Michael Strahan’s bathroom. The walls are covered in NY Giants memorabilia. He sits on the toilet, reading An Essay Concerning Human Understanding by John Locke. The telephone is pressed to his ear.
STRAHAN: Yeah, doc… No, it’s just that… Yes, I know I need to floss more… Yes, I understand my predicament due to the, ahem, space, between my two front teeth but… Look! Howie Long was making fun of me, okay? Is that what you wanted to hear? Fine. There. I said it. I brought in delicious SlantShack Jerky to the pregame show and they all made fun of me. And I was like, what’s goin’ on, fellas? Why you all laughing at me? It took me ten goddamn minutes before I realized I had a whole side of a cow flopping around in front of my mouth… Yes, I know you warned me that jerky can be tough on the teeth. But it’s so damn tasty. And I just… hang on a second.
He lets out a prodigious fart. The sounds resound across the space. It is the infinite trumpets of a choir of angels. He probably sighs ecstatically afterward. If possible, the theater should begin to smell that sweet, semi-rotten smell of one’s own farts. Disgusting, yet pleasurable. Anon, a voice is heard from outside the door.
VOICE: Is that you in there, Michael?
STRAHAN: (into the phone) I gotta go, doc. Thanks for your advice. And sorry about the Futurama DVD & turtle sex thing. It was a weird day. (He hangs up the phone) Yeah, I’m in here. Who’s out there?
VOICE: (ominously) I am become death, destroyer of worlds.
STRAHAN: That you, Osi?
VOICE: (still ominously) Guess again.
STRAHAN: Shit, I don’t know. I’m taking care of business in here. What can I do for you?
VOICE: (not so ominously) Can I have some of this jerky? I saw it on the counter in the kitchen.
STRAHAN: Yeah, sure.
VOICE: (even less ominously) Thanks.
STRAHAN: Who is it out there?
VOICE: (even less, perhaps even meekly now) It’s Barry Zwillinger. Your accountant.
STRAHAN: Oh shit, hey Barry! Yeah, help yourself man. I’ll be out in a second.
BARRY: Thanks again, Michael.
Strahan goes back to reading. And pooping. And farting. And pooping some more. He briefly considers giving himself a self-blumpkin. Decides against it.
STRAHAN: (to himself, singing) Five. Five dollar. Five dollar footloooong.
He wipes. Pulls up his pants.
STRAHAN: (to audience) That’s some good-ass jerky. And the diarrhea I just had was both satisfying and entirely unrelated to the three pounds of jerky I consumed this morning. Thanks SlantShack!
*This is not an actual endorsement by anyone. Michael Strahan, Howie Long and Barry Zwillinger, CPA, are unaffiliated with Slant Shack Jerky or the writer of this post. Paid for by Yes on Prop 19.