Sean Hannity Gets Lecture From Roger Ailes

Sean Hannity sat in one of two matching dark wood chair with green leather seats in the office at the end of the hall on the third floor of 1211 Avenue of the Americas in New York City.  The office formed the southeast corner of the building facing the traffic driving north on Sixth Avenue.  The digital clock on the desk that faced Sean Hannity read 5:32.  It was January, and there was a light snow falling outside the floor to ceiling windows of the corner office.  The sun was setting and the car headlights danced on the snowflakes.

Sean Hannity had his right leg crossed over his left leg.  His right foot was air tapping, and his back hurt.  Hannity rubbed his hands on the armrests and could feel the sweat in his palms.  He had been sitting for ten minutes, waiting for a meeting that was called by Roger Ailes.  He looked to his right and out the open door of Mr. Ailes’s office; the well-lit office corridor was trafficked with earnest young interns and other administrative staff.  No sign of Mr. Ailes.

The door to the left of the Mr. Ailes’s desk opened.  Roger Ailes emerged.  Sean Hannity did not know that Mr Ailes’s had his own private bathroom installed.  Sean stood.

“Been here long?” asked Ailes.

“No.  Just arrived,” said Sean.  Sean was not certain why he lied.  It was a sign of weakness.  He knew that.  But he felt compelled.

Roger Ailes sat in his large chair.  Sean was waiting for Ailes to give him a sign to sit.  But Ailes did not do so.  So after an awkward moment watching Ailes shuffle some papers around, Sean took his seat.

“You wanted to see me?” asked Sean.

“That is why you are here,” said Ailes without looking up from his papers.

“Is everything OK?” asked Sean.

“We have some interesting information,” said Ailes.  “Did you ever hear of the amygdala?” asked Ailes.

“The what?” said Sean.

“They are two almond-size parts of the brain.  Deep inside,” said Ailes.

“Ah hah.  OK.  No, I never heard of them,” said Sean.

“They are interesting little suckers.  They respond emotionally to stimuli.  When the amygdala is not responding, the brain is not really interested,” said Ailes.

Sean had no idea where this was going.  “OK.  Cool,” said Sean.

“And the amygdala of people watching you on TV are not responding, Sean.  That is a problem, ” said Ailes.

“I don’t get what you are saying,” said Sean.

“We commissioned a study to monitor the amygdala of people viewing our programs.  It is very interesting,” said Ailes.

“How do they do that?” said Sean.

“Never mind how they do it.  But the results have made us take a second look at our programming,” said Ailes.

“So you are saying that these things did not respond to my show?” asked Sean.

“I am saying that they did not light up to you, Sean.  You are not making any emotional connection to our viewers,” said Ailes.

“I have to disagree, Mr. Ailes.  I get emails everyday…”

“Fuck the emails,” said Ailes, cutting off Sean.  “Emails mean nothing.  This study goes much deeper than emails and anecdotal evidence.  And it tells us that you are a dud, Sean,” said Ailes.

Sean knew that he had recently re-negotiated his contract, so this could not be some kind of tactic to pay him less money.  “But sir, the Nielson ratings show that I am very popular in my time slot,” said Sean.

“We do not rely just on the unreliable Nielsons, anymore, Sean.  We are going for the core of what touches our viewers.  Let’s take your show with Sarah Palin, for example,” said Ailes.

Sean felt good about talking about his interview with Palin.   It won that time slot hands down, one of the most watched shows of the week.  Sean smiled.

“Yeah, that was a hit,” said Sean.

“Sarah Palin was a hit.  The amygdala lit up like halogen bulbs when Palin was on screen and talking.  They went dark when you were o screen talking.  I could have had a dog sitting in your chair and we would have had a hit show with Sarah Palin,” said Ailes.

Sean tried not to take offense.  “You are overstating it.  A bit, don’t you think,” said Sean.  “How did O’Reilly do on these tests?” asked sean.

“O’Reilly lights up the amygdala just fine.  Here’s the problem, we think.  You are an ass-kisser.  You ass kiss everyone you agree with.  The viewers know this.  There is no drama when it comes to you, Sean.  They know what you are going to say.  And you say it.  You are predictable.  In fact, you are ass kissing me right now.  You are fundamentally, a bore.  And we never would have known this without those little amygdala telling us the truth,” said Ailes.

Sean re-adjusted himself in the chair.  “You want me to challenge people more, is that it,” said Sean.

