Broadcast Syndication is the sale of the right to broadcast radio and television shows to multiple individual stations without going through a broadcast network
Off-network syndication involves the sale of a program that was originally run on a specific network after the program has fulfilled its contractual obligation.
What this means to us is;
We get to continue to watch shitty television shows years after they were cancelled from the primary network the program originally aired on.
What this means furthermore is;
Shitty fucking shows like MacGyver, Matlock, The scarecrow and Mrs. King, even fucking Airwolf, can be seen on lame channels that for whatever reason, decided to pick these programs up.
It’s amazing what you still find on Syndication.
Tonight I sit here fixated on an episode of Unsolved Mysteries.
Robert Stack talks about my missing penis. A close-up of my donger comes into view while that creepy background music plays.
Robert Stack says my penis was;
“Last seen somewhere between October 5th and November 26th 2003.”
The 1-800 number flashes across the screen.
Someone from forensics offers his theory.
He claims it’s possible that my stomach and my Penis collaborated together in a plot to overthrow my manhood. The forensics guy says it’s possible that my stomach grew, obstructing my view with intent to allow my penis to flee to a third world country. Probably India.
A close up of my Dagwood comes back across the screen.
Computer software is used to consider the past 7 years and display an image of what my penis may look like today. Despite the gray pubic hairs surrounding the base, everything else looks pretty much the same. The forensics guy says the gray may be an artificial dye used to throw off further investigations.
I bolt up from the couch. My hands slide down past my stomach and over my genitals.
Still there. These dreams of mine are getting fucking weirder and weirder.
I pick up my phone and call my brother. I’m freaked out. I need to talk to somebody.
“Hello” the other line says
“Chris. O’ thank you for answering.” I sound panicked.
“What’s up dude? You sound like you’re in a panic or something.”
I start into my story. I talk about syndication
I mention Unsolved Mysteries.
He doesn’t remember.
I mention my missing penis.
He doesn’t want to hear about my penis
I tell him it was just a dream. A horrible, horrible dream.
“Dude, I knew you where dreaming the whole time…” He says
“I know right? It’s not like I’m fat, or my penis is small.”
“…’cause I know you don’t have cable.” He says
“Oh. Right.” I say
I hurry and change the subject.
“How’s Mom doing?”
“Why don’t you find out yourself?”
“Cause I don’t feel like calling her myself yet.”
My brother tells me I only call people when I want something from them.
“Isn’t that the way it works.” I say
“No.” he says. “Some people call just to talk.”
“If I call just to talk, it’s because I WANT to talk. Therefore, I’m calling because I want something.”
No response. I think I’ve confused him. I don’t want to spend the rest of my evening discussing semantics. I hang up the phone.
I turn on my DVD player and finish watching Season Three of Big love.
Computer station number 12 is always quiet. It’s the computer I always request. I request it because of it’s isolation. It sits on a table all by itself. No one to the left of me, no one to the right of me. Just me and computer number 12.
Sitting across from me is computer number 11. Sitting in front of computer number 11 is some kid. His hair is blonde and in a pony tail. His face is covered with peach fuzz . To the left of the kid on computer number 11 is another fucking kid. His hair is short and brown. He also has peach fuzz all over his face. They discuss the new song they’re going to write during band practice.
“It’s called ‘Curb Stomp.’ The one with short brown hair says
“Nice. Fucking nice dude.” The blonde with a pony tail says.
The one with Short brown hair says it’s an anti-drinking song. He says it’s about finding people that drink, and stomping there head on the side of curb.
“Like in the movie ‘American History X.’ he says
“Nice. Fucking nice dude.” The blonde with a pony tail says again.
The kid with short brown hair says “I have the perfect spot for it in our setlist.” He says. “It will go great after we play ‘Gonna stab you till you bleed.’
“Nice. Fucking nice dude.”
I want to say “I thought blood kind of automatically comes with the territory of a stabbing.”
Running the risk of blowing my cover, I keep it to myself.
After further eavesdropping, I find out they call themselves “Asylum 49.” I want to ask what that means but continue to keep to myself.
After an hour, the librarian tells me my time is up. Asylum 49 has been here longer than me but still sits at computer number 11. I’d say something, but I don’t want to run the risk of a potential curb stomping. Or even worse, a stabbing till I bleed.
What does this have to do with Robert Stack and Unsolved Mysteries. Absolutely fucking nothing.
“Nice. Fucking nice dude."