This is episode VI of Assistant A&E Editor Tyler Gaskill’s allegorical documentation of network TV.

I shattered my bottle of Jack Daniel’s over the new intern’s head and shrieked, “Yahtzee!” What’s His Face’s body hit the ground with a thud. I proclaimed, “Now that’s funny!” A jovial laugh escaped me while my bald eagle-skin boots were soaked in the expanding puddle of blood oozing from John Doe Intern’s head.

As my laughter settled, I noticed that the cast and crew in the studio didn’t share my amusement. I raised my glass high in the air, clinking the ice cubes. My assistant, Taco Wallace, dashed over and handed me a fresh bottle of Jack. I whispered to him, “I hear upstate is looking deadly fine this time of year.”

Taco smirked, “Deadly fine, sir.”

I began to suspect the cast and crew of my revolutionary sitcom, “Can our Robot Watch the Game?” didn’t quite trust me. Since my arrival at NBC studios, three employees — Brad, Tom and Denis Franz — have inexplicably met their makers. I needed to extinguish the sparks of distrust with a healthy dose of morale upgrade.

“Slaves, oops, I mean … employees of CORWG! Why was I the only one who found that practical joke on Intern hilarious? Have we lost our sense of humor? This is something we can’t afford. We manufacture funny here. And how can we do that … IF NO ONE LAUGHS ON THE SET! Let’s try this again.”

I smashed the bottle into the back of Intern’s unconscious skull. Unfortunately, the bottle bounced off, causing him to convulse. I rained another blow upon him causing a satisfying glass explosion.

“Taco, cue the laugh track!” I yelled. Suddenly, the studio became a funhouse of synthetic laughs. Conditioned responses took hold as cast and crew alike began to snicker. Moments later the electronic and human laughs became an intertwined fabric of hilarity being pulled over doubts and worries.

As I flexed my metaphorical muscles of executive power, I got caught in a woman’s tractor beam. Giggling, she peered through my charade and saw the real Tyler pulling the strings of those marinates surrounding us. Like a hot dog craving, I wouldn’t be denied. Love’s siren song guided my actions.

I sent Taco a communiqué via my limo keychain, “Wallace, get the limo and laugh track — we’ve gone to Defcon 1!” Within seconds the limo ripped through the left wall of CORWG’s living room set. How Taco got the limo on, or off of, the 18th floor I’ll never know. Like a pirate swinging on a rope sweeping a wench into his tattooed arms, I grabbed the Helen of Troy and tossed her into the limo.

I commenced wooing the damsel as Taco drove us to a lavish dining venue. “You got a name?” Tossing her blonde over he shoulder with an intelligent smile she replied, “Petunia.”

“Petunia? Well I’ve got quite the green thumb. And I can tell you’re the best pick of the patch.”

Clearly befuddled, she snapped back, “What? Wait, are you wearing Brute?”

Tapping the window separating Taco from us, I said, “Taco, hit it!” The laugh track worked its mojo, drowning her, and I, in forced cackles. I let out a deep bellow. She uncrossed her arms, unfurrowed her brow, chuckled and finally broke out into possessed laughter. Taco joined, displaying his wooden teeth. The vehicle, and laughs, jolted to a halt. Taco said, “We’re here, sir.”

I rolled down my window, “I’ll take two bowls of Spaghetti O’s — supersized.”

The voice on the loudspeaker replied, “Sir, the McDonald’s menu doesn’t offer Spaghetti O’s.”

Winking at Petunia, I slyly remarked, “Watch this.” I leaned out the window, “Well, you serve Spaghetti O’s now. I’m buying this crap hole. Taco,” I snapped my fingers, “buy this place.”

Taco replied, “Sir, you have $114 to your name.”

“Damn it all to hell!” I shouted. “Cue the laugh track.”

I heard the burger jockey succumbing to the hypnotic commands of imitation jolliness. I cried out, “Get me my Spaghetti O’s, pronto.”

Between laughs the corporate automaton wheezed, “Coming … right … up!”

Slapping my thigh I proclaimed, “By Job, I’m good!” I looked at Petunia, who was caught in a fit of laughter, and asked, “What do you say? You my girl?”

Her laughter intensified making veins pop out of her neck. “Sure!” She shouted.

I could only think to say one thing, “Boo-yah!”

Will Petunia give Tyler crabs, or visa versa? Is Dennis Franz really dead, or was he always a figment of our imaginations? Will the laugh track elevate Tyler to the highest level of power — The Mayor of Funny? Find out in next week’s episode of Lost in a Pixel Blizzard!

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