♪♪
Biggest change in this country in the 10 years that I was gone?
America went from being a boob nation to being an ass nation.
I mean, 30 years ago,
if a company ran an ad campaign on 3 TV networks
and 10 magazines, everybody saw it.
And what they saw mostly was boobs -- boobs, boobs, boobs.
I mean, eventually, we just forgot all about butts.
[Groans]
We were just so relentlessly hammered with images of boobs.
And by the '80s, Charles, big old fake boobs --
just these enormous sacks of viscous chemicals
that were bolted onto the front of a woman's chest
in defiance of all good taste and gravity.
Which gift basket does she get?
Chantal? Oh, the "Jeter."
Oh, my God. She earned it.
You know, iPads don't grow on trees.
Maybe you should consider not giving the Jeter
to every woman you bring home?
No, Charles, I'm afraid I can't, because I'm sexually generous
in all the ways that one could possibly be.
Besides, those "Piazza" baskets that you designed,
Charles, they're confusing, and they're unpopular.
There's an element of sadness to them.
Anywhoodles, I'm at the Big Freedia bounce show last night,
and I'm just -- I'm getting lost in the applause
of like a hundred clapping asses.
And it hits me, it dawns on me --
I am surrounded by the very people
that got America back into ass.
I'm talking about straight black men,
the gays, of course, and thick women.
God bless 'em.
'Cause, see, when the Internet expanded all media
into the limitless chaos that we know it to be today,
the power of the straight-white-male gaze
got diluted, and all of a sudden,
all these long-forgotten voices could finally be heard, man,
and they were screaming, "Butts! Come on! Butts are wonderful!"
And that, my friend, is how the titty wool
that had been pulled over our collective eyes
was finally lifted.
She's waking up.
Oh. I'll go hide in the bathroom.
They always go to the bathroom.
I'll hide in the pantry. Calm down.
[Jazz music plays]
♪♪
I got the Jeter last time.
What about that one?
That one is reserved for someone else, if she ever comes here.
Which she won't.
But I can get you two Piazzas instead.
But those are in the pantry!
Shit.
[Rustling]
Ta-da! Ha ha!
There is one Piazza for you right there.
A Squatty Potty and olive oil?
He's an Italian catcher.
It's so obvious.
And your second Piazza.
There you go. Got it?
Great to see you again.
You take care, now.
-In conclusion... -You're still not done.
...this country is only getting dumber
and hotter and more crowded,
but when I see butts of all shapes
and sizes and colors not only represented,
but celebrated, well, it gives me hope --
hope that things can still change for the better.
♪♪
-Strike! -Santos looks at a fastball.
Count evens, 2-2.
'Course, Santos is only playing today
because Fitzgerald finally got his call-up
to the major leagues, so congratulations to Fitz.
Get me another beer. -No.
-Come on. -No.
-Please. -Focus.
God damn it. [Switch clicks]
Santos pops a curveball up and out of play.
You know, folks, I think I understand
just how Fitzgerald felt.
I mean, he was a star here in New Orleans
right from the get-go, yet he had to wait and wait
and wait for that call-up to the major leagues,
to the point where he probably started to question
the decision-making of the Atlanta organization.
As Santos bounces one to the left side,
this should probably do it.
And the New Orleans Crawdaddys are gonna drop this one
to Nashville by a count of 7-2.
-Suck! -I have been Jim Brockmire.
Please stay tuned for the postgame wrap-up.
Let me ask you a question.
Was it clear just now, when I was talking about Fitzgerald,
that I was actually referring to my own career situation?
Oh, that was intentional?
I can never tell if you're calculating or just spiraling.
I mean, what's the holdup?
Seriously? What do I have to do?
I mean, I've played by all their stupid rules, have I not?
Art Newlie is hard to replace.
He's like a more likable Vin Scully, and you're...
-[Belches] -...not that.
They can't do anything with you publicly.
It's gonna look like they're pushing him out.
Well, they won't have to push too hard.
The man is 75 years old.
