In a lavish radio studio somewhere in midtown Manhattan an aging shock jock slouches towards an overflowing bank vault. He’s far from his prime. He lost his fastball, opting no longer to ask softball questions, but rather, to deliver, the interview equivalent of sloppy burrata. Today, like all days, he’s surrounded of his erstwhile irreverence, as well as a pack of cackling sycophants, hanging on every syllable like a disciple of Christ. He wines, he dines. He whines, he dines. On this show, he’s speaking with a Generic Celebrity, committed to revealing just enough to appear polite.
HLTS: I consider you a genius.
BC: Thank you. Not sure that was a question.
HLTS: No, but this is. What your favorite place in the Hamptons?
BC: I don’t have much of a social life.
HLTS: I didn’t either until I approached one billion dollars in net worth.
BC: What are you doing after the show?
HLTS: Taking my security detail to my limo to my private jet to my private yacht to…dinner with you?
BC: That could work. I have an early evening gala.
HLTS: I go to bed early. Old morning radio habit.
BC: So now you put your audience to sleep.
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