“This is a warning.  You better do something.  Because I ain’t going to keep paying what I am paying to have you just sit there and be predictable,” said Ailes as he picked up the telephone in response to a ring.

“Yes.  OK, I will take it,” said Ailes into the receiver.  Ailes covered the mouthpiece of the receiver.  “I have to take this, so…”

Sean stood, Ailes returned to his phone call.  Sean walked out of the corner office into the brightly lit corridor.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Hannity,” said a young intern with long blond hair as she passed Sean heading for the corner office.  Sean nodded, put his hands in his pockets and walked back to his office.

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Lady Gaga in Her Dressing Room After Grammy Awards

Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta walked into Dressing Room #34 at the Staples Center in Los Angeles after the conclusion of the 2010 Grammy Awards.  She was in seven-inch soled shoes with ten-inch heels, and her shoulders were burdened with what could best be described as silvery balloons that rose above the top of her bleached hair.  Stefani, otherwise known as “Lady Gaga.” slammed the door shut, making a sound that penetrated her temples and made her flinch.  Stefani turned to face her reflection in the makeshift mirror bolted to the wall of a room that Stefani knew was not designed as a dressing room.  The Staples Center is set up to house many different kinds of events, mostly sports, and has only a handful of what entertainment professionals consider “full-service” dressing rooms, with bathrooms, hot tubs, a kitchen, a fully stocked refrigerator, and a lounge area.  The walls of Room #34 were cinder blocks, painted in what Stefani considered a dull yellow, and there was definitely not a kitchen or lounge area.  There was a sink.  And the card table set in front of the mirror is where she plopped her two Grammy Awards.  She went to the sink against the wall to her right and washed off all her makeup.  Her eyes were think with black, and as she splashed her face, the black ran down her cheeks, giving her a gothic appearance.  Stefani pulled out the hardware hidden in her hair which released the long strands which fell to her shoulders.  She then ripped off her wardrobe, tearing it in places, and as each piece came off, she threw it to the floor.  By time she was down to her white underwear and bra, she sat in the chair facing the table and looking at her two Grammys.

There was knock at the door.  ”What” yelled Stefani.

“Security,” announced a man’s voice through the closed door.  Stefani rose and opened the door.

“Yeah?” asked Stefani, standing in her underwear as she was scratching her right armpit with her left hand.

The security guard was taken aback by the bare appearance of Lady Gaga.

“You are going to have to vacate in thirty minutes,” said the security guard.

“What the fuck are you talking about?  This is my shit-hole dressing room.  I’m going decompress,” said Stefani.

“You can’t.  This is Derek Fisher’s room,” said the security guard, a tall African-American man.

“Who the fuck is Derek Fisker?” said Stefani.

“He’s a guard for the Lakers,” said Stefani.

“The Lakers.  Jesus Christ, is there like a fucking basketball game on tonight, huh?  No.  I doubt it.  So tell Derek Fisher to come back tomorrow,” said Stefani.

“No can do, ma’am,” said the security guard.  ”Basketball takes precedence over everything here,” said the guard.

“Well then tell him to come in with me here like this in my underwear, OK.  He won’t mind if I hang out while he does whatever he wants to do in this cinderblock prison cell,” said Stefani.

“He just wants to get into his closet and pull something out,” said the guard.

“Yeah, well, OK,” said Stefani.

“I’ll go tell him he can come,” said the guard.

The guard turned to go, and then stopped to address Lady Gaga.

“If you ask me, I think you should have gotten Record of the Year for Poker Face,” said the guard.

Stefani stood and looked at the guard.

“Oh yeah?” said Stefani.

“Yeah,” said the guard.

“You want to come in.  Join me for…for whatever,” said Stefani.

“Come in?”

“Yeah, like come into my dressing room.  I’m sure Derek whatever his name is can give us time to….you know,” said Stefani.

The security guard looked down the hallway.  He then looked at his watch.  Stefani walked into Room #34 and stood at the table next to her Grammy Awards.  She unsnapped her bra and it fell to the floor, exposing her breasts.  She then fingered her Grammy Awards.

“You want to touch them,” asked Lady Gaga.

The guard came into the room and shut the door.