A stiff breeze and an uneven sidewalk, and down he will go.
Want to hear some good news?
As of today, we have the number 3 podcast in America.
No shit? Oh!
Remind me to ask that Marc Maron how my ass tastes.
[Crowd chanting "Brock!"] Charles: Welcome, ladies and gentlemen,
to another live episode of "Brock Bottom,"
brought to you by Old Spice Deodorant.
Like Jim Brockmire, Old Spice
is an original that still feels fresh.
Now, without further ado,
I'd like to present to you the one-man MOTH
and the best freestyle storyteller
in the podcast game...
Jim Brockmire.
[Cheers and applause]
♪♪
Hey! All right!
I thank you. -Whoo!
Let's get right to it, shall we?
I need a suggestion for a 90-minute improvised monologue.
-Baseball! -Pinstripes!
-Wyoming! -You said Wyoming.
I heard Wichita.
[Laughter]
Method to my madness on that one
because the only person that I ever knew from Wichita
was none other than television and film's Kirstie Alley.
-Yeah. -Yeah.
-Ooh! -Oww!
Now, this is a story
about the first time
that she tried to convert me to Scientology.
Man: Yeah!
[Slurring] So, now, at this point...
all the "Veronica's Closet" writers, they g--
they went home, okay?
It's just me and Kirstie alone in a dressing room,
so I'm -- I'm pretty psyched.
Anyway, the room's really dark, but I can just make out --
I could just see this -- this tear,
one single tear kind of gently making her --
its way down her face.
So I got down.
[Groaning] Okay.
I said, "Kirstie, why are you crying?"
[Laughter]
And she pulled me close,
and she whispered one word into my ear, folks.
She said...
"Wichita!"
[Laughter]
"Wichita!"
[Cheers and applause]
Appreciate it. Next up.
Come on up. Step right up.
This is a small-batch rye, aged 18 years.
Ooh!
Yeah, m-my dad was an alcoholic.
Instead of telling fun stories, he'd get angry
and make us all fight for the last uncooked hot dog.
Okay, we're gonna let that sad story
just die right there on the vine,
and we're gonna take a lovely photo together, okay?
Right there. [Camera shutter clicks]
All right. Thank you so much for coming.
Appreciate it. Step right up.
What do you got there? Are these magic mush--
Oh, the-- Oh! These are all caps, too.
Oh, my goodness.
Well, if history has taught us anything,
it's that this evening is almost certain to end
with me stealing a boat.
Is that something? I don't even know why.
Hey, uh, Jim. Could I...
Y-- One -- Pardon me a moment.
Yes, my friend?
Art Newlie just announced that he's officially retiring
at the end of the season,
and the new head of PR from Atlanta
is coming down tomorrow for a meeting.
Now, I don't want you to read too much into this.
-Holy shit! I did it! I did it! -We still don't know.
No, I made it back to the top of the mountain, Charles.
Oh, my God!
I could not have done it without you.
I love you! Mwah! I love you, Charles.
I can't believe you won't say it back to me.
I am not gonna say it,
and I can't believe you're saying it to me.
That's just gonna make it all the sweeter
when I finally wear you down.
But tonight is about celebratin', baby!
Not too hard.
You s-- You have the meeting tomorrow.
Yeah, yeah, yeah. All right. Hey, everybody.
Everybody, I want you to show me your cocaine.
Who's carrying cocaine? Hold it on up there.
-I got some. -Okay.
Let's see. -Me, me, me, me!
Right here. -All right.
That appears to be only an eight ball.
So I'm gonna go with you two
'cause I got a busy day tomorrow!
[Elevator bell dings]
You could say what you will,
but I am just so happy for you, bro.
Oh, well, thank you, Raj.
Could not have done it without you calling
all those road games. No, you've been a lifesaver.
Come on. Look, thank you.
I just enjoyed joining your brotherhood of the booth.
And I must say,
you're much less racist than I thought you'd be.
Well, my goodness.
I wish I could take more credit for that,
but, uh, the bar set by old white men
in this great country of ours is just, oh, so very low.
