But now it's my time.
Conan is moving to Los Angeles soon to take over for Leno, and as anyone familiar with WGA rules knows, he will leave behind a shallow grave of old writers, throats slit and gaping open to the cold New York sun (the strike wasn't quite as successful as they'd hoped).
But if you think you know where I’m going with this, you’ve vastly underestimated my sense of self-importance. That’s right. Conan, I want to be your new co-host.
Think about it: You’ve lost your writing staff, you’re going to be in a scary new town and starting a whole new show. I know a fuckton of writers who need cocaine money, am intimately familiar with the prostitute-selling parts of L.A. and just released the final episode of my own show.
Well, I can make it the final episode, anyway. Seriously, I’ll burn all the footage for next week’s S.W.A.I.M. if you want. I know the competition’s been hurting your ratings, and here’s your chance to make that all go away. Just put a phone up to that massive head of yours and make the call.
Yes, I just insulted you. And yes, I’ll probably do it again, on national television if the opportunity should arise. But you should still make me your new co-host. Why?
Three simple, yet counter-intuitive reasons.
1. I’m like Andy Richter, only with more lady fans and staying power.
Andy was great. Hell, Andy Richter Controls the Universe is one of the most underrated sitcoms of the last 50 years. But let’s face the facts, he wasn’t exactly a pussy magnet. I, on the other hand, could arrange sex with a female Cracked reader probably within the hour if I really tried. And it’s seven fucking A.M. right now.
That’s the kind of drawing power you want anchored to your little couch every night. L.A. is a town concerned with appearances, and you’re going to need to counterbalance your Frankenstein-ish stature and overall ginger-ness with a boyishly handsome charm-factory like myself.
I’d install a guardrail in front of the audience though (don’t want them rushing the stage, titties a-flappin’). And I’m warning you now; the first three rows of ladies will get wet.
2. I promise to drink, abuse drugs and curse in public.
In this era of reality television and gossip blogs, a celebrity’s power is built upon their personal life just as much as their public persona. And while you’ve done a great job throughout your career avoiding tabloids and keeping the details of your home life private, I will have no such discretion.
Expect fights with paparazzi. Expect dropped babies. Expect ratings to skyrocket.
You’re going to have to retire the masturbating bear because it reminds people of my frequent public indecency charges. I’m going to come to work drunk and vomit all over the raccoon wearing a jetpack. I’m going to haggle with the robot pimp for 15 minutes on live TV before realizing he’s just a character.
In other words, I’m going to make you a star.
3. I will challenge you for control of the show.
In order to avoid any confusion down the road, I’ll let you know now that I’ve already picked out my co-hosting outfit.
Yes, Conan, you could actually have a 50s-style greaser as your co-host. And I’m not just phoning it in, either: I’ll use words like “squares” and “heat,” carve my gang’s logo into your desk (it’s a guy eating ice cream), even stab an occasional guest or two.
And, like any troubled youth with no impulse control and a dog pack mentality, I will actively challenge you for control of the show. Think of it! The natural tension as people tune in night after night, wondering: is this the night? Could tonight be the night Slick Mickey finally guts Conan like a pale-bellied fish?
So make me your co-host, Conan. All I ask in return is top billing and the right to sleep with your wife (I don’t even know what she looks like; it’s more of a dominance thing). I promise, you won’t regret it, right up to the moment I kill you and wear your skin as a suit to see if I can fool Gwyneth Paltrow.
Or I could be head writer. Whichever, really.
When not winning through intimidation, Michael serves as head writer for and co-founder of Those Aren't Muskets!