Part two of an ongoing saga documenting Tyler Gaskill’s allegorical exploration of network television.

I’ve reached the passage to manhood all boys must conquer: the phone call to your parents informing them you are in New York dressed in a clown suit because you are paying off hotel expenses as a street balloon vendor.

After my mother stopped crying, I explained to her that I had an epiphany last week.

Out-screaming my drunk father over the payphone, I enlightened the ’rents that I must save television. And I’m doing so via the sitcom I created, “Can Our Robot Watch the Game?”

Five quarters, one guilt-trip and two threats of familial exile later and I was in my hotel room putting on a suit for my meeting with the NBC executives to discuss getting CORWG on TV.

Getting a meeting with NBC execs is easy. All you need is a finely written letter explaining your idea and $17,813 attached to the back after selling all your possessions — soul included.

The application of Brute aftershave is required if I’m to convince these corporate automatons that CORWG is network television’s only hope.

After inhaling a bowl of Spaghetti O’s, combing my mustache and drinking a quart of rubbing alcohol, I was off to the most important meeting of my life.

I arrived at historic NBC studios in my pleather suit and stolen top hat after stiffing two cabbies and running three blocks. I pointed out my name to the secretary in the list of appointments — letting the Brute consume her in my mannish scent — and my pleather pants squeaked.

The two oak doors opened with an ethereal creaking. I gathered myself and entered the boardroom.

Three people greeted me: Tom, an exhausted 50-something; Brad, a 30s hotshot yuppie; Brittney, 30s shrill razor’s edge of bureaucracy. They sat together at the end of a lengthy, freshly buffed glass table. I seated myself at the opposing end.

Formalities dispensed — we got down to business.

“Tyler,” Tom started, “We’ve never seen anything quite like your idea.”

I winked at Brittney. She winked at the secretary serving us coffee.

Brad leaned forward, “I don’t care how badly this network needed your bribe, your show will never see the light of day.”

“What,” I yelped. “What’s not to like about my show? You’ve got the truth-speaking man’s man, the cleanly wife, the rambunctious teens and the gleaming center piece — a robot. A robot!”

Brad shouted back, “No. You’ve got an abusive husband, slash father, who suffers from a disease that prohibits him from relateability. Then there is the emotionally unavailable mother. And your rambunctious teenagers murder on a daily basis for their tricycle mafia that manufactures three kilos of blow a day. Let’s not forget Fifteen: the lovable robot that wants to kill the human race! What is this? How is this a sitcom? Why are we even meeting about this?”

Brittany screamed something — I’ll never know what — and pulled a flowchart out from behind her. A piercing slap followed as she snapped her pointer onto the chart.

“This chart,” Brittney said, “demonstrates that ever since the Johnny Five robot revolution wore off in the late ’80s, Nielson surveys display a growing desire for robots on television, specifically amongst teens — and mothers.”

I leapt from my chair and yelled out, “Boo Yahh!”

For a brief moment I swore I heard an electronic voice.

With a bewildered look, Tom said, “It seems research has proven this show is entertaining.”

Tipping over his chair and wielding a magnum revolver, Brad shouted, “Are you people insane? Did you even read his work? He wrote one episode where Fifteen just eats pudding for a half hour. That’s it — that’s the whole episode! And you two are actually considering this madness because a few random samplings of public opinion say robots are in demand?” Looking in my direction, “And why are you wearing a pleather suit?” Pointing the gun in Tom’s face, “I’ve waited long enough for you to die, Tom. I won’t let you ruin my future network.”

Suddenly, the all-too-common deus ex machina manifested itself in the boardroom. Before Brad blew off Tom’s face, a robot burst through the wall. In whirlwind of debris, mechanical beeps and boops, Brad found himself being hoisted over the chrome beast’s cubical frame and tossed out the window.

Twenty-seven stories down the grotesque — and satisfying — splat was heard followed by a loud crash when the machine jumped to its untimely demise.

Tom, Brittany and I stared in silence at one another. Tom brought out a massive rubber stamp and slammed it on the script for “Can Our Robot Watch the Game?”

“Approved,” he proclaimed.

While pumping my fist in the air, I screamed, “Boo Yahh!”

Will Tyler survive the casting call for CORWG? Will any woman give into the paper mill scent of Brute? Find out in next week’s thrilling edition of Lost in a Pixel Blizzard!

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