Yep. As soon as you raise it up a little bit,
someone knocks it back down, huh?
Man, you keep screwing up. -We do.
Listen, let's commemorate this hand-off on the 'gram.
Get in here. -Ah, the ubiquitous 'gram.
-Mm-hmm. -All right. Hey, whoa, whoa!
What are you doing here, asshole?
-Whoa, whoa! Jim! -What's that?
Hey, look, I invited him, okay? Look --
-You invited him? -Yes. You're both my brohams,
so I was hoping we could end this feud
because you actually have a lot in common, okay?
You're both really stubborn superstars.
I mean, you -- -Whoa, whoa. Superstar?
Are you kidding me?
Hey, I've known all the titans of mascotry, okay?
The Phillie Phanatic, he officiated my wedding.
You are not a superstar.
You are a mime in Muppet's clothing.
What -- What's that?
What is that? I don't even understand that.
I think he's flipping you off.
You fuck your mother with that claw, you stupid idiot?
-Come on! -Jim Brockmire?
-Yeah. -I'm Whitney Masterson.
I'm the new head of PR for Atlanta.
Is -- Is there a problem? -No, no.
I mean, I don't pretend to be a crustacean for a living,
so I'm very good, thank you.
Raj, can you join us, as well, please?
Yeah. Come on. More the merrier.
Plan the old line of succession here.
Hey, medium mascot talent! At best!
Dummy!
First of all, Jim, the organization
wishes to thank you for doing
all that it asked of you over the last year.
Well, please thank the organization
for doing everything I asked of them. [Chuckles]
It was a little unusual, only calling home games,
and it was a bit of a strange contract rider.
I mean...
"Jim Brockmire does not ride the bus -- exclamation point.
Make sure they spell 'exclamation point'
because that's how much I don't want to ride the bus."
Yeah, you know, I used to say the bus
is just like a concentration-camp train
that made more stops,
but, uh, well, I quickly discovered
that people prefer their Holocaust humor
to come from Roberto Benigni
and [Chuckles] pretty much nobody else.
Okay.
Before I was hired in PR,
I interned in the analytics department,
and I learned a very important lesson.
Human perception...
is a lie.
But math -- math always tells the truth.
For example, we believed that hiring an Internet celebrity
would bring in new fans,
but the numbers told a different story.
What is that -- like, two pie charts?
I don't understand what's happening.
It's a Venn diagram, Jim.
Oh. Okay.
According to focus groups,
our fans hate your podcast,
and your podcast fans hate baseball.
Interesting, right? -Mm-hmm.
So, next, we tested that same group to find
Art Newlie's likability --
92 out of 100.
I mean, makes sense. He's beloved by generations.
Then, we tested, uh, Jim's likability.
67. -Ha!
-Okay. -Yeah!
-Is that a good number? -Great question.
We needed context. We needed a control.
So we tested Raj.
And here's where it gets interesting.
Raj is an 84.
[Chuckles]
Out of what, like 200?
Out of 100.
200 would make your 67 look even worse.
You get how that works? -Yes, no, thank you.
I'm not a complete idiot.
Look, anybody could see that this kid's gonna be
a big star one day. -Agreed.
Which is why replacing Art Newlie
will now be a two-man competition between you and Raj.
This kid's a hack! Are you kidding me?
I've known sperm on a crusty sock with more life experience.
I'm sorry, Jim.
The decision's been made -- far above my head.
With insistent and unwavering support from me.
I think I speak for Raj when I say that neither one of us
wants any part of this thing.
No. No, I'm in -- 100%.
Et tu, broham?
Look. You've been like a mentor to me.
Uh-huh. We both know it. So there's no way
I'm gonna let them pit us against each other.
Ah. Excellent. Y-Y-You gonna bow out, then?
No, I just think we should try our best and see what happens.
Hey, "F" that, all right? "F" that.
Look, I know this has been a dream of both of ours for a very long time.
A dream. That's really funny. No, not really.
