No judgement here. He bellows a few guttural phrases and mayhem ensues. There is an impressive deal of pushing and shoving while some men break free but are chased by their rivals. A striped man has blown a whistle and the men go back to their starting spots, but now it appears ball possession has changed.

What do you make of that melee, Reginald?

Well, under the International Cricket Code of Conduct, half of each team is guilty of a Level Four Offense. For that savagery, they should all be fined and banned for a season. 

During this brief lull, we’d like to remind you this is another pledge week at NPR. For only twenty dollars, you’ll receive a Desktop Zen Garden and a Bob Ross Chia Pet.

We have another caller, Roscoe, from Aurora, Illinois.

Greetings and salutations to you, my good man. How are things in the great heartland? I hear nearby Chicago will soon host the 65^th Annual Park Forest Art Fair. Will you be partaking in this splendid affair?

I can’t believe Trubisky threw a pick on his first play of the season! The idiot threw across the middle again! We should be running the ball more. Montgomery and Cohen are our only chance. Oh yeah, you guys need to speak up and stop using those fancy-ass words and call the game in American. We’re five minutes into the first quarter and all you frilly panty boys are talking about is Chia Pets and taffy!

Sir! Please moderate your tone. And to set the record straight, we are talking about toffee, not taffy. There is a BIG difference. Toffee is a delectable confection made into insanely priced treats at my local tearoom. Taffy is spun sugar mostly seen at county fairs and Wal Mart.

Indeed, Spencer.

And with that I bid you a good day, sir. Here is our next caller.

Put Roscoe back on. He was calling the game better than you two.

Ladies and gentlemen, we have a development here in the broadcast loge. A man with gloriously sculpted hair is seizing the microphone.

Ladies and gentlemen, this is Roger Goodell, the NFL Commissioner, I apologize for wasting the last 15 minutes of your life with whatever the heck that was. I’m officially ending this unholy matrimony with NPR; termination fines be damned. As we speak, Reginald and Spencer are being escorted to their cars, the only hybrid vehicles in the lot. My 13-year-old son and this random guy in a Bears jersey will call the rest of the game.

Now, back to the game. And will someone please get these damn Chia Pets out of here!