The Dick Caveat Show

Before we get started, there a few things you should know. In the event of a fire, your seat cushion is extremely flammable. There was a sketch last week which demanded we flood the entire studio with gasoline. I can’t remember the reason, but Exxon gave us a lot of money, so we did we what we had to. You can probably still smell it. That’s why there’s no smoking in the studio, despite my nostalgia for the nineteen fifties. 

I know that most of you were told your ticket was free of charge. While this is technically correct, since tonight’s show is overnight and ends early tomorrow, we'll need to collect an occupancy tax. Of course, this doesn’t mean you need to sleep, but you certainly can. And based on our recent ratings book, you will. One of the producers is passing a collection plate, which I pilfered from the Lutheran church around the corner. They have gone cashless and weren’t using it anymore. I know it’s a sin, but there was no place to confess, not being a Catholic church and all. What goes into this plate is not the same as the tax. Think of it like a tip. Based on how much is there, I might have a fancy dinner tomorrow. We’ll see how much of the crew gets to tag along.

For a variety of complicated and, frankly, boring reasons, tonight’s program will not be broadcast anywhere. Not over the air, not on streaming; nor is it being recorded for posterity. But there is a man named Barry in the green room with a long string and a couple soup cans doing his best to share it with the world. So you can’t wave at your family and friends watching at home. Feel free to wave as long as you believe in the power of prayer. 

Many of you are here because of the celebrity guest. Well, there’s something you should know about that. I can tell many of you were expecting Taylor Swift. However, this is a lesson in close reading. If you notice on your ticket stub, it says, “Tailor Swift.” That’s a mister Aubrey Swift, "tailor to the stars since 1972™", with a modest shop right over on Sunset. It’s never too early to start wearing expensive Italian suits. 

The applause sign is broken, so we’re going to have to come to an understanding. Whenever I say anything remotely intelligent, I need you to respond in kind. 

One last thing. I’m not Dick Cavett. I’m a well-paid impersonator. Mr. Cavett is comfortably ensconced in his palatial home on the eastern tip of Long Island. I’d say he expresses his sincere regrets at not being here tonight, but the two of us have never actually spoken. 

With all that out of the way, enjoy the show.