I just did, like, improv for a little while,
and then I took a broadcasting class.
I didn't even really finish it.
I really wanted to call G-League basketball,
but that's, like, a hard gig to get.
Then Jesus Christ, man, let me have it.
Why can't we both just try to earn it?
'Cause I might not win it that way, Raj.
Do you know how many diverse play-by-play men
there are in baseball?
It's not a rhetorical question. I literally have no idea.
I'm not a baseball fan. I just want to know if I should hire a publicist.
Okay, have it your way, but you and I,
we are sworn enemies now, I mean it.
You never know where or how or when I am gonna strike next,
but let me put it to you this way.
Bob Costas did not expect to get pink eye
at the Sochi Olympics either,
but I sure as shit made that happen.
Okay, okay, you're -- you're mad at me now.
But I will win you back because everyone loves me.
It's a rare gift.
Only Sandy Bullock, Alex Trebek, and I have it.
Announcer: Ladies and gentlemen, Fan Fest is about to begin.
I freakin' love you.
Have fun out there, okay? I'll send some your way.
The gates are open.
Head down to the field to meet your favorite Crawdaddy.
There you are, fan. Enjoy the Fan Fest.
Are you wearing sunblock? Fan Fest is three hour--
You fucked me Charles. You screwed me right in the asshole.
-What? -You tricked me into thinking
this podcast thingy would get me the Atlanta job,
but it didn't do dick.
Quite the opposite. God damn it.
I should just -- I should quit that stupid podcast.
If you're gonna quit anything, it should be this. What?
You're doing radio broadcast of a Minor League Baseball game
to, what, 20,000 people?
"Brock Bottom" gets half a million downloads an episode.
Hey, give us a second here, friend, all right?
We're in the middle of something, okay?
We're making good money from the live shows,
but the real money is in touring.
If you quit this, we can sell out theaters across the country,
maybe even leapfrog over "Fresh Air"
for the number-two spot.
Well, as much as that Terry Gross
needs to taken down a peg or two,
I am a baseball man, Charles.
I mean, the podcast is nice and everything,
but, uh, it ain't the major leagues.
Ah! Yeah! [Speaking Creole]
Is he speaking Creole?
Bam! Oh, oh. Bam!
God, there's so many of you.
I am really screwed.
Oh, there he is. What's he doing now?
Oh. Is that supposed to be me?
Oh, I get it. I'm so drunk I can hardly walk.
That -- That's just hilarious.
You know what, though?
You're not quite selling it, though.
Can I give you a quick pointer?
[Grunts]
[Bat clanks]
Shouldn't you be more discreet about that?
I am being discreet.
Not pouring anything out of this, am I?
So, what was that big idea to beat Raj you texted me about?
I spent all last night looking up
things people like on the Internet.
Came up with a lot of videos of autistic kids
sinking 3-point baskets, but, uh, apparently,
they're very hard to find on short notice.
And that dog who can't catch pizza -- You know that guy? --
he is booked solid for an entire year.
And then it hit me, Charles -- Make-A-Wish cancer kids.
-Oh, Jesus Christ. No. -Yes.
Unfortunately, when I called the Make-A-Wish Foundation,
they informed me that no child had ever requested a visit
to a Minor League Baseball broadcast booth.
That is so weird!
So I took the liberty of calling around to local cancer wards
till I came upon the parents of 8-year-old Dylan Cole,
and I convinced them to let him join me
in the booth this afternoon.
What exactly is wrong with Dylan?
I don't know. Must be really bad because his doctors,
they did not want him to leave the hospital.
-I won't be a part of this. -No, agreed. You know why?
Apparently, he has a lot of equipment
he needs to help him breathe,
so there's gonna be no room for you there in the booth.
Your job is gonna be to do focus testing.
That means you hang around here in the stadium
and you gauge how great this is playing.
Take some videos so we can show Whitney later.
Oh, man. This is gonna be so freakin' uplifting!
Everybody's panties are gonna be wet --
wet from tears!
[Slurps]
Wet from tears, Charles!