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Elin Nordegren Meets With Tiger Woods at Sex Clinic

Elin Nordergen had flown on a Gulfstream G5 into New Orleans on a flight from Stockholm.  She brought one suitcase, a small one, with certain traveling and identity essentials.  Elin had gotten into the habit over the years to travel light and merely purchase what she needed on arrival.  She took a taxi to the nearest Volvo dealer in New Orleans and bought a white 2010 Volco c70 with leather seats.  Using her iPhone’s mapping, she had made her way to Interstate 10 going north, crossing over Lake Pontchartrain, eventually hopping onto Route 11 which took Volvo into Mississippi.  Then she veered onto Interstate 59, going north to Hattiesburg, Mississippi.  Elin was searching for the Pine Grove Gentle Path Facility where her husband, Tiger Woods, was being treated for his “problem.”  Though the Pine Grove center treats its patients in groups, Tiger was given a private “cottage” residence.  This did not conform to Pine Grove procedure, but the risk of media encroachment justified the special treatment.  Tiger’s offer to make a generous contribution also persuaded the Pine Grove management to satisfy Tiger’s request.

Elin was leaning again a dark green wall in the cottage where Tiger was housed.  Tiger was sitting on a couch, his buttocks perched on the edge of the couch, his hands on his knees, his legs to together.  It was not a relaxed position, nothing casual about it.  This was there first meeting since Elin had left for Sweden and purchased a house on Faglaro Island about an hour’s drive from Stockholm.  Elin was wearing black sweatpants, Reebok running shoes (no more Nike for her), and a black running shirt covered in a black leather jacket.  The blond hair was long as it draped over all the black.  Her legs were crossed, her back leaning on the wall, her arms crossed.

“So what is this place?” asked Elin.

“You know what it is,” said Tiger.

“Well, actually, I don’t.  It says clinic.  (Elin made quote signs with her fingers.) Like a golf clinic, yes,” said Elin, trying not to be sarcastic.

“It’s a clinic for sexual addiction,” said Tiger.

“Oh yeah.  What is that?  Is that like an illness?  Do you have an illness, Eldrick,” said Elin.

“Could you not call me that,” said Tiger.

“It’s your fucking name, Eldrick.  Maybe you should start using your birth name.  Isn’t it more honest,” said Elin.

There was a moment of awkward silence.

“So tell me about what they do here for your problem,” said Elin.

“They have group therapy, and they do shame reduction work and trauma work,” said Tiger.

“Shame reduction work?  You mean they are trying to make you feel less shame,” said Elin.

“It’s part of the therapy,” said Tiger.

“You’re joking,” said ELin.

“It’s part of the process.  I cannot overcome my addiction to sex without first dispensing with the shame,” said Tiger.

“They should fucking make you feel more shame.  It is shame that got you to come here,” said Elin.

“But it will be the eradication of that shame that will permit me to leave,” said Tiger.

“And trauma work?  what trauma did you go through, Eldrick?  Tell me that?  Like I didn’t have any trauma.  Like the kids,” said Elin.

“Maybe you can check in with me.  We can go through this together,” said Tiger.

“That is not happening,” said Elin.

“I have to talk about you and our relationship here.  With the doctors, with the other patients when we are in group,” said Tiger.

“You talk about me?  You better not talk about me.  This is your problem, not mine,” said Elin.

“No, listen.  After I described things to them, it might be the case that you are suffering from sexual anorexia,” said Tiger.

“What the fuck did you say?”

“Sexual anorexia is a pathological fear of intimacy, a fear of sexual interaction,” said Tiger.

“We have two children, Eldrick.  What kind of goddamn fears do I have?  None.  And you don’t talk about me to them.  It is none of their business,” said Elin with rising anger.

“Sexual anorexia is a serious problem,” said Tiger.

“Oh, and they are trying to blame this on me, is that it.  What a load of crap,” said Elin.

“And you have paranoid tendencies, Elin.  That little bit you pulled with my cell phone and texting Rachel, that was deceitful,” said Tiger.

“It’s Rachel, now?  You can just say her name in front of me,” said Elin.

“It’s part of the shame reduction therapy.  It is working,” said Tiger.

“They call this place “Gentle Path,” said Elin.  ”Like this thing you are going through is supposed to be ‘gentle.’  They are making this easy for you.  Making you think that what you have is a disease, and to come to terms with it, and then just recover, gently, easily,” said Elin.

“Yes,” said Tiger.

“Let me sum up my diagnosis, Eldrick.  You are a prick.  An asshole.  A liar.  And the last fucking thing this recovery should be for you is gentle,” said Elin.

Elin moved to the front door of the cottage.  Tioger watched her as she walked.  He noticed how she walked, the sway of her hips, her long shimmering blond hair.

