Wakey-Wakey, Los Angeles!

“Wakey-wakey, Los Angeles,” a radio morning show host transmits live over the airwaves of an electric neon sunrise. “It’s going to be another sizzler today, Randy!”

“That’s right, Doug,” co-host Randy the Boob gives a weather update. “Temperatures are set to soar into triple digits with a high of 115 – phew!” He lets out an exasperated sigh. “This heat wave’s here all week. Stay cool out there, people!”

Doug Harder leans into his microphone. “You’re listening to K.L.I.T. 107 FM.”

“You found it here!” The Boob hits a button on his soundboard. A female orgasm sound effect shrieks through the speakers of an alarm clock radio in East Hollywood.

Oh~! U-Uh~! A-Agggh!

Jimothy Dyck lies in bed next to the device, which shows 4:00 a.m. He stirs into slow wakefulness, wearing nothing but a pair of white cotton briefs. The female orgasm sound effect snaps him fully awake.

“Fuck me,” Jimothy sighs, “It’s time to get up.”

Doug cuts to a commercial break. “Stay tuned to  K.L.I.T. 107 FM. We’ll be right back after these messages.”

Jimothy swings his legs out of bed and gets dressed.

“I’m a zombie without my morning coffee.” Jimothy bemoans as he shuffles into the kitchen, wearing a short-sleeved white button up office shirt, a burgundy tie, and black slacks.

On his way, Jimothy reaches for a pack of Charleston “Blues” brand cigarettes. He opens the navy blue box, lights up a smoke, and takes a long, deep drag. Jimothy’s distant eyes soften from the nicotine throat punch. That cool tobacco flavour hits the spot as he gazes into morning’s first light, letting out a gentle puff of Charleston Blues.

“It’s another beautiful day in Hell-A.” Jimothy takes a sip of silky black coffee, with loosening effect, and checks the time.

“Holy shitballs!” Jimothy rushes to the bathroom. The bittersweet tasting coffee runs right through him. “I have to go!”

Before leaving, Jimothy hurries downstairs to check on his wife and kids. The putrid stench of death coming from Jimothy’s creepy basement dungeon – where he keeps his zombified family locked in chains – makes him retch.

Maria and the kids greet Jimothy with their usual disdain, moaning about this and groaning about that.

“Don’t worry, Maria.” Jimothy assures her. “I’ll bring dinner tonight.”

Jimothy shudders and makes a beeline out of there, grabbing his car keys for the morning commute.

The drive to work is a traffic-jam nightmare in this daily race to survive another day at the office. 

Jimothy pushes up his dark-rimmed glasses, held together with a strip of white tape, and floors it down Hollywood Freeway.

It’s already 77 degrees outside and rising. Jimothy cranks up the air conditioner and turns the radio station to K.L.I.T. 107 FM.

A commercial comes on the air for a failing furniture store. The owner, Raymond Hawthorne of Ray’s Furniture Warehouse, is advertising a fire sale.

“Welp! Folks, the idiots working at Ray’s Furniture Warehouse did it again,” Raymond continues, “They left the damned ‘Sofa-Maker 9000’ running all weekend. Now my warehouse is overstocked, and the entire staff must be liquidated. Tony and Gina – fired! Bert and Edgar – deported! Ray’s Furniture Warehouse has all your favourite brand-name home furnishings on sale, like I’m going out of business. I’ve got sofas and sectionals coming out of my ass. I’ve got leather loungers and designer recliners priced to clear – because just when you think you’ve hit rock bottom, it’s Ray’s Furniture Warehouse Foreclosure Sale.” Raymond lets out a disappointed sigh, “C’mon down.”

Raymond’s disheartened voice fades back to the Doug Harder & Randy Boob Morning Show.

“Welcome back to K.L.I.T. 107 FM. We’ve got another great show lined up for you.” The Boob queues up a new song, “Check out this latest hit by Sammy Saxophone. It’s called ‘Saxophone Blues’ – only on K.L.I.T. 107 FM, the hardest rock radio in Los Angeles. Chill you later…”