-Man: Jim Brockmire? -Yeah?
We'd like you to meet the bravest kid in the world --
our son, Dylan.
Hey. Hi. Oh, hi. That's so many tubes.
H-Hi, Dylan.
Short pop fly to center for out number three.
Crawdaddys coming up to bat now,
and to help me call the bottom of the 4th
is tiny hero and cancer survivor, Mr. Dylan Cole.
He's eight years old. -Aww!
Uh, Dylan, who's your favorite ballplayer, son?
[Breathing heavily]
Hmm?
Okay, how 'bout I, uh -- I'm gonna move the mic
a little bit closer for you, and that should make it easier.
Go ahead.
[Breathing heavily]
You know what? I-I-If it's too difficult for you,
I-I -- maybe you shouldn't answer.
No, I don't want you to waste the energy, son.
It's all right. I don't want you to answer.
It's all right. Never mind. Let go of the mic.
Is he gonna hurt himself?
O-Okay. All right. Go ahead.
Dylan: Buster...Posey.
Wasn't worth it. Uh, not by a long shot.
Okay.
♪♪
[Crying]
♪♪
Top of the 5th, folks.
Dylan is gone.
His parents wheeled him on out of here.
-Oh. -Um...
See, I invited young Dylan into the booth
because I thought it might be inspiring for people.
I mean, who is not inspired by the courageous tale
of a young man battling cancer --
as a curveball drops in there for a strike.
0-1.
See, the thing is, though, I guess I wonder why
because I was not uplifted by Dylan's burden.
If anything, it just turned over the rock
under which I keep buried the knowledge of my own mortality --
as Sanchez looks at one high and away. 1-1.
I mean, maybe we like kids with cancer so much...
No, no, no. ...because they're the only time that human beings
are actually all united in empathy.
But, uh, if it takes the torment of those most vulnerable
among us to bring us all together,
then, well, what does that say about humanity --
as Sanchez pulls that one foul, 1-2.
Is it because these kids all know
that they're headed to a better place?
Well, they're all raised on fairy tales
and Santa Claus, aren't they?
I mean, their certainty in heaven
should offer us no consolation --
as Sanchez steps out of the box.
Out of the way!
No, see, I suspect the true reason is much darker.
I suspect that, at a base level,
one that none of us wants to admit,
we love kids with cancer because their imminent deaths remind us
that we are still alive, people.
They are the ones being punished, not us --
as Sanchez strikes out for the fourth time today.
Shit.
That was way worse than I thought it was gonna be.
Charles: It was only a one-game suspension.
It could've been way worse, right?
Hey, Jim?
Yeah?
Why are we here?
Charles, sometimes you just have to cut out
those annoying middlemen called fun and conversation...
and get straight to the booze.
♪♪
I just watched a man pull out his own loose tooth.
I hate it here.
I didn't get carded when I came in,
and I'm not even the youngest person here.
Oh, Lil Pete's all right.
No, don't -- don't make eye contact with him.
That third trip to juvie, that changed him.
What are you having, hmm? I'm buying.
Yeah, um, I can't be your producer,
your roommate, your best friend,
housekeeper, and drinking buddy.
I know you said I can't say their name anymore,
but I only know one person who can match you drink for drink.
If you want some company,
I recommend making a call to Morristown.
[Sighs]
Yeah, you're right.
[Knock on door]
Ha ha!
[Laughs]
Whoo!
You know this is not who I was talking about.
There he is. Brockmire.
Oh, man!
I brought you a present.
Oh. What are those, mints?
Horse tranquilizer.
Ah, you see? I missed you.
Come here. Mwah!
You're more likable when you're drunk.
Those are the words that every alcoholic longs to be true.
This is New Orleans.
Every carnal pleasure was invented right here.
You're a brown Joe Buck.
Ha ha. No. Joe Buck is a white me.
This literally could not get any worse.
Lucy? Okay, it just got significantly worse.
♪♪
This comeback might be over before it's begun.
Ho. We are definitely not on the same page
about how to spend this evening.
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