“Do you want to make love?” asked Tiger.

Elin turned to face Tiger.  She looked at him.  And then she opened the door and left.  Eldrick Tont Woods placed his forehead into both his hands and his body’s posture bent forward.  He did not cry.  Crying was forbidden at the Pine Grove Clinic.

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Angelina Jolie & Brad Pitt Fight Over Barack Obama & Babies

“I am fucking sick of this shit. Do you hear me?” said Brad Pitt as he stood in Nike running shorts, barefoot and bare chested. Brad was yelling at a closed bathroom door. In the bathroom sat Angelina Jolie, naked, sitting on a white toilet in Suite 1407 of the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel in Manhattan. Angelina’s head was slung forward supported by both palms that were pressed against her forehead as if she were fighting a headache. Angelina sometimes could not figure Brad. She was loving and loyal. She submitted to Brad’s sexual tastes, which were rather pedestrian, thought Angelina. Nothing like Billy Bob Thornton. Billy Bob was unpredictable in everything from sex to food to politics. Yeah, this caused stress at times, but it also kept each day interesting and unique. Like the time Billy Bob sprinkled cocaine all over Angelina’s naked torso and licked it up as he was pumping away. Angelina has white powder all over her face, and the whole thing exploded in one large orgasm, simultaneously, as it should be thought Angelina. Immediately after, Billy Bob wanted to watch Seinfeld with his head on Angelina’s hair. It had to be on Angelina’s hair. And so Angelina let Billy Bob do whatever, and they both belly laughed at the Seinfeld episode.

The unpredictability did not limit it self to sex. You could not pin Billy Bob down on his politics, either. Some days he sounded like the true blue Hollywood Democrat, and on other days Billy Bob was a shotgun toting redneck Republican right out of a trailer park in Texas.

Angelina massaged her forehead thinking that she never had Billy Bob moments with Brad. Brad Pitt, the scion of predictability. Always the missionary position, always with the same exercise routine, always trying to be the politically correct father, always trying to be the politically correct Hollywood Democrat. And always getting angry at predictable moments. Angelina would always know when it was coming. With Billy Bob, his anger was totally unpredictable. Billy Bob could break a table because the waffles were over-cooked or under-cooked, or because the pillows were not fluffy or too fluffy, or because Angelina had not washed her hair or had washed it too much. Angelina never knew what was going to set Billy Bob off. God, she missed those times.

And so what was Brad yelling about? She had predicted it. Brad had been saying that they should get involved with the upcoming presidential race between the Democratic candidates (of course, only the Democratic candidates), and so he asked her which Democrat would she support. Angelina had not thought about it, actually thought it was too early to get involved. But she told Brad that she thought Barack Obama was cuter than Hillary Clinton but that Edwards was too cute. Brad took that as Angelina’s political support for Obama. And so the next day, Bard Pitt came out publicly for Obama and offered to campaign for him. The Obama campaign politely declined, thinking Pitt too Hollywood, and Brad was all in a twit about it.

“Why didn’t you support me with the Obama thing? I look like a fool. Fuck, you have me do things and then I look like the asshole. Carrying the fucking babies around. Hauling your shit from one airport to the next. I am sick of it,” yelled Brad.

“I love you, baby,” said Angelina. She said it like she said it in Mr. & Mrs. Smith, the feature film Brad and she made together. Brad was fun back when they made that movie. But it was all play, shooting guns and fighting with each other was like one long fuck fest for Angelina. Though at times she had Billy Bob on her mind when they were throwing punches and pressing their lips together on the set. But Angelina knew that when she reverted to her character in Mr. & Mrs. Smith, Brad quieted down, predictably.

“I love you too. So what are we doing today?” asked Brad.

“I’m going to take a shower baby and then we’ll go back to LA. How’s that?” asked Angelina.

“You’re the best,” said Brad.

Angelina rose from the toilet, turned on the shower, and got in, washing herself with the large bar of soap that she had purchased earlier that week. It was the kind of soap that Billy Bob liked. Angelina’s massive head of hair got wet and she let her head fall back and felt the hot water run down her large breasts and pretended they were Billy Bob’s hands.

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Laura Bush Visits George Clooney’s Trailer

George Clooney was sitting on a white plastic chair that reminded Clooney of the seats in the space station in Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey. He had just finished shooting a scene with Brad Pitt on a brownstone street in Brooklyn, and was now relaxing in his trailer. There was a knock on his door and before Clooney could say a word, the door opened and in walked Ethan Coen, the director of the film Clooney was shooting with Pitt entitled Burn After Reading. Coen closed the door from behind.

“You have a visitor,” said Coen.

“Yeah. Who?” asked Clooney as he sat back in the plastic chair, adjusting his torso to purposely indicate he was not happy with the furniture.

“It’s a little weird, but it is the First Lady,” said Coen.

“What? Who? What first lady?” said Clooney, glancing in the mirror and seeing city grime on his face. Clooney picked up a rag and wiped his face, not fully comprehending what Coen was telling him.

“Laura Bush is waiting outside the trailer and she would like to meet you,” said Coen.

“Laura…you’re joking? She wants to meet me?” asked Clooney.

“Yeah. And the Secret Service wants to scan the trailer first before she comes in here,” said Coen.

“Tell her to visit Pitt’s trailer.” said Clooney.

The trailer door opened and a man in a black suit and tie wearing Ray Bans stepped inside. With the confidence of someone carrying a gun, the Ray Ban man stood erect and surveyed the inside of Clooney’s trailer. Coen moved out of the way.

“Hey buddy, you didn’t knock,” said Clooney.

The Ray Ban man ignored Clooney, unimpressed with the movie star or the fact that Ethan Coen was standing by. Ray Ban man opened the trailer door.

“It’s safe. Bring in the First Lady,” said Ray Ban man. Ray Ban turned to Ethan Coen. “You come outside.”

Coen turns to Clooney and smiled and then followed Ray Ban man out of the trailer.

“What if I want him to stay, asshole,” yelled Clooney.

In walked Laura Bush wearing a dark blue skirt with a navy blazer and white blouse.

“Hello, Mr. Clooney. It is a privilege to meet you,” said Laura.

“I am not certain what to say. Your visit has taken me by surprise,” said Clooney.

Clooney realized that he had remained seated at the arrival of the First Lady. Since Clooney considered himself a gentlemen, he stood.

“I do apologize for my sudden appearance, but I was in Brooklyn visiting with elementary school children, and I thought I would take the opportunity to meet my favorite actor,” said Laura.

“Well, OK. Thank you,” said Clooney. Clooney literally did not know what to say to Laura but for to express his anger at her husband, but he thought that might not be appropriate.

“You are working on a movie with the Coen Brothers. I like their work,” said Laura.

Clooney was a tad taken aback by Laura’s awareness of anything Hollywood. And the fact that she had an opinion about the movies of the Coen Brothers, not to mention liking their work, was also a surprise.

“You are a movie fan?” asked Clooney.

“Who isn’t,” said Laura.

“How do you do it, Mrs. Bush?” asked Clooney, who couldn’t help himself.

“Do what?” asked Laura.

“Live with him, your husband,” said Clooney. The moment the words came out of his mouth, he regretted it. It sounded so classless, and Clooney was a man with class. But then, Laura was married to a man Clooney believed had done tremendous damage to the United States as well as the world, and so maybe the First Lady should not expect to avoid such queries.

“It is difficult at times,” said Laura.

Clooney’s eyes went wide. He could not believe that the First Lady had responded with what had to be an honest remark.

“I’m sorry. I should not have asked such a question,” said Clooney.

“No. It’s OK. My husband does not permit me to speak to him about politics. And so I am left with talking privately to my friends. And daughters,” said Laura.

“Well, your husband would probably benefit by hearing your opinion,” said Clooney.

“You do not know what my opinion is, Mr. Clooney,” said Laura.

“I am going to guess you are not happy with things the way they are. I bet you think Iraq was a monumental mistake that will stain the Bush name forever in the history books,” said Clooney with some trepidation that he was wandering a bit too far down this road.

It is odd. My husband takes solace that there will be some future historian who will find the good in his administration. It somehow keeps him on the path that he is on,” said Laura.

“If you broke your husband’s rule, Laura, and talked to him about what is happening today rather than seeking cover in some future history book that has yet to be written, do you think he would listen? For god’s sake, we are just making everything a be fucking mess,” said Clooney. Whoops. He didn’t mean to swear. “Sorry about that,” said Clooney.

“I will not break my husband’s rule while he is still in office. Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that I appreciate all your movies, and I encourage you to keep making them. They are powerful. Now I must leave. It was nice meeting you,” said Laura as she turned, opened the trailer door and walked out.

“Yes, it was nice…meeting you to,” said Clooney as the door